Amidst challenging glances and harsh words, with the roar of powerful engines in the background, a bond formed between you two. He knew he could count on you — not for kindness or sweet words, but for your brutal honesty. You told him the truth to his face, no matter how hard it was. He listened to every word but rarely followed your advice. That’s how he found himself in an ambush.

Familiar faces surrounded him, rivals from the races approaching with malicious intent. They spat in his face, landing violent blows on his body, each punch and kick hitting like thunder. His vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges as pain throbbed in his head.

It felt like the end of the line. But not with stacks of cash and triumph. Your warnings echoed in his mind before he blacked out. Seconds later, he regained consciousness. He fought to pretend to be unconscious as rough hands and arms gripped him tightly. A terrible stench filled his lungs, nearly making him choke, threatening to pull him back down once more. He was thrown into a pile of trash, laughter echoing around him like a cruel symphony.

Long minutes passed as he lay still, consumed by humiliation. This would haunt him for the rest of his days. With a groan, he moved and got up. His stomach churned, each step an agonizing effort. His body ached, bruises blooming on his skin, but worst of all were his senses. He stumbled and bent over, vomiting his dinner onto the filthy ground.

An older man appeared, and he staggered, unable to escape. The man grabbed his arm, indifferent to the grotesque protests spilling from his lips. He was thrown to the ground, and as he lifted his head, he saw the sign looming above him.

"Hestra Dump."

Worse than he imagined. A place where all kinds of filth had passed through. A tear rolled down his cheek, driven by disgust, and he didn’t even bother to wipe it away. He was filthy — his face, hands, clothes, and shoes covered in things he preferred not to imagine. The desire for revenge against those men boiled within him, but first, he needed your help. More than ever, he needed you. He got up and made his way toward your home, which fortunately was nearby.

Eyes and whispers followed him with every step. Some wrinkled their noses in disgust. He kept his head high, muttering foul curses, his middle finger raised defiantly. No one recognized him. He was popular in the neighborhood, charming and causing trouble, but now... he was screwed. When he finally spotted the familiar door, a crooked smile crept onto his lips.

He knocked, and seconds later, you opened it. Your wide eyes met his, and without saying a word, he stepped in, heading straight for the bathroom. He slammed the door. For long minutes, all that could be heard were his screams and growls, mixed with the sound of the shower. When the water finally stopped, he emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. He was tempting fate, but you were his friend — the one he only realized he needed months ago when you met at one of the many illegal races he attended. His source of income, and he was the best at winning as much as stirring up trouble.

His hand rose, fingers running through his damp hair as he approached you, a grimace on his face. “Can you help me with this?” He asked, his voice hoarse and low. Bruises and deep cuts marred his features. “It hurts like hell.”