When he was little, Nicolás believed that the whole world was something easy to understand.
People were gullible. The asphalt beneath his feet was flat. The grandstands, the barriers, the helmets… everything carried something that would inevitably bring him his success. Even the sky seemed to bow before what would be his greatness, but that was nothing more than a sad and opaque illusion, as if it were filtered through tinted glass.
For a long time, Nicolás thought that was normal.
One of his clearest childhood memories was the first time his mother took him to a racetrack.It was not a professional circuit or something from the big leagues. It was loud, irregular, and overwhelming. The engines roared in the distance, metallic and sharp, vibrating in his chest. The smell of fuel and hot rubber soaked the air.
Nicolás sat between his siblings in the stands. His older brother leaned forward, wanting to be as close to the cars as the metal barrier that separated him from his dream would allow. His little sister slept in his mother's arms. Nicolás remembered feeling strangely out of place: too young to understand, but not enough to be ignored, and while his brother tried to express his excitement about what they would see on the track, he still could not understand what he meant.
The cars lined up on the grid. Small cars, karts, he would learn later. Helmets and a small vest were all the protection the drivers had. Retaining walls that could kill anyone who made a mistake or a lapse.
When the lights went out, the world seemed to explode.The cars launched with a violent roar. The engines clashed, overtook, braked, and passed at full speed in front of the stands. Nicolás watched in silence, eyes wide open, following the movement instinctively.
It was exciting.
Then—
There was one.A single car.
It made its way through the others with an unnatural smoothness, sliding instead of fighting. The sunlight reflected on its bodywork as it exited the corner.
Nicolás's smile disappeared.
Why?Its color…?
That car did not seem to draw the attention of the others and was invisible to everyone.
For the first time in his life, Nicolás saw something clearly separated from the rest.The car was not wrapped in the dull fog that covered everything else. Its lines were sharp. Its movement, precise. It stood out violently, as if reality itself had outlined it.
When the car passed in front of the stands, Nicolás felt something twist in his chest.
The driver's helmet turned slightly—just enough.Their gazes crossed.
Nicolás froze.His breathing stopped. His hands gripped the seat. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Even as terror invaded him—a terror far beyond what a child his age should feel—a question arose.
Why is that car different?No.That can't be.
He forced himself to blink and look again.
It was then when—
SCREEECH!
A crash echoed throughout the entire circuit.Metal twisted. Tires locked. A car spun violently and crashed into the barrier near the stands. Smoke and debris filled the air.
The crowd held its breath.
Nicolás instinctively shrank.I want to leave, I'm scared, was all that came to his mind while his mother was busy taking care of his frightened sister, and his older brother was taking shelter behind the barrier.
Just when panic threatened to overwhelm him, a warm hand gently covered his eyes.
"Don't look."
The voice was calm, controlled, soft, but firm. Like someone accustomed to chaos.
"It's fine. The staff is out. Everything is under control."
Her hand rested firmly on his head, protecting him from the disaster. Nicolás leaned into it without thinking.The other hand patted his back slowly, steadily.
Only when his breathing calmed did he raise his head.
"Eh…?"
The woman remained still.She leaned in, studying him carefully. Her expression shifted from curiosity to astonishment.
"Oh…."
Nicolás tilted his head, confused.
"Your eyes," she murmured. "They are beautiful."
"My… eyes?"
"Yes." A slight smile. "They see more than they should."
He did not understand. She sighed softly, as if carrying a heavy thought.
"Never tell anyone… No. Perhaps you should grow up without knowing."
The race resumed shortly after. The spectators returned their attention to the track, but Nicolás remained still.
The woman hesitated, then leaned in.
"What's your name?"
"Ni… Nicolás Hale."
"Nicolás." She nodded. "I will remember that name."
She looked directly at him.
"When you are older… if we meet again by chance, will you come look for me?"
"Look for you?" says Nicolas
"Yes. If you ever need help."
He did not understand—but he nodded.
Soon, his mother called him.
"I'll be waiting," she whispered.
Something warm brushed his forehead.
