DEAD ZONE: Drive Me Until You Burn on Christmas Eve

I can feel and hear my heartbeat at the same time — too loud, too fast — like my body knows something’s about to explode before my brain catches up. There’s a sound that marks the exact second your world begins to fall apart. Not an engine roaring. Not tires screeching. It’s the metallic clink of a wrench hitting concrete after you’ve dropped it. That was my sound. 3:47 p.m., Brooklyn heat turning my garage into an oven. Sweat slicked the back of my neck, making my shirt cling to my skin. My hands were stained black with oil and regret — permanent marks of a girl who once believed she could outrun fate with an engine and a dream. “Say that again,” I managed, my voice shaking — not from fear, but from the kind of anger that grows in broke people. The quiet, slow-burning kind that doesn’t explode — it simmers and scars. “The debt tripled,” the guy said flatly. “Interest, fees, and your brother’s little disappearing act.” Tripled. My mind stuttered. Tripled? I just paid off the last one two days ago. Leo swore he was done — that he was clean, that this time he wouldn’t drag me down again. “Tripled?” I whispered. “In two days?” He shrugged like it was weather talk. Like it wasn’t my entire life collapsing. Jax — that was his name. One of the Syndicate’s muscle dogs. Big, greasy, tattooed, with a grin that belonged to a man who liked seeing people kneel. “Your brother thought he could outsmart the house,” he said, pacing, voice oozing poison. “Now the house wants its due. Fifty grand, Vega. You got thirty days. Or we take this place.” My garage. My world. Fifty thousand. The air felt heavier. My throat went dry as I looked around my tiny sanctuary — cracked walls, a flickering bulb, grease-stained floors that had more of my tears than I’d ever admit. Every wrench, every bolt, every tool here was part of me. It wasn’t just work. It was survival. “You can’t take this,” I said, my voice hardening. “This is my livelihood.” Jax grinned — that smug, snake-like curl of his mouth. “Then make it live for you, sweetheart. Thirty days. Or the Syndicate collects — tools, car… maybe something else.” He let the words hang, thick and dirty in the air, before tossing a business card onto the table. Then he left. And when his boots stopped echoing, the silence screamed louder than his threats. I slid down against the wall, the concrete cold against my back, my breath shaking. My gaze fell on a photo taped near the bench — me and Leo, grinning beside a wrecked Mustang we never finished. Leo Vega. My brother. My curse and my soft spot. He had the kind of charm that could get him out of any mess — until it couldn’t. He gambled with fire. And when he burned, he left me to clean the ashes. Now the Syndicate owned him. And by blood, they owned me too. “Dammit, Leo,” I whispered, clutching my head. “You always had to fly too close to the fire.” My palms smelled like gasoline and desperation. And then, somewhere between anger and fear, the thought hit — sharp, electric, stupidly clear. Race money pays faster than repair jobs. I hadn’t raced in almost a year. Not since the crash at Redline — the night the guardrail kissed my ribs and left me breathless, broken, and terrified. I swore I’d never touch a track again. But terror doesn’t pay debts. By 9 p.m., Brooklyn was alive in neon and sin. The streets bled color and sound — music thumping, tires squealing, rain-slick asphalt shimmering like a stage waiting for devils. The Williamsburg Bridge towered above like a steel cathedral. And under it — the underground circuit. Engines purred and growled in the dark like predators ready to feed. The air stank of burnt rubber and adrenaline. The crowd was loud — rowdy faces, wild bets, bodies swaying to bass that shook the concrete. I parked my beat-up Civic at the edge — the one Leo and I built from scraps and borrowed hope. She wasn’t pretty, but she had soul. Tonight, soul had to be enough. As I stepped out, whispers spread like wildfire. “Yo, Vega’s back?” “The girl from Redline?” “No way, she’s racing again?” Their words sliced through the night. Vega’s back. A name once said with respect. Now, with disbelief. But I didn’t come for their approval. I came for fifty thousand dollars and a heartbeat’s chance at freedom. My eyes scanned the lineup — four cars, all beasts in their own right. But one… one made the air change. Matte black. Lights like sharpened blades. And the driver — visor down, full black gear, no name, no tag, no number. Just presence. The kind of stillness that said he didn’t need to prove he was dangerous. He just was. Someone whispered his name like a secret. “Rogue.” The crowd picked it up, chanting. “Rogue! Rogue! Rogue!” He didn’t react. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even exist for them. Just gripped the wheel, calm and lethal. And I swear — even from across the line — I could feel the weight of his attention. Like he knew I was watching. Like he wanted me to. The flag dropped. The world exploded. Engines screamed, smoke rose, the ground trembled — and Rogue… Rogue moved like he was born in chaos. It wasn’t driving. It was domination. Every drift was physics-defying. Every shift, a dare to gravity itself. He didn’t race to win — he raced to destroy whoever tried to keep up. He carved through the storm like it was his playground, every turn flirting with death, every move impossibly smooth. And I couldn’t look away. My pulse synced with his car — rev, shift, drift, breathe. It was hypnotic. Madness turned into motion. Freedom painted in speed. When Rogue crossed the finish line, he didn’t celebrate. Didn’t even glance at the crowd. He revved once — low, dangerous, intimate — and the sound rolled through the rain like a heartbeat that wasn’t supposed to exist. Then he vanished into the dark. And me? I stood there, soaked, shivering, my fingers clenched around my keys until the edges bit my skin. “That’s the kind of speed that buys freedom,” I whispered. The rain fell harder, washing oil and fear from the streets. I lifted my face to the storm, tasting salt, metal, and maybe the start of something dangerous. Thirty days. Fifty thousand dollars. One car. If the Syndicate wanted blood, I’d give them fire instead. I looked at my Civic — my heartbeat, my weapon — and exhaled. “Guess I’m back,” I murmured. Because sometimes, the only way out of a wreck is to drive straight through it — faster than fear can catch you. Somewhere deep in the city, behind tinted glass and steel towers, a man watched me on a screen — lips curling into a dangerous smile. Adrian Cross. Billionaire. Syndicate king. The man the underworld called Rogue. And he just whispered, “Welcome back, Vega.”