The memory hit him like a freight train—sudden, violent, unstoppable.
He was seven years old again.
Standing on the sidewalk outside the community center. Watching his parents' car pull away from the curb after dropping him at soccer practice.
A blue and white Mustang. His father's pride and joy. His mother in the passenger seat, turning to wave at him through the window. Her smile. God, her smile.
Then—the truck.
It ran the red light at full speed. No brakes. No warning.
The impact was a sound he'd never forget. Metal screaming. Glass exploding. The sickening crunch of the frame collapsing inward like a crushed soda can.
Their car spun. Once. Twice. Slammed into a pole.
And then—fire.
Orange flames licking up from the hood. Black smoke billowing into the sky. He'd run toward them, screaming, but hands grabbed him. Held him back. Strangers yelling at him to stay away.
He'd watched them burn.
Watched and couldn't do anything.
The smell. God, the smell. Burning rubber and something sweet and horrible that he later learned was—
Stop. Stop.
But the memory didn't stop. It never stopped.
He'd stood at their funeral three days later, holding his uncle's hand, staring at two closed caskets. They couldn't have an open-casket service. The fire had made sure of that.
His uncle had knelt beside him afterward, in the empty garage where the wreckage had been towed. The Mustang—what was left of it—sat in the corner like a metal corpse.
"You don't ever have to drive," his uncle had said quietly. "You hear me, Yali? Not ever. Not if you don't want to."
And Yali—Racer01—had made a promise that day.
I will never drive. Never race. Never put myself behind a wheel, no matter what.
Machines he could fix. Machines he could understand. But driving them? Trusting them with his life the way his parents had?
Never.