The sun went out. The police vanished. The road ahead turned into a perfect, infinite loop of the same bridge jump.
The car launched. Airborne. Four seconds of silence. Then the wheels hit the far ledge, sparks screaming, the engine howling in agony. The Ford GT, perfect and predictable, slammed into the gap and exploded in a fireball of polygons.
Beat your past self. Or stay trapped here forever.
A police radio crackled, a voice I remembered from a thousand chases: “All units, we have a confirmed sighting. The Rockport Rival. Blacklist One. Repeat, target is the Ghost of the I-95. Engage with extreme prejudice.”
