Chapter 72- Your secrets
When they left the racetrack, the night had already swallowed the sky in darkness.
Manfred casually slung his silver vest over his shoulder, his damp, tousled hair clinging to his cheeks from the sweat. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled halfway up, revealing skin marred with reddish bruises. Faint traces of blood were still dripping down from his palms, painting a striking contrast against his pale hands.
The thrill of the race had already faded, filtered out in the rush of adrenaline. Now, standing alone under the vast sky, he felt like he was floating in the clouds—emptied, spent. The satisfaction was fleeting. What remained was an overwhelming sense of loneliness and silence.
He leaned against the hood of the car, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag before dialing August’s number.
They had set each other as speed dial number 1—a silent pact, an unspoken truth. That number meant "the most important person."
"You raced again!" August’s voice came through, low but laced with anger as he laid eyes on the scrapes and bruises scattered across Manfred’s body.
Back in the States—before ZT Group, before the suits and boardrooms—Manfred had done everything reckless just to survive. Underground racing wasn’t a game. It was a gamble. For money, for pride, for life.
But he never let August touch any of that darkness. No fights. No races. Not even cigarettes. Manfred took all the dirt, all the danger, so August wouldn’t have to.
Those six years in the States were hell at first. The first year nearly broke him. But the following five? They were salvation—because heaven had sent him an angel.
And to August, Manfred was that angel.
That’s why he always listened to him. Every word. Every warning. August had made a promise—on the day Manfred pulled him from the abyss—that he’d walk this path of vengeance with him. Whatever it took. Even if it cost his life.