CHAPTER 193: CHAPTER 192: SCREEEEECH—!

"Shit!"

He didn’t think or even hesitate.

There was no time to.

Instinct slammed into him like a freight train. His foot hit the gas. Hard. Tires screamed. The world blurred.

His mind emptied, body moving faster than thought, powered by adrenaline and whatever edge the system had baked into his muscles. The second that car crossed the divider — that exact, shattering second — his foot also slammed the accelerator.

The engine roared, hungry and sharp, echoing the sudden shock in his chest.

His hands flew, fingers gripping the wheel with a violent, practiced precision as he shifted gears. The car responded like a beast awakened — tires screeching, metal straining.

He moved faster than he thought.

Faster than reaction.

A precise and brutal dance of instinct and muscle.

His hands spun the wheel in a tight, ruthless snap, cutting across traffic with inches to spare. Tires screeched, horns flared, someone yelled something behind him — none of it mattered.

Everything blurred — passing cars, colorful signs, heat-hazed storefronts. All he saw was that little girl.

Still standing on the edge of the sidewalk.

Still frozen.

Still clutching that stupid, floppy bear like it could save her.

The sedan was barreling down the street now, tires catching the slope of the curb, the driver fully slumped forward — a dead man with a foot on the gas.

Rex’s car surged forward, cutting an arc that would’ve made a stunt driver sweat.

Adrenaline tore through him like lightning. His vision narrowed. Time didn’t slow — it snapped. Became loud and sharp and merciless.

There wasn’t enough room.

Not enough distance.

Not enough anything.

And still —

He pushed.

In a blink, he was across the intersection, his car surging forward with terrifying speed.

His heart pounded so hard—he could feel it in his throat.

He spun the steering wheel, one motion so smooth and violent it should’ve ended in chaos.

He hit the edge of the turn, then yanked the wheel again — hard — not to avoid the sedan, but to intercept it.

Right before the silver car could leap onto the sidewalk, he clipped it.

Not from behind. Not from the side.

He did the impossible — a front-side counter-slide, like those tactical maneuvers cops used in movies. But Rex wasn’t trained. He wasn’t calculating angles.

He just moved.

Fueled by instinct and that terrifying, iron-tight certainty:

If I’m even a second late—she dies.

Hurtling toward the sidewalk, toward the tiny figure beside the streetlamp—he didn’t even feel fear.

Only clarity.

The kind of bone-deep, visceral focus that turned seconds into eternities.

He wasn’t thinking about what came next.

He wasn’t thinking about crashing, or pain, or consequences.

He was only thinking about not being too late.

And then—

At the last second, Just as the sedan reached the kill-zone—

Twenty feet

ten

Five—

He jerks the wheel left—fast, precise.

He yanks the handbrake—hard.

His car reacts like a bullet in slow motion. The chassis tilts. The back end yawns.

The tires shrieked. His car pitched into a tight sideways arc, rear end fishtailing across the lane. The smell of burning rubber stabbed the air. Smoke curled like ink under the fading amber sky.

His vehicle whips sideways—smoke curling off both sets of tires as they outrage at being pushed beyond imaginable.

This wasn’t a head-on collision.

This was control. Precision. A deliberate forced stop maneuver, the kind cops pull when chasing criminals down the freeway in high-speed chases.

A gamble wrapped in madness.

He wasn’t just trying to stop the car — he was going to intercept it. Not from behind, like the cops do in those tactical takedowns, but from the front side, with no time, no margin, and no backup.

His front bumper swung low and clipped the corner of the drunk’s car—just ahead of the front tire.

The perfect spot.

The perfect angle.

The impact wasn’t loud—it was sharp. Perfect.

A violent clang of steel meeting steel,

a yelp of resistance from both machines—

and then the drunk’s sedan jerked sideways like a puppet having its strings yanked. Tires lost all grip. Metal groaned and twisted as the steering collapsed. The vehicle spun—wildly—its momentum flung sideways into chaos.

For a split second, it was like watching a giant beast lose its footing.

Rex could see the driver’s head snap against the side window as the entire car rotated like a kicked can.

Then—CRUUUUNCH!

CRASH!

The silver sedan slammed sideways into a nearby light pole with a metallic scream. Steel folded like paper. Glass burst outward. The entire front end crumpled in on itself with a sickening crunch, the pole leaning awkwardly over the wreck, sparks raining down like it was New Year’s in hell.

The engine gave one last sputter before dying.

And still—

Rex wasn’t safe.

His own car bucked, the force of the spin trying to throw him off course. The wheel twisted in his grip like a live animal. His seatbelt snapped taut across his chest as inertia tried to drag him into the windshield.

He gritted his teeth, hands like a vice, body screaming in every direction as the tires fought the road beneath him.

The car fishtailed violently, rear end swinging into the opposite lane.

SCREEEEECH—!

He wasn’t an expert. Not a stunt driver.

He wasn’t even thinking.

He’d just done what felt right—what had to be done.

And now, all that momentum was turning against him.

Skidding. Sliding. Spinning.

But he held the wheel.

He fought it.

Teeth clenched. Arms locked. Breath caught somewhere between his ribs and throat.

His muscles screamed with the strain.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even breathe.

And then—

a jolt.

The tires caught.

The car jolted back in line, traction snapping back like a leash tightening. It wobbled—squealed—but held.

And with one final screech that echoed down the block, Rex’s car slammed to a stop inches from the sidewalk.

The smell of burnt rubber and oil clung to the air.

Smoke curled from the hood.

The whole world seems to fell silent.

(End of Chapter)