Alone on the hillside, I watched as the last echoes of the street race faded into the night, leaving behind only the distant hum of passing cars. My beat-up BMW now sat battered and bruised by the roadside, a silent witness to the chaos that had unfolded.

The adrenaline still coursed through my veins, a lingering reminder of the exhilaration that had fueled the race. But beneath the surface, a storm of frustration and anger brewed, threatening to consume me whole.

Those guys—those arrogant, pill-popping fuckers—they couldn't handle being outpaced by someone they deemed beneath them. Their words turned to fists, their anger directed at my car, a proxy for their wounded pride.

So here I sat, perched on the hillside, nursing a bottle of whiskey as I watched the stars twinkle overhead. Each swig burned like fire, searing away the numbness that threatened to engulf me.