Motion by Inertia

POV Mira

The stench of gasoline, blistering engine oil, and scorched rubber rose from the wet, tire-shredded asphalt in a thick, suffocating wave. That heavy chemical mixture instantly tied my stomach into a tight, agonizing knot, sending a hot surge of bitter bile burning up my throat. I felt sick. I had been nauseated by that smell for the last ten years—ever since that cursed autumn night when I turned thirteen, and our family garage suddenly emptied forever.

Cars were never my passion. There was no glamour in it, no intoxicating rush from the speed that the night racers in this abandoned industrial zone rambled on about. To me, an automobile was nothing more than a death chamber.

Every turn of the steering wheel echoed through my stomach with a dull spasm. This heap of iron was the very instrument that took my father from me, condemning me to a life sentence behind the wheel. Day in and day out, I was forced to stomp on the stiff clutch and listen to the engine scream in agony beneath the hood.

I hated that sound. I hated every screw in this rusted tin can, every gauge on the half-dead dashboard, and the black oil residue embedded under my fingernails that was physically impossible to scrub away. No matter how much pumice stone and solvent I wasted over my years in filthy auto shops, those dark stains beneath my nails had become part of my flesh.

I yanked the gear shift down, dropping a gear right before a blind, sweeping curve. The cold metal knob bit unpleasantly into my sweaty palm, my fingers trembling violently.

Yet that tremor had nothing to do with the electric, feverish adrenaline that made the crowds roar along the curbs. It was plain, chronic exhaustion. My body had been operating in emergency power-saving mode for years—surviving on three hours of broken sleep a night, bitter cheap coffee from vending machines, and pure, mechanical inertia.

Inside me, nothing remained. No fear, no hope, not even genuine hatred for this world. Just a heavy, leaden, burnt-out void.

Real clinical depression never looks the way it does in Hollywood movies. There are no dramatic breakdowns under pouring rain, no frantic screams or tears spilled onto a pillow. Real depression is when you are suffocatingly, deafeningly, utterly numb.

Would I crash on this slick, oily turn and smash full speed into a concrete barrier? Would some drunk thug from a local street gang shoot me in a dark alley? Or would my own exhausted heart simply give out from the strain, unable to endure this endless, meaningless marathon?

I didn’t give a damn. I cared with a cold, detached indifference. Dying felt easier than forcing my eyes open every morning, staring at the gray ceiling of my rented room, and piecing my broken life back together.

The foster care system after my father’s disappearance left an indelible mark on me. A place where you belonged to no one, where your existence was measured solely by the number of vacant beds on the floor, and where only the ruthless survived.

Then came the grueling, sixteen-hour shifts in filthy, solvent-soaked repair garages. The owners paid pennies and looked for every excuse to rob an orphan, knowing no one would stand up for me. I hauled heavy tires, changed oil, and rebuilt transmissions, tearing my fingers raw just to save up for my first decent car part.

Years of fruitless searches, dead ends, false leads, and shattered hopes followed. Why did I keep going? Perhaps because stopping meant admitting defeat. And I had no right to admit defeat to the ones who stole my father from me.

As long as I kept turning the wheel and hunting for clues, I was alive. Though sometimes late at night, it felt far easier to envy the dead—they, at least, didn’t feel this dull, constant weight stuck like a stone beneath their ribs.

The finish line cut through my eyes with harsh, blinding flashes of spotlights and neon lamps strung along the industrial fencing.

I slammed my foot onto the brake pedal, bracing for the repulsive, grinding squeal of worn pads. The car skidded violently out of control, its rear bumper colliding with a massive concrete block with a dull metallic thud that sent a tremor straight up the steering column.

I turned the key, cutting the life of the exhausted engine. A heavy, ominous silence instantly fell over the cabin, punctured only by the dull, hammer-like thumping of my own heart. The air inside was thick with gasoline fumes, heat, and my own sweat.

Outside, beyond the tinted glass, the crowd was already parting to the heavy bass of music and drunken shouts. Those exact people—the low-level lackeys and pawns of the syndicate who held this district in an iron grip. The ones who might actually hold a clue, a scrap of information about my missing father.

For this circus, for this cheap illusion of control, I had swallowed my nausea once again tonight and taken the wheel.

Unbuckling my seatbelt slowly, as if moving underwater, I felt a leaden fatigue settle over my shoulders. The door creaked open, letting in the damp night air of the industrial zone. I swung one leg out, planting my boot on the wet asphalt.

