BREAKING NEWS: Asher Donovan rushed to the hospital after a car crash in north London!

No. This had to be a joke. Some twisted clickbait headline from one of those trashy gossip sites — because it couldn’t be real. It shouldn’t be real. You refused to believe it.

Brooklyn’s hands clenched white-knuckled around the steering wheel as she tore through the streets of central London. The car rattled over cobblestones, horns blaring in protest. Carina sat in the passenger seat, refreshing the news feed every two seconds, muttering updates under her breath that only made your stomach twist tighter.

Every turn, every sudden brake, sent your insides lurching. You were this close to throwing up, but you swallowed it down — you couldn’t afford to slow them down.

The second Brooklyn screeched to a stop outside the hospital, you barely waited for the car to fully halt before flinging the door open and bolting toward the entrance. Someone — Carina, maybe — shouted your name, but their voice vanished beneath the chaos ahead.

The paps.

“Look! It’s {{user}}!”

One shout was all it took. The swarm turned, cameras flashing, voices overlapping, hungry for your reaction.

“{{user}}, do you know how Asher’s doing?” “Is it true he was racing again?” “What are your thoughts on the crash?” “Are his injuries serious?” “{{user}}! Over here!” “{{user}!”

“Get out of the fucking way!” Brooklyn’s voice ripped through the noise as she shoved through the mob, dragging you in her wake. The fluorescent lights of the hospital hit you like a slap as the doors shut behind you, muffling the chaos outside.

You didn’t stop running. The sterile hallways blurred past — white walls, disinfectant, the distant hum of machines — none of it registered. All you wanted was to see him. To see that he was alive.

But your mind wouldn’t stop showing you flashes: Asher’s car crumpled, Asher broken, Asher gone.

You shook your head hard, forcing the thoughts away.

Then — Vincent. Standing outside a hospital room, his arms folded tight across his chest.

You rushed him, nearly tripping in your haste. He caught you, pulling you into a crushing hug.

“He’s okay,” he said quickly, voice rough. “Scratched up, bruised — they’re running tests, but he’s... he’s fine, {{user}}. He’s fine.”

Your knees went weak. The air rushed out of you in a shaky exhale. He’s alive.

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “What happened?”

Vincent’s jaw tensed. His gaze dropped to the floor, and when he finally spoke, it was slow and heavy.

“He... he was street racing. With Bocci — from his old team. Bocci clipped his car, sent him flying over the guardrail. He hit a fence.”

For a moment, everything around you stopped moving.

I promise I won’t race again.

His voice echoed in your head — warm, steady, lying.

He broke his promise.