Chapter 305

It had been months since Michael's family had died, but it felt like yesterday. Every day was the same: wake up, get in the car, race, drive, and forget. His mind couldn't keep still, couldn't escape the images of his wife's lifeless eyes, his son's last scream, the twisted metal from the crash.

He knew it wasn't an accident. He knew who was behind it. He had the name, the face, the money, the power—but the thing that haunted him the most was the coldness of it all. No one cared. No one cared enough to stop it.

Michael couldn't. Not yet. Not while the blood on his hands was still fresh, while the rage still boiled under his skin. He was going to make them pay. All of them. Whoever had planned this nightmare, whoever had watched it happen, whoever had signed the checks for his family's death. No matter the cost.

But revenge had a price.

The garage smelled of oil and gasoline. The engines roared in the distance as Michael worked on his car, his mind still in that moment of impact. He could still hear the crash. The sound of metal grinding against metal. The fire. The screams. His wife, Susan, had been in the passenger seat. His son, Chris, had been in the back. They never stood a chance. They never had a chance.

"Michael," came a voice from the doorway. It was Brad, a mechanic who had worked with him for years. His voice was low, careful. Michael didn't turn around.

"What?" His hand gripped the wrench a little too tight.

"We got a message," Brad said. "It's… it's from the guy you're looking for."

The words hung in the air, and Michael's heartbeat quickened. It was finally here. The moment he'd been waiting for. He was going to confront the bastard who thought he could take everything from him and get away with it. He dropped the wrench, the clink of it hitting the floor sounding like a gunshot in the silence.

Brad hesitated but stepped closer. "Are you ready for this?"

Michael looked over at him, his expression unreadable. His mind was sharp, calculating, and all he could think of was what he'd have to do next. His knuckles were white. He hadn't been ready. How could he be? This wasn't just a race. This was life and death.

He nodded.

Brad handed him a crumpled piece of paper, and Michael read the message.

"Meet me at the old racetrack. Midnight. Bring your car."

The address was printed at the bottom. Michael didn't hesitate. He was already walking out of the garage, heading straight for his car, the only thing left that made him feel alive. The wheels were caked in mud from the last race, the engine growling, daring him to push it harder, faster.

Michael climbed into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut with a sound that made him jump. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw clenched. He could feel the adrenaline rising.

Brad was right behind him, his headlights cutting through the night. The old racetrack was a few miles out of town, but it felt like it was in another world entirely. The roads were empty. There was no one around. Just him and the car, the wind, and the rage that boiled inside him.

The racetrack came into view like a ghost. The old lights were still there, flickering weakly, casting long, hollow shadows on the cracked pavement. The place had seen its last race years ago, the stands now empty and silent, as forgotten as Michael's life had become. The only thing that mattered now was revenge.

Michael slowed his car as he pulled into the track, the sound of the engine bouncing off the walls, echoing through the empty stands. He parked near the starting line and killed the engine, the quiet overwhelming after the roar of the car.

He didn't get out right away. He just sat there for a moment, staring out at the darkened track, the place where he had once raced for glory, for pride. Now it was a graveyard.

Then, footsteps echoed from the shadows, and Michael's pulse shot up again. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. The man who had orchestrated everything. The man who had taken everything from him.

"You finally showed up," a voice said, rough and mocking.

Michael gripped the door handle, his fingers shaking. He took a deep breath before opening the door.

A figure emerged from the darkness—a man in a black leather jacket, his face half-hidden by a dark cap. His presence was overwhelming. The man who was behind everything.

"I'm here. Where's my family's justice?"

The man chuckled. "You really think I'm just going to hand it to you? You've got it all wrong, Michael. This isn't how it works. You don't get to just show up and take back what's yours."

Michael didn't flinch. He stepped toward him, his feet steady, eyes locked on the man's face. He had to do this. He had to make sure the bastard paid.

Without warning, the man lunged forward, grabbing Michael by the collar. "You want to fight for your family? Then prove it." His breath was hot against Michael's face. "This isn't just about you anymore. This is about power. This is about who controls the world."

The words hit Michael like a punch to the gut, but he didn't back down. Instead, he gritted his teeth. "I'll kill you if I have to."

The man laughed again, letting Michael go. He took a step back, pulling out a gun from his waistband. "You'll try. But you won't. You never will."

Michael's hands tightened into fists. The gun was pointed at him now, and he knew there was no turning back. He had to act.

The man's voice dropped to a cold whisper. "Your family… they were a small price to pay. But you… you're different. You're the one who's going to die tonight."

The air was thick with tension, and Michael's heart pounded in his chest. The gun shook slightly in the man's hands. It wasn't about winning. It wasn't even about the race. This was the end. And Michael was going to face it head-on.

"Do it," Michael said through clenched teeth. "Pull the trigger. Finish it."

For a moment, everything was still. The only sound was the faint echo of the gun's safety being clicked off.

But before the man could fire, Michael's vision went white, and pain exploded in his chest. He gasped, stumbling back, the ground rushing up to meet him. He looked down, seeing the blood spreading across his shirt. The man stood there, gun raised, watching Michael as he fell to the ground.

Michael didn't scream. There was no point. This was it. This was his punishment for letting it all slip away. His wife, his son—they were gone, and now he was, too.

The last thing he saw was the man's silhouette walking away, disappearing into the darkness, leaving Michael to bleed out on the cold, forgotten track.

No one came to help. No one would ever know what had really happened. And as Michael's vision faded, the world became as silent as the racetrack that had once been his life.

The engine of his car was still idling, but no one would ever hear it again. The race was over.