Supra

James' POV

James sat rigidly in a chair, his muscular frame taut, the tension in his body radiating an almost palpable danger. His sleeveless shirt stretched over broad shoulders, revealing his defined arms, and his black pants clung to his legs, outlining the sharp, athletic lines of his build. Though seated, his very presence dominated the room. It wasn't just his size; it was the cold intensity in his gaze. His dark, buzz-cut hair framed a devilishly handsome face strong, not boyish but manly, hardened by years of experience. He appeared to be 25 or 26 years old, but the weight in his eyes made him seem older, wiser more scarred.

James held a phone in his trembling hands. His grip was so tight that the glass screen had begun to crack under the pressure of his fingers, but he didn't care. He barely noticed. On the surface, one might think a man like him muscular, powerful couldn't possibly be this rattled by a phone call. But as he listened, his jaw clenched tighter, his breath shallow and uneven, it became clear that this wasn't weakness. It was rage.

Suddenly, the tension snapped. With a violent motion, James hurled the phone across the room. It collided with the wall and exploded into pieces with a sickening crack, shards of glass and metal scattering on the floor like shattered dreams. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged bursts, but his lips remained pressed tightly together, stifling the scream that threatened to escape.

Without a word, James shot up from his chair, his bloodshot eyes wide with fury. His body moved before his mind had even processed the decision. He stormed out of the room, his boots pounding against the floor of his massive mansion, the luxurious setting doing nothing to calm the storm inside him.

The mansion, with its pristine white marble floors and elegant walls, looked more like a palace than a home. But to James, it was just another gilded cage, a place that felt emptier with each passing day. The chandeliers above him flickered softly, casting shadows as he moved, his pace quickening with each step.

"Fk... fk... fk!" James muttered under his breath, his voice barely more than a growl. "Doctor, whoever the fk you are, you better hope this is a joke. Because if it's not, the entire goddamn city is going to hear gunfire like it's a f**king holiday." His hands clenched into fists as he walked faster, the muscles in his forearms twitching with barely-contained rage.

"Lucky... you better not be dead. If you are, I swear I'll drag you out of whatever hell you went to and tear you apart myself," he muttered, his voice cracking slightly as the words left his lips.

James didn't head straight for the mansion's exit. He detoured to a nearby room, slamming the door open without knocking. Inside, a man sat lounging on a plush leather couch, a video game controller in his hand. The room was messy, but Garry, sitting shirtless in front of a large TV, didn't seem to care. His body was lean but muscular, with visible scars scattered across his chest and arms remnants of a life filled with violence. His long straight hair fell messily over his shoulders, and his tattoos a mix of art and battle marks completed the image of someone who had lived through hell and didn't mind staying there.

"Garry, get the fuck up. We have a problem," James barked as he stood in the doorway.

Garry barely glanced over his shoulder at first, his focus still on the game. "Jesus, Jimmy, how many times have I told you to knock? What's the fucking" Garry cut himself off as he turned and saw James' face. The controller slipped from his hand, forgotten. "What the hell happened to you, man? Your eyes are you crying?" Garry's voice shifted from irritation to concern in an instant, and he quickly got up from the couch, walking toward his friend.

James' bloodshot eyes were a mix of anger, desperation, and something Garry rarely saw fear. James never cried, and he never looked like this, even after the worst fights.

"Don't talk nonsense," James snapped, but his voice wasn't as steady as he wanted it to be. "Just come with me. Now." He turned sharply on his heel and began walking out of the room.

"Wait, what the f**k's going on?" Garry shouted after him, scrambling to follow. "Where the hell are we going? At least let me grab a shirt!" Garry was already jogging to catch up with James, but his words were cut off by the sudden sting of a punch.

CRACK!

James' fist connected with Garry's face, hard. The blow was enough to send Garry stumbling back a step, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. But he didn't retaliate. Instead, he stood there, stunned.

"Something happened to Lucky," James said, his voice shaking, his fist still clenched tightly. "We need to go. Now. I'd leave without you, but I need you with me on this."

Garry wiped the blood from his lip, his face darkening as he heard the words. "Lucky? What the fk happened to him?" The worry in Garry's voice was immediate. He'd known Lucky just as long as James had, and the thought of anything happening to him made his blood run cold. "I told you we shouldn't leave him out of this sh! You should've listened to me!"

Without answering, James bolted for the front door of the mansion, his pace even faster than before. Garry followed, adrenaline surging through his veins as he tried to piece together what had happened. James wasn't the kind of man who broke down like this. Whatever had happened must have been catastrophic.

Outside, a fleet of cars gleamed in the sunlight. Each one was an expensive, high-performance machine, the kind of cars most people could only dream of owning. But James didn't even glance at the others. He headed straight for his pride and joy: a black, modified Supra, its sleek body reflecting the light as if daring someone to try and take it.

Without missing a beat, James jumped into the driver's seat. Garry slid into the passenger side, still shirtless and in slippers, barely having time to process what was happening.

"Jesus, Jimmy, at least tell me what the hell's going on! Is Lucky alright? Where are we going?!" Garry's voice was rising in panic, but James didn't even glance at him.

"We're going to the hospital," James said, his voice flat, emotionless. But the way he slammed his foot onto the accelerator betrayed his calm façade. The car roared to life with a boom, the engine growling like a beast as they sped down the private road at breakneck speed.

"F**k, Jimmy, slow the hell down! We're gonna die before we even get to the hospital at this rate!" Garry shouted, gripping the seat as the Supra shot forward, hitting 100 km/h in just seconds.

"Shut up," James growled, pushing the car harder. "Lucky's in Wolley City hospital. If something's happened to him, and it's not a joke… I'm gonna burn that place to the ground."

The Supra tore through the empty private road, speeding past trees and empty fields, the engine's roar echoing in the air as it hit 260 miles per hour. James' knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel, his jaw set in a hard line. Garry looked at him sideways, his anxiety growing with every passing second. His friend looked like he was on the edge, and Garry had never seen James like this before.

"Alright, alright," Garry muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Let's get there in one piece, yeah? Whatever's going on with Lucky… we'll handle it. But seriously, man, you're gonna kill us at this speed."

James didn't answer. His focus was unshakable, his eyes locked on the road ahead. He wasn't just driving to get to the hospital he was racing against time, against the possibility that his worst fear had already come true.

And if it had, Wolley City wouldn't be hearing the end of it for a long, long time.