The engines snarled like penned beasts, vibrating in Nico's chest as his hands clutched the worn-out steering wheel of his kart tightly. Sweat dripped down his forehead, mixing with the smell of oil and gasoline. He regulated his breathing, smooth beneath the cyclone raging inside his mind. He set his eyes ahead at the first turn of the racing track, his eyes fixed on the perfect racing line he'd memorized in countless sleepless nights. This day was more than just another race—it was a matter of survival.
The race official raised his hand, fingers spread wide—five seconds left.
Nico's heart was thumping like a piston kicking at top speed. The other karts around him glimmered in the sunlight, their engines purring smoothly. His kart clattered feebly, cobbled together by grit, duct tape, and determination.
"Concentrate," he breathed to himself.
The official dropped his hand.
The world erupted in a frenzy of revving engines and squealing tires in protest. Nico slammed down the gas pedal, his kart lunging forward like a captured beast unleashed. The kart groaned against its limits, each shudder reminding him of how much it was exposed.
The pack hurtled for the first bend, karts clashing and jostling, each driver fighting for every inch of track space as predators stalk prey. Nico cut the inside line, challenging everyone to come and try and shove him off course.
"Come on… hold it…," he growled, his fists tightening as he hit the first fast corner.
A sponsor-dressed, shiny kart whizzed by on the straightaway, Lars's rider looking back at him contemptuously. His racing suit was perfect, his kart a dream machine honed for victory.
Nico clamped his jaw down but didn't lose his focus. It wasn't about the start—it was about finishing. He'd been in such spots before, fighting with less and claiming every inch of the course. Today would be no different.
The race was a choreographed melee. Cars cut through, passing one another with clinical detachment—or reckless abandon. Nico's mangled kart couldn't match speed on the straights, but he made up for it on the turns. His brake-and-overtake technique enabled him to slip into close windows others wouldn't risk attempting. His tires skimmed precariously over the barriers, but he never hesitated.
Lap after lap, he fought tooth and nail, his determination burning with every turn. He was in seventh place now, only one spot from the top five—a finish that would prove he belonged. He could almost taste it.
Coming towards the final lap, a loud thunk echoed below him. His kart lurched violently, about to spin.
"No… not now!"
He struggled with the steering wheel, trying to steer the kart back on track. His front-right wheel was destroyed—he could sense it rubbing, slowing him down. His mind was filled with math: Pit and lose everything? Or drive through and risk being wrecked?
There was no choice. He kept driving.
The final lap was a struggle to survive. His Kart was taped up with duct tape and prayers, stumbling around every turn. The rest of the drivers felt blood in the water, cutting ahead of him wherever they dared. But Nico would not quit, holding onto sixth position for dear life, wrestling his Kart for a few more turns.
Two turns to go, he saw a hole—a momentary opening on the inside of a car ahead of him.
Now or never.
He slammed the kart into the corner with every ounce of strength he had, tires squealing in torment. He breathed hard, praying his kart would make it.
By sheer miracle, he cut across ahead, slipping into fifth position by fractions of inches as the checkered flag waved. The finish line was a blur as he whizzed past, barely hearing the cheering throng or the booming voice of the announcer over the loudspeaker.
He rolled into the pit, utterly drained. His father was already there, examining the damage to the kart, his face twisted in a combination of shock and concern.
"You all right?" his father asked, his own voice strained with worry.
Nico nodded, still gasping. His hands shook as he let go of the steering wheel, his fingers numb from holding it so tightly.
"You shouldn't have pushed so hard," his father chastised, though his tone softened. "You could've wrecked."
"I had to," Nico responded, raspy voice.
His father wasn't going to answer before a voice he recognized cut through the air.
"Gutsy move, kid."
Nico walked up to see Vincent standing behind the fence, arms crossed, his expression neutral.
"That was insane," Vincent continued. "But it paid off."
Nico braced himself for lecture or scolding.
Vincent grinned. "I like that."
Nico spent that evening at the edge of the tiny balcony of their apartment, where the night breeze was relaxing his bruised body. His father worked steadily inside, mending the kart for the next race. Grease and oil from the engine hung in the air—a smell Nico knew so well since it brought him close to home.
Nico couldn't help grinning even though he was tired. He made it—barely—but he made it.
For the first time, he allowed himself to consider that maybe… maybe. he was supposed to be on that track.