The Rematch (Adrian’s POV)
817 Words
Pain has a sound.
It’s the metallic crack of twisting steel, the hiss of leaking fuel, and the faint echo of her voice screaming my name through static.
When I open my eyes, everything’s smoke. My ribs feel like shattered glass. My left hand’s bleeding, and my comms are dead. The Corvette’s cockpit is half-melted, dashboard lights flickering like dying fireflies.
For a second, I forget who I am.
Rogue.
Adrian Cross.
Both feel like masks now.
The last thing I remember — her car spinning out of the blast zone, her terrified voice cutting through the radio, and me choosing — instinctively — to block the explosion.
I didn’t think.
I just moved.
And that scares me more than the fire ever could.
I drag myself out of the wreck. The night’s a blur of sirens, rain, and shouting. Spectators scatter as Syndicate medics rush in. One of them — Viktor, my security lead — catches me before I collapse.
“Mr. Cross, you’re—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off. My throat’s raw. “Did she win?”
He hesitates. “…Yes, sir. By default.”
The words land like a punch.
By default.
Because I made sure she would.
“Get rid of the car,” I say, voice low. “No trace.”
Viktor nods, signaling his team. The wreck is covered within minutes, loaded onto a black transport. I slip away before the press or Syndicate vultures smell blood.
Two hours later, I’m in my penthouse overlooking the East River, wrapped in silence and gauze. The city below glows — electric and unaware. I watch the rain blur the skyline, replaying the crash again and again.
Her face flashes in my mind. The shock. The fear. The defiance.
Luna Vega.
The woman who humiliated me once… and now, unknowingly, made me bleed again.
She’s supposed to be a pawn. A distraction. Something I use to vent the part of me that can’t exist in daylight.
But now?
Now she’s oxygen.
And it’s starting to feel like suffocation.
I replay the race feed — every frame, every heartbeat. She drives like she’s running from something. Every turn is a scream, every drift a confession she doesn’t even know she’s making.
When her car caught that final light, cutting through smoke, she looked—
Free.
And for the first time in years, I envied someone.
The knock on my door breaks the spell.
Viktor steps in, holding a tablet. “Sir, you asked for intel on Vega.”
I nod. The screen fills with her file — age twenty-two, freelance mechanic, no college, debt inherited from her brother’s gambling ties to the Syndicate.
A photo flashes — her at the garage, sleeves rolled, grease-streaked cheeks, eyes that don’t know how to look away from a fight.
I shouldn’t stare this long.
But I do.
Viktor clears his throat. “You want us to pressure her?”
“No.” I lean back, pulse steadying. “Keep distance. Watch her garage. Report movement.”
He frowns. “And if she races again?”
“She will.”
I almost smile. “That’s what makes her dangerous.”
Hours pass. The city quiets. I should be asleep, but my mind is a live wire. I log in to my encrypted network — Rogue’s domain.
The dark net boards are already exploding with clips from the race.
“Vega beats Rogue again!”
“Explosion sabotage?! Inside job?”
They don’t know it was meant for her.
I open a private window.
My cursor hovers over her username on the underground forum — @VegaVoltage.
My fingers move before my conscience catches up.
Rogue (anon): You drive like you’ve got a death wish.
VegaVoltage: You talk like someone who almost died trying to stop me.
Rogue: Maybe I did.
VegaVoltage: Then maybe stay dead.
Her reply makes me laugh — short, sharp, addictive. I type again.
Rogue: You’re welcome for the save.
VegaVoltage: I didn’t ask for one.
Rogue: You didn’t have to.
She goes silent after that.
I stare at the blinking cursor, waiting for her to respond. She doesn’t.
The ache behind my ribs isn’t from the crash anymore.
I close the laptop, but her words still echo. Then maybe stay dead.
She thinks she hates me.
Good. Hate is safer. Hate keeps her sharp.
But she doesn’t know the truth — that every time she races, every risk she takes, it pulls me closer.
And I’m starting to wonder what happens when obsession crosses the finish line before love does.
I stand, staring at the skyline until the city blurs into a smear of light.
> “You want war, Vega?” I whisper to the glass. “You’ll get one. Just remember who taught you how to drive.”
The reflection staring back isn’t Rogue anymore.
It’s something darker.
Something she created.
- Writer
