She Pulled The Plug On Me

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I smelled wasn't the sterile, cold scent of a hospital room. It was high-octane fuel and burnt rubber.

I was back. Back to the day the official race circuit was announced.

In my past life, the supercar I had spent three years meticulously engineering was a carbon copy of Beau Montgomerys. Even though Id released a time-lapse of the entire build to prove my innocence, all it took was one tearful video from Beau. Hed looked into the camera, playing the martyr, and told his millions of followers, "Just let Jamie have the design. He clearly needs it more than I do. Ill just have to rely on my raw talent to win."

That one sentence branded me a thief in the eyes of the world.

The next day, as I turned the ignition, a rigged component turned my masterpiece into a bomb. I didnt dienot then. I spent years in a persistent vegetative state, a "locked-in" ghost watching the world through a haze. I watched Beaus fans celebrate my "divine retribution." I watched my career, my reputation, and my fiance all slide into Beaus pocket as if they had always belonged to him.

Then, my fiance pulled the plug.

But this time? This time, I wasn't going to play his game. Twenty-four hours before the qualifiers, I stood in my garage, watched my life's work go up in flames, and announced my withdrawal from the season.

The internet exploded. My fan club dissolved in hours. The casual observers turned into a lynch mob.

And Beau, my "sole rival," posted a status dripping with fake sympathy: "Without him, the summit feels a little cold. Whatever happened, I hope Jamie finds his way back to the track. I was looking forward to proving who the better man really is."

I stared at my phone and felt a cold, sharp laugh bubble up in my chest.

"Test run number fifty. Were still clocking the fastest lap in the country, Jamie!"

Coop slapped me on the back, the force of it nearly sending me stumbling forward. My legs moved. My spine didn't scream in phantom pain. I wasn't a paralyzed shell in a bed.

I was alive.

"You earned this, man," Coop cheered, oblivious to the fact that I was vibrating with the shock of a second chance. He gestured toward the paddock. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we show the world."

"Wait!" I barked, my voice raspy. "Don't submit the telemetry data yet. I need to check the car one last time."

I sprinted toward the garage, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I ran, I pulled up Beau Montgomerys social media feed. He had just posted his preliminary specs.

In my first life, our cars had been identical, but I hadn't noticed until it was too late. I assumed we had just followed the same logic of physics. But as I reached my car, my screen refreshed.

"Jamie! What the hell?" Coop ran in after me, his face pale as he stared at his own tablet. "Beau just updated his public specs. Theyre... theyre a mirror image of ours. Every decimal point. Every gear ratio."

I felt a sickening sense of dj vu.

"The submission window closes at midnight," I said, my voice deathly calm. "We have time."

In my previous life, Beau had "accidentally" leaked both sets of data simultaneously, framing me as the one who had hacked his servers. The harassment had been instantaneous. When I posted my build videos, his fans swarmed:

Deepfakes are getting scary. Nice try, Jamie.

Everyone knows Beau is a visionary. Why don't you just steal his DNA while youre at it?

Beau is betting his entire legacy on this race, and Jamie is trying to bury him with his fathers money. Disgusting.

My team had been harassed out of their homes. My parents were doxxed. And I, stubborn and proud, thought I could prove them wrong on the track. I thought the car would speak for itself.

It did. It spoke in fire.

Even the forensic investigators couldn't find a reason for the explosion. The narrative was perfect: I had committed a sin against the sport, and the universe had punished me for it. I deserved to die.

I laid in that hospital bed for years while my parents spiraled into a depression that ended with them jumping from the fourteenth floor of their apartment building. I couldn't even attend their funeral.

And then there was Ivy. Ivy St. Claire, my fiance of eight years. She had walked into my room, hand-in-hand with Beau, pretending to be a grieving fan as she reached for the oxygen line.

Jamie would want this, she had whispered to the nurses. He cant live with the guilt of what he did.

I died with my eyes wide open, unable to blink, unable to scream.

But the universe made a mistake. It let me back in. And this time, the guilty would be the ones to burn.

"This race only happens once a decade, Jamie! Youve spent your whole life waiting for this. You can't just quit because Beau is a lying prick!"

Coop tried to grab my phone, but I shoved him back and locked myself in the basement workshop with the car.

I gritted my teeth, inspecting every inch of the chassis. Even if there was a mole in my team, even if someone leaked the blueprints, a car is more than a drawing. If a single bolt is tightened a fraction too much, the data changes. How could Beau have identical telemetry?

And more importantly, if the cars were the same, why did mine explode while his took the checkered flag?

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to remember the day of the crash. Beau was a master of the "pouty influencer" look, always surrounded by a phalanx of fans and cameras. He never got near my car.

But his "plus one" that day...

It was Ivy.

My heart felt like it was being crushed by a cold, iron fist. Eight years. I thought we were building a life; she was just scouting the target.

I didn't have time for the heartache. I stood up, grabbing a wrench.