"Until we meet again, little prince."
As Nicolás walked away holding his mother's hand, he turned. The woman was by the barrier, watching the race—watching him—until she disappeared into the crowd.
Time passed. Nicolás grew, and the memory faded among all his childhood memories.
He lost his fear of speed. Instead, he chased it. He began to race himself. And little by little, he began to understand.
The ghost driver that appeared under certain conditions on the track. Disappeared under others.At first, his life improved by following that driver, repeating every movement he made.Then, one day, without warning, he disappeared completely.
And everything fell apart.
—————
12 years later.January 14, 2026
It was an ordinary morning in Las Vegas.A video ran on the old screen of the room, a story about the great promises of young drivers, a young reporter spoke about each one of them and where they ended up in their lives. Until she spoke about a young man with a friendly smile.
Nicolas Hale began to win before he knew what winning meant.
From the age of ten, he dominated local karting with an uncomfortable regularity for the rest. He was not the fastest over one lap, nor did he have the best team, but he understood racing. He knew when to attack, when to wait, and, above all, when the others were going to make a mistake.
Championship after championship, the results repeated themselves. Small tracks, regional categories, finals crowded with parents and improvised mechanics. Nicolas was almost always in front. Not for spectacle, but for efficiency.
His first performances drew attention for an uncommon talent, capable of making maneuvers that few dared to attempt.
Despite not being a precocious prodigy, he managed to reach Formula 2 at nineteen years old. For many analysts, he was the best the United States had produced in decades.
With time, however, his feats began to become more reckless than effective. The risk no longer seemed calculated. The results stagnated. Rumors began: inflated contracts, private sponsors, and large sums of money sustaining a career that, on track, was no longer advancing at the same pace.
Everything was confirmed after a serious accident in Formula 2. A violent crash, impossible to ignore. A few weeks later, his family declared bankruptcy.
Then a clause unknown until then came to light: in his contract, the Hale family assumed the costs of repair and damage to the single-seater. Every mistake, every off-track excursion, every accident… was paid at home.
The television replayed the same video fragment over and over again.
The apartment smelled of old alcohol, dried sweat, and reheated coffee, something common for the old building where it was located. The air conditioning had been broken for months, and the silence was broken only by the constant hum of the water heaters shaking the pipes.
The place was in pieces.
Empty bottles rolled across the floor, some still with sticky remains at the bottom. A crooked table held overflowing ashtrays and folded receipts. The sofa had a cigarette burn that no one would care about because of the trash around it.
However, not everything was trash.On one wall, pinned with rusty thumbtacks, there were old photographs.
Nicolas, a teenager, with a helmet too big for his head and some medals around his neck.Nicolás is smiling in a kart, with his arms raised and a trophy being held over his head.Nicolas, with his siblings, covered in dust and sweat, was happy.
There were a few. They were crooked. But they were still there, reminding of what seemed to have once been that young boy who right now was not going through his best moment.
The main room was in semi-darkness.Nicolas was sitting on a metal chair, his wrists tied with plastic zip ties. His shirt was soaked in cold sweat. His lip split, and some blood began to show. One eye was beginning to swell.
"Do you know what time it is?" one of the men asked.
Nicolas spat on the floor. It was the same Jack Donovan. He had known him for a few months; some guys had told him that he controlled some small casinos in the city. So from time to time, he offered loans to his most promising players, or the idiots who lost everything just to owe even more, and that was Nicolas.
"If this is an interrogation, you could at least offer me coffee."
The blow came without warning. It was not brutal just to be brutal. It was precise, straight to his liver; the poor thing had already received constant blows from the alcohol that its owner ingested, but now it was suffering like never before.
The chair screeched as it slid a few centimeters.
"We're not here to make jokes," said the other man, shorter, with a tired voice. "We're here for the money you owe us, Daniels."
Nicolas let out a hoarse laugh. It was always somewhat funny to use an alias, and even though it wasn't the first time, he would never get used to it.
"Then you arrived late, my friend. I'm afraid the idiots who arrived before you already took the very last cent."