For those who chase truths through the wreckage of memory.
For those who know every name carries a story—and every story, a name.

For Writers Who Chase Truth at 100 Miles Per Hour

Title: "The Spirit of Speed" part 1

Marcus Revlin, a detective with a heart of steel and a soul of velvet, always said his little brother moved "like he had wings." At 16, Spirit Revlin—named Joseph, but never one to cling to a name that felt like a cage—earned the moniker not through athleticism, but through the way he flicked through life: quick, untethered, and impossible to catch. Marcus, a decade his senior, saw something in him that even Spirit couldn’t name. “You’re fire in human skin,” he’d once said. But fire, as Spirit would learn, burns everything in its path.

The BMW’s engine screamed like a caged animal. Spirit’s hands white-knuckled the steering wheel as the white car ate asphalt, its modified V8 warping the laws of physics. 400 mph. The speedometer blurred. The road was a thread, the world a smear of light and shadow. Behind him, the Crown Vic kept coming.

Officer Koz wasn’t just chasing a suspect—he was chasing a ghost. His partner’s voice still echoed in his skull: “Watch out for Holster’s Gang. They’re dirty, Joe. Deader than the kid they took.” Marcus Revlin’s words, spoken a day before the bullet that turned him into another story’s footnote. Koz’s badge felt heavier than it ever had as the BMW vanished into a tunnel of neon and rain.

Spirit didn’t see the crossing. Or maybe he did. The train’s wail came too late, and the air was full of iron screams. The BMW fishtailed, tires chirping in a language only asphalt understands. Koz’s siren became a primal cry— stop, stop, stop —but the cars are faster than mercy.

The collision wasn’t silent. It was a symphony of metal and fury. The Crown Vic’s hood crumpled like paper as the train’s lights swallowed the BMW whole. When the smoke cleared, Koz was pinned, his leg broken, and Spirit was breathing through shattered glass, the train cars groaning above him like a living thing.

“You… idiot,” Koz coughed, blood blooming through his fingers. His badge glinted in the ditch.

Spirit didn’t move. His ribs screamed. “You’re one of them ,” he spat. “Holster’s got you, doesn’t he? That’s why you chased me—”

Koz’s laugh was wet, painful. “Marcus. My partner. Your brother. He’d shoot me himself if he knew I let this happen.” He pressed something into Spirit’s trembling hand—a faded photo of Marcus and a man with Koz’s sharp jawline, grinning over a closed case file.

The train’s wail faded. Spirit stared at the badge. “You’re not them.”

“No,” Koz hissed, as another spasm of pain hit. “But Holster’s still out there. And you’re the only one who can burn him.”

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and unfinished business. Spirit sat in the chair beside Koz’s bed, the photo in his pocket a lifeline. Holster’s Gang had killed Marcus, yes—but the corruption ran deeper, coiled in the very system Spirit had vowed to destroy.

Yet here was Koz, a man who’d leapt into a death-defying chase not for glory, but for truth.

Spirit stood, the wings his brother gifted him finally feeling less like a curse and more like a question. What do you carry when the past is a flame?

He stepped into the unknown, the BMW’s wreckage a distant memory. Somewhere, a train roared. Somewhere, justice waited.

This story is for the K9 Team. Thank you, Beamng and Unicorn Academy for helping.

Please don't claim the stories is yours. If you do I will block you.

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part two coming soon.