Carter's childhood wasn't filled with warmth or love. It was filled with pain, neglect, and abuse. His parents, both caught in the grips of addiction, didn't care for him the way parents should. He often found himself caught in their chaotic world—his mother too high to notice him, and his father too drunk to be anything but a threat.
There were days when the only food he could find came from the trash. His parents' promises of a better life were nothing but empty words. They didn't protect him; they didn't even see him. When his father wasn't yelling or slamming doors, he was picking fights with anyone who dared cross his path—Carter, included.
Most nights, Carter would lock himself in his room, trying to block out the yelling and fighting that echoed through the walls. The blows weren't always physical, but the words his parents threw at him—those hurt more than anything. They'd tell him he was worthless, that he'd never amount to anything, that he was just like them. Their words shaped him, but not in the way they hoped.
He learned early on that he couldn't count on anyone but himself. His parents wouldn't fix their lives, and they weren't going to fix his. But Carter had one thing they didn't—an unyielding drive to escape, to do something different. Something more.
The Turning Point: Saving for the Car
By the time Carter was 16, he had already seen more than a kid should have. He knew what it meant to survive, and he knew that his future wasn't going to be handed to him. No one was going to give him anything, so he had to work for it.
He took on odd jobs—anything he could find. He worked at a mechanic shop, cleaning floors, changing tires, and sweeping up oil spills. He worked long hours, barely making enough to get by, but it didn't matter. Every penny he earned went into a small, battered savings account. His goal was simple but far from easy: get enough money to buy a car.
After months of saving and working, Carter finally had enough. The car he bought was a rusted piece of junk, barely held together by duct tape and rust. But to him, it was a symbol of freedom. It was something he could control. Something no one could take away.
The Hard Work of Tuning
Carter didn't have much, but he had the skills he'd picked up at the mechanic shop. He poured every ounce of his free time into fixing up the car, tuning it with his own hands. The process was slow, and every improvement came with its own set of challenges, but Carter was relentless.
When the engine sputtered, he didn't walk away; he learned how to fix it. When the tires were bald and the suspension was shot, he saved up enough money to replace them, piece by piece. He didn't have the luxury of a mentor—he had to figure everything out himself. But slowly, the car transformed. It became his pride, his escape. It was the only thing that was truly his.
The First Race:
The day he finally finished tuning the car, Carter felt a sense of accomplishment he'd never felt before. The car wasn't perfect, but it was his. No one had given it to him; he'd earned every inch of it.
It didn't take long before Carter's path crossed with the underground racing world. The streets were filled with the roar of engines, and soon enough, a race was offered to him—an opportunity to test the car he had spent so long working on. Carter didn't hesitate. He knew what he was capable of, even if no one else did.
His first race wasn't about the prize money or recognition; it was about proving something to himself. That he could do this. That he could rise above the life he'd been handed and take control of his destiny. The engine roared to life, and Carter, behind the wheel, was ready. No matter how many people doubted him, no matter how many times his past had tried to define him, he was here, and he was racing.
Carter's First Race – The Night That Changed Everything
The night was thick with smoke and sweat, the scent of burning rubber lingering like a memory that refused to fade. Engines roared across the dark stretch of road on the outskirts of town. Makeshift barricades lined the sidelines, lit by cheap floodlights and the glow of cell phones held high. Twenty cars. One road. No rules.
Carter pulled up to the starting line in his beat-up, but freshly tuned car. It looked like a relic compared to the polished beasts beside him, all chrome, neon underglow, and custom bodywork. He didn't care. His car was loud, mean, and it was his.
People laughed when they saw him. A few pointed. One guy leaned out of his window and sneered, "You sure that thing won't fall apart halfway through?"
Carter said nothing. He just tightened his grip on the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes locked forward.
The flag dropped.
The tires screamed against the pavement, and the street lit up in a blur of movement and fury. Carter's car jerked forward, the acceleration hitting him like a punch in the chest. He kept his focus razor sharp, weaving between cars, dodging near collisions with precision that didn't come from training—but from survival. He wasn't out here to show off. He was out here to win.
As the first stretch turned into tight curves, engines began to fail, tires lost traction, and overconfident racers paid for their recklessness. Carter stayed steady, feeling every vibration in the steering wheel, every shift in weight. His car wasn't the fastest, but it responded like it was part of him—because he had built it that way.
By the final stretch, only six cars remained in the front pack. The leaders were battling for dominance, side-swiping each other, tires locked in combat. Carter saw his opening. He gunned it, threading the needle between two reckless drivers and bursting into third.
The finish line loomed ahead. The wind tore at his hoodie, his knuckles white on the wheel.
He crossed the line.
Third place. Out of twenty.
The crowd exploded, a mix of disbelief and cheers. People started asking, "Who the hell is that?" but Carter didn't care. He wasn't racing for fame. He wasn't racing for them.
A man in a black jacket approached him afterward, slapping a thick wad of cash into his palm. "Third place. Thousand bucks. Not bad for a ghost."
Carter nodded, silent as ever. A thousand dollars. More than he'd ever held in his life. But the money wasn't the reward—it was proof. Proof that he could do this. That he could build something from nothing. That his pain, his struggle, all of it, hadn't been for nothing.
He looked at the car, its hood still steaming.
"We did it," he whispered under his breath, running a hand across the dented frame. "And we're just getting started."