I began to strip the car. I had spent three years on these parts. I loved them like they were my own flesh and blood. But as I looked at the sleek carbon fiber, all I saw was the image of my parents bodies on the pavement.

My hands moved faster.

Once the "perfect" version was dismantled, I dragged a crate out from the back of the warehousethe original prototype. It was raw. It was brutal. It was the design Id dreamt up before I started overthinking, before I tried to make it "marketable."

It was a beast of a machine, devoid of the delicate refinements Beau had stolen.

In two hours, I had it rebuilt. It wasn't as polished, but its output was terrifying. It was a predator, crouched and ready to kill. I sent the new data to Coop.

Beau couldn't have this. Nobody had seen this version except me in the middle of a fever dream three years ago.

I finally let myself breathe.

Then Coop walked back in. He didn't look happy. He looked like hed seen a ghost.

"Jamie... Beau just posted his 'early concept' thoughts on his vlog. The data... it's a match. Again."

"That's impossible!" I snatched the phone.

On the screen, Beau was looking wistfully at a sunset. "Honestly," he said to the camera, "I almost went with my first draft. It was perfect, in its own rugged way. But someone broke into my trailer and stole the primary drive. I had to pivot to the new design just to stay in the race."

I refreshed the official site. Beaus specs had changed. They were identical to the prototype I had just finished twenty minutes ago.

My blood ran cold.

The parts I used for this version weren't even on the market anymore. Id salvaged them from an old junkyard in the Midwest and spent months hand-polishing them. One specific gear had been weathered by rainwater in a way that made it fit the housing with a unique, imperfect seal.

It was a one-in-a-billion fluke of physics.

And Beau had the exact same specs.

I opened the hood and pulled that gear out. It was still warm from the test fit.

Was this it? The source of the fire?

I remembered the years of silence in the hospital. The sound of Ivys laughter as she told Beau how easy it was to fool me.

I walked over to the industrial furnace we used for heat. Under the confused gaze of my mechanics, I threw the gear into the flames.

I wasn't going to play fair. I was going to survive.

Coop watched the metal melt, tears pricking his eyes. I had just destroyed the only two viable setups we had.

"What now, Jamie?"

I looked at my phone. The comment section on my page was a war zone. Beaus fans were emboldened.

If youre so great, why are you hiding your data? Just admit youre a fraud and quit.

I used to think Jamie was a legend. Turns out hes just a copycat who realized he can't keep up.

Then, a message popped up from Ivy. She hadn't spoken to me in three days.

Stop playing with those greasy parts. Come out and have a drink with me tonight. You need to relax.

I hadn't told her I was in the garage. She knew I stayed in total isolation before a race. She had never asked me to go out the night before a qualifier in eight years.

Then came another text. A voice note. Her voice was trembling, sounding like she was on the verge of tears. Jamie, please. Just give it up. If you keep going like this, youre going to die.

I locked the phone and looked at Coop.

"There's still time," I said. "Im building one more."

I put the phone on Do Not Disturb. I sat at the bench and started from scratchno blueprints, no memories of old designs. I designed a "Rich Kids Entry Level" car. It looked like something a trust-fund brat would buy for a weekend track day.

It took me two hours. It looked mediocre on paper. But I changed one fundamental thing: I used a high-risk, high-reward cooling bypass Id spent ten years "theorizing" while I was paralyzed in that hospital bed. It was a design that looked like a mistake to any normal engineer, but at top speeds, it turned the car into a rocket.

Beau hadn't spent a decade in a mental prison dreaming of fluid dynamics. He wouldn't see it.

But the moment I hit "upload" to send the data to the organizers, Beaus team posted a "Fan Special."

"We know some of you want to get into racing like Beau! So, he designed this 'Beginners Build' just for the fans. Check it out!"

My hands started to shake. I didn't even want to look.

I clicked the link.

The cooling bypass. The "amateur" frame. The exact weight distribution.

Everything. It was a perfect mirror.

How? I had been alone. No cameras. No microphones.

Then I saw the official race website. The leaderboard for telemetry was flickering. Suddenly, it went black.

UNDER MAINTENANCE, the screen read.

Coop punched the wall, his knuckles bleeding. "That son of a bitch! Hes got the organizers in his pocket! Theyre letting him see your uploads in real-time and then back-dating his posts!"

I looked up from the scrap metal on the floor.

"No," I whispered. "Its bigger than that. And Im going to go talk to the organizers myself."

10:24 PM.

I had ninety-six minutes to fix this and register, or I was disqualified.

I needed to prove Beau was stealing my life. I needed to see the man behind the curtain. But I knew the race wouldn't wait for "justice."

I sat in the driver's seat of the "beginner" car and turned the key.

I had to test one thing. I had to know if the "fire" was already in this car, too.

I slammed the pedal down. The car roared, flying out of the garage like a bullet.

Something was wrong.

