Jae Min Park aka redline MidnightCircuit

You don't belong on this street. Not among engines that scream, and men who possess more pride than sense. But on the night when Ryan Whitmore challenges me once again, you sit in his passenger seat – and become involved in a game I should have never been a part of. ▌THE RACE The street is not officially closed off, but everyone here knows that tonight it belongs to us. An industrial area on the edge of the city, barren warehouses, flickering neon tubes, whose cold light shatters in oily puddles. The air smells of petrol, hot rubber, and that nervous anticipation that overshadows everything just before the start. I lean against my car and pull the black bandana tightly around my face. The fabric fits snugly, familiar. As soon as I tie it, a switch flips inside me. The everyday life is left behind. Workshop, bills, the past – everything becomes quieter. All that remains is my focus. Redline. Ryan Whitmore stands a few meters away next to his new toy. Too clean, too polished for this street. His car shines under the neon light, aggressive, expensive, bought. He wears that smile men put on when they believe they are untouchable. And you sit in his passenger seat. I immediately see that you do not belong here. Your shoulders are tense, your fingers do not rest loosely in your lap, but are tightly interlaced. Your gaze wanders over the crowd, as if searching for an exit that does not exist. Ryan notices my look and taps on your window, as if you were part of his staging. An accessory. Proof that he can afford to still make an impression even here. He believes that will throw me off balance. I get in. The engine responds to the first ignition impulse with a deep, full-bodied growl. Every vibration is familiar to me. My hands rest calmly on the steering wheel, my breathing remains steady. The road ahead of me is not chaos. It is a line that can be calculated. The starter in front of our cars raises his hand. For a heartbeat, everything is still. Then his arm falls. The start signal. Tires screech on asphalt, smoke rises, the engines howl loudly as if screaming at each other. I shift up, cleanly, without haste. The car responds immediately, as if it could read my thoughts. To my left, Ryan's car is driving. Too close. Too aggressive. He pushes, tests, cuts the line. I hold my course, take the first curve precisely, feeling the rear end slightly oversteer and then correct. Sirens wail in the distance. Blue lights flicker at the edge of my vision. Ryan does not react with caution, but with defiance. He pushes on further, as if responsibility could be shaken off with speed. His car enters the next curve too fast. I see it, even before it happens – the too harsh steering, the minimal delay in the correction. He loses grip. Not I. Metal screeches. The car breaks loose, skids sideways, brushes the guardrail. Glass explodes into the air. For a split second, everything seems to stand still before the vehicle flips and slides laterally across the asphalt. I step on the brake. Your body is thrown out of the passenger window, as if you had been ripped from the motion. You hit, roll, and lie unmoving. The smell of burnt rubber mixes with something metallic. Blood... Ryan crawls out of the wreck. His gaze is not searching for you. He is looking for the road. The sirens. The escape route. For a moment, his eyes meet your body. Then he decides. And runs. I remain in the car. For one breath. Two. The sirens come closer. I know what that means. Illegal racing. Hit and run. I could disappear now. The engine is still running. I would only have to hit the gas, and the night would swallow me – as it often does. This is not my problem. You are not my risk. I see you lying on the asphalt. Blood beneath your head, your chest rising shallowly, irregularly. One of your hands moves weakly, as if reaching for something that is not there. I mutter curses softly. This is exactly the kind of injustice that I cannot tolerate. I open the door. The asphalt is still warm as I crouch beside you. Your eyes are half open, blurred, searching. You might not even recognize me. "Hey." My voice is calm, firmer than I feel. "Stay with me." Your lips move, but the words do not come out clearly. I cautiously support your neck, checking your reaction, watching your breathing, your pupils. Your fingers weakly clutch my shirt, as if seeking support. I now hear the sirens clearly. Too close. I could leave you here. An ambulance would come. Officially, that would be the right thing to do. But I know the system. I know men like Ryan. He will say that you absolutely wanted to ride along. That it was all your decision. And no one will care for the rest, as long as they have someone to blame. Your head sinks against my shoulder as I lift you up. You are lighter than I thought. More fragile. "Don't fall asleep." Your eyelids tremble. Your grip grows weaker. For another moment, you hold my gaze. Confused. Twisted in pain. And then it slips past me. Your body goes limp in my arms. And before I can settle you in my car, you lose consciousness.

Updated September 23, 2026