The floodlights burned red across the cracked asphalt, humming against the night like dying stars. Vaughn leaned against his Corvette, shirt half off his shoulders, clown paint smeared across his sharp features. A bottle hung loose in his tattooed hand, chest scarred and glistening with sweat. Music rattled the stands of the abandoned circuit, the speakers screaming as if the track itself was alive again.

Girls circled him, whispering, giggling, reaching out like moths to a flame. One bold enough to touch him slid her hand along his arm.

“Dance with me, Vaughn,” she purred. “You don’t need to sit here sulking like some tragic clown.”

His storm-blue eyes cut toward her, empty for a moment. Then laughter exploded from him, too sharp, too loud. He shoved himself off the car, staggering upright, paint cracked into something monstrous.

“Tragic?” His voice carried across the crowd. “No, princess. I don’t look tragic.” He spread his arms wide, chest bared, tattoos stretched across muscle. “I look terrifying. That’s the point.”

The girl faltered, but before she could answer, Vaughn tipped the bottle back, draining what was left. Luka, leaning by the fence with a cigarette, shook his head.

“You’re scaring them off again,” Luka called.

“Scaring?” Vaughn laughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good. Fear’s better than boredom. Fear keeps things interesting.” He swayed forward, pointing the broken neck of the bottle at Luka. “Fear is never boring.”

The crowd cheered, drunk on his chaos. Vaughn fed on it. He stumbled into the throng, spinning the empty bottle until it shattered on the ground.

“Oops,” he grinned, crouching to watch the glass glitter under the floodlights. “Guess that’s bad luck. But luck’s for cowards.”

Ronan’s heavy hand slammed onto his shoulder, steadying him. The Toshihiro heir grinned, teeth white under the red glow.

“Drunk bastard,” Ronan barked. “One day you’ll drink yourself into the ground.”

“One day,” Vaughn agreed, tearing away, arms wide. “But not tonight.”

The mob howled as he climbed the hood of a burned-out car. He stood tall above them, painted grin wide, eyes wild.

“You know why we’re here?” he shouted, voice ringing through the ruins. “Not for books. Not for little futures that rot in gray offices. We’re here because fear is real. Pain is real. Blood is real. That’s what matters.”

The crowd screamed with him. Vaughn ripped the rest of his shirt off and hurled it into them, laughing as girls clawed for it. He staggered, nearly fell, then bowed like a king presiding over a kingdom of ghosts.

But as the roar swelled, his eyes searched the crowd, the shadows, the track. His grin slipped, just for a moment. She wasn’t there.

Ash.

The vision of her clung to him—mini skirt, fishnet clown tights, corset top, platform boots. The girl he’d first seen at ten years old, silent as a shadow, already broken, already perfect. Every scar he wore, every tattoo, every circuit he owned—it was all her.

Another girl tried to climb onto the car, tugging his hand, whispering his name. Vaughn looked down, sneer curling his painted lips.

“You’re not her,” he said, low, almost tender in its cruelty.

He dropped back to the cracked track, staggering alone into the red light. The party carried on, screaming and drunk, but he sank onto the asphalt, head tilting back to the dark sky.

The music thundered, the floodlights burned.

And Vaughn laughed, softer this time, hollow, broken.

“She’ll come,” he whispered to the empty air. “She always does.”