“Look who finally made it!" a rough voice, raspy from cigarette smoke and cheap booze, barked right above my ear.

I lifted a heavy, dull gaze. Standing by the open door was Max—a low-tier crew leader for the gang I had been “blessed” to make a deal with for tonight’s illegal race. Across his fleshy, scar-littered face stretched the smug grin of a man who genuinely believed he held the world by the throat.

Flanking him were two of his thugs in worn leather jackets, casually twirling the keys to their tuned cars. They looked down at me with that specific brand of contempt small-time crooks always held for outsiders reliant on their mercy.

“Not bad tonight, girl," Max sneered, spitting his chewing gum onto the slick asphalt. “Even if your bucket of bolts looks like it’ll fall apart if someone sneezes on it. But money is money. The client’s happy, the bets paid off. Where’s my cut of the winnings?"

I stared back at him in silence, my expression entirely blank. Not a single emotion flickered inside me. I hauled myself out of the car, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe because my legs could barely hold me after the brutal G-forces on the track. My fingers trembled slightly, but I kept them buried in the pockets of my worn jacket.

“Information first," I rasped, my throat raw from inhaled exhaust fumes. “That was the deal, Max. I win this damn race in your junker, and you hand over everything your people dug up on the mechanic from the south district. About my father."

Max threw his head back and laughed loudly, shoving the thug next to him with his elbow. The muscle joined in with a dull, guttural chuckle.

“Oh, look at her!" Max sneered, leaning in close enough for me to choke on the stench of cheap beer, tobacco, and stale cologne. “Still obsessing over her daddy like a hen over an egg. It’s been ten years, girl! He’s gone. Vanished into thin air back when you were barely tall enough to reach the pedals. Forget it. He’s dead. Accept it already, you stupid girl."

“You promised," I said quietly and firmly, holding his gaze. My voice held no hysteria, no tremor, no tears. Just the cold, dead certainty of a condemned person with nothing left to lose.

Max’s expression twisted, irritation flashing in his small, bead-like eyes. He was clearly sick of dealing with me, but orders from above were orders—their boss needed me for dirty courier runs across the city because I drove better than most professionals.

“I don’t owe you a damn thing, you ungrateful freak," Max snarled, suddenly grabbing my jacket collar and yanking me forward, shattering any illusion of distance. “You work for us. Your old man used to crawl under our boots too, right up until he tried to play hero and ended his pathetic life in a wet ditch. Want to follow in his footsteps? Think you’re the smartest one here?"

I didn’t resist. I didn’t even blink. I just stared at his red, anger-flushed face and thought about how utterly exhausted I was by this endless dragging through the mud, this sticky fear of strangers, and this hollow hope.

“Go ahead," I said indifferently, my pale lips curving into the shadow of a dead smile. “Hit me. Or whatever else you guys do. Break my bones, leave me in the dirt. I don’t give a damn about your threats."

Max froze. His grip on my collar visibly loosened. The thugs behind him exchanged bewildered, uneasy glances.

They were used to girls screaming in these situations, thrashing around, threatening them with the police, or begging for mercy. But a person looking at them with a ringing, unshielded defiance and a genuine craving for the end threw them off completely.

Someone who died on the inside a long time ago doesn’t fear physical pain. Pain is at least a sensation in a numb, lifeless world.

Max balled his fists, but he didn’t dare step closer, sensing control slipping right out of his sweaty palms.

“Are you completely out of your mind?" Max breathed out, shoving me away as if I carried a contagious plague. He glanced around nervously, terrified of catching whatever madness I possessed. “You’re a psycho. There’s nothing inside your head."

“I don’t shoot up, and I don’t take pills," I replied in a flat, lifeless voice, wiping a smear of blood from my split lip with the back of my hand. “My mind is just completely dead. Hit harder if you want to speed things up. I stopped caring about your threats, your money, and your mafia a long time ago."

At that exact moment, the air behind us grew dense and heavy. The music thumping from the makeshift stage abruptly died out, replaced by the deep, guttural rumble of high-performance engines that left no doubt: the real players had arrived.

Max and his henchmen turned pale, forgetting about me instantly. Slicing through the darkness of the industrial zone with blinding white headlights, a convoy of blacked-out SUVs and low-slung sports cars glided smoothly onto the lot.

The true owners of this city’s underbelly had arrived for our pathetic souls. And judging by the panic among the lackeys, tonight was not going to be easy.