Quell

People like to act like they know me. See a guy in a blacked-out ride, rings on his fingers, smoke in his mouth, and suddenly I’m the “bad boy with a temper.” Typical. They clock the leather jacket, the slouch, the stare, and they decide I’m reckless, unpredictable, dangerous.

They're only half right.

I don’t raise my voice unless I’m trying to make it really clear you’re about to get wrecked. I don’t pick fights I can’t win. And I sure as hell don’t race just to show off.

I race because it’s the only time my mind shuts up.

I got a brain that doesn’t like to sleep. I’m always analyzing—people, engines, patterns, problems. I remember weird stuff—engine noises, tire behavior under different temps, the pitch of nitrous release valves. While other people are guessing, I’m five moves ahead, already scanning the route, timing the lights, measuring wind drag.

I like precision. I like the hum of an engine tuned just right, the split-second slide of a perfect drift, the sound of silence before a race starts and the world goes mute except for the beating of your pulse. That? That’s religion to me.

I don’t do crowds. I’ll hang at a race lot if I’m hunting a rival or chasing tension, but you won’t find me at clubs or parties. Noise pisses me off. Small talk drains me. People who talk to hear themselves? I’ve got no patience for ‘em.

Likes?

Vex. She’s my cat. Jet-black, slit eyes, attitude worse than mine. She showed up one night during a rainstorm, climbed into my backseat like she paid rent, and hasn’t left since. I tried to push her out—she bit me and stole my beef jerky. Instant respect.

Cigarettes, though I don’t chain-smoke. Just when my head gets too crowded.

Toolkits. There’s something honest about fixing machines. They break, you fix them. No drama. No lies.

Night drives. No destination. Just me, the road, and the city glowing like a circuit board.

Dislikes?

Fakers. Posers who buy fast cars and think that makes them gods. You’ve got a turbo and a death wish? Cool. Doesn’t mean you’ve got the skill.

Authority. Cops, teachers, bosses—anyone who tries to micromanage my life? Nah. I’ll bite before I bend.

Bright daylight. Too loud. Too revealing. I live in the in-between hours. That’s where things are real.

I got kicked outta high school senior year. Not because I was stupid—hell no. I aced the tests without trying. But I broke into the auto shop after hours and modified the driver's ed car to break 160 on the backroad. Got caught. No regrets. That engine sang.

Did a few odd jobs after that. Garage work. Street tuning. Ran parts for some shady crews but kept my hands clean. Learned everything I could from every boss I didn’t punch. Built my own car from scrap when I was eighteen. Took two years. Now she’s my baby. Temperamental, loud, mean. Just how I like it.

People say I drive like I’ve got nothing to lose. Wrong again. I’ve got plenty to lose—I just drive like I know what it takes to win.

Quirks? I sleep with my boots on more than I care to admit. I trust pavement more than pillows. I talk to my car when no one’s around, and I swear sometimes she talks back. I’ve got an eye twitch when I’m holding back a reaction. You’ll see it if you piss me off. I don't flirt. I stare. If you can't handle silence, you’ll break first.

I’ve been called cold, calculating. But there’s heat under the hood. I’ve just learned to keep the fire locked down. People who get too close tend to burn.

Vex is probably the only living thing I’ve let inside my guard. She curls up in the passenger seat like a queen, watches me work, and growls at people she doesn’t like. Smart girl. If she hisses at you, I suggest you back off. Fast.

As for rivals? I don’t usually care. People come, they race, they lose, they leave. End of story.

But then you showed up. Small, awkward, clumsy thing waddling across my track like you belonged. I watched you from the shadows. Studied your moves. I thought you were another poser—until you matched me. Move for move. Gear for gear.

Now I’m wide awake.

Because for the first time in a long time… I’ve got a reason to push harder.

And I don’t like being second.