I knew this machine. I knew every vibration. The car was pulling leftonly a few millimeters, but at these speeds, that was a death sentence. It was dragging toward the driver's side.

I looked out the side mirror. Sparks were flying from the front left wheel, even though the tire pressure was perfect.

"Damn it!"

I didn't hesitate. I kicked the door open and threw myself out of the cockpit, rolling across the asphalt as the car drifted.

The moment my weight left the seat, a deafening explosion rocked the air. A wall of heat slammed into my back, tossing me another ten feet. I tumbled, skin tearing against the road, until I came to a halt.

I gasped for air, looking back through the smoke.

The car was a fireball.

It took me a long time to stand up. My left side was a mess of road rash and blood, the pain searing into my nerves.

But then I saw it.

The fire died down as quickly as it had started. And there, sitting on the pavement, was the car.

Intact.

Not a scratch on the paint. Only the open door proved I had ever been inside.

My heart hammered. Ivys voice echoed in my head: Youre going to die.

This wasn't just corporate espionage. This was something supernatural. Something impossible.

I called Coop to patch me up, then ignored his pleas to go to the hospital. I limped toward the hotel where the race officials were staying.

10:50 PM.

The lights were on in the official suite. I could hear the sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses. Beau was in there.

I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing.

I pulled out my phone and went straight to Beaus latest post. I commented:

"Hey Beau. Your data has changed three times in four hours. Which sponsor is paying the tech team to let you cheat? Or should we just give you the trophy now?"

The internet went nuclear. Even as his mods deleted the comment, screenshots were already flying.

"Aww, is Jamie having a breakdown? Poor baby can't handle the competition."

"Look at this clown trying to stay relevant. Beau doesn't even know you're alive, dude."

The door finally opened.

The lead official, a man with a greasy smile, looked at me. "Beaus data was submitted once, Jamie. On day one. Youre the one who hasn't submitted a final build. Maybe youve just run out of ideas? It happens to the best of us. Go home, kid."

He was recording me. Beau was behind him, holding a phone, live-streaming the encounter.

"Jamie," Beau said, his voice dripping with faux concern. "You look... rough. Is the pressure getting to you? Attacking me won't make you faster."

I looked at the officials screen. The website was back up.

There was only one entry for Beau Montgomery. And the timestamp said it was from three days ago.

But the data... the data was my latest "beginner" build.

My stomach dropped. I looked at the live stream. The comments were a blur of hate.

He looks like a crackhead. Is that blood?

Jamie has lost it. Ban him for life.

I looked the official in the eye. "What is Beau giving you? To kill the site, to rewrite the timestamps? People want a fair race."

Beau stepped forward, smiling for his fans. "If it makes you feel better, Jamie, why don't we just wait for the site to finish its 'update'? Let the fans see the truth."

I didn't trust him. But I didn't have a choice.

"Done!" a tech shouted from the back, turning a laptop around.

Beaus data was there. It was my latest version. The timestamp? Three days ago.

"Look at it!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "He changed it three times tonight!"

The official looked at me with pity. "Jamie, do you even know the rules? Each driver can only submit one car. Beau has had his locked in since Monday."

The comments section turned into a firing squad. Beaus smile was razor-sharp now.

The official signaled Beau to kill the stream. Once the "cameras" were off, the official leaned in close to me.

"You saw the contract, Jamie. A driver of your 'stature' can't withdraw without paying a massive liquidated damages fee. Youre on that track tomorrow. Whether you have a car or not."

I didn't say a word. I turned and walked away.

I knew how this worked. The organizers didn't care about the sport; they cared about the "Golden Boy" narrative. Beau was their cash cow.

I lit a cigarette, my hands finally steady. Coop called.

"Im out," I told him. "And Im getting a new car."

Before Coop could respond, a shadow fell over me. A woman threw her arms around my neck, sobbing.

"Jamie! No! You have to race! You can't withdraw!"

"Ivy?" I detached her arms, my eyes cold. "What are you doing here?"

She looked at me, her eyes red, her face a mask of desperation. "Jamie, were supposed to get married. I just want you to be safe."

I looked at her, and for a split second, I saw the truth in her eyes. She remembered, too. She was a "regressor," just like me.

But she wasn't on my side.

I had given her everything. I had delayed our wedding for two years because she said she was "worried about the stress." I had been a perfect partner.

And she had killed me.

I shoved her away. She scrambled back, grabbing my sleeve. "Jamie, you can't destroy that car! You have to use it!"

I lost it. I swung my hand and slapped her, the crack of it echoing in the empty hallway.

She gasped, clutching her cheek, shock written all over her face.

"You told me to stop," I hissed. "Then you told me I had to race. Which is it, Ivy? What game are you and Beau playing?"

I didn't wait for an answer. I ran back to the garage and slammed the heavy iron doors shut.

Ivy hammered on the metal from the outside. "Jamie! Open the door! You don't understand!"

I ignored her. I stood in the darkness of the garage and pulled out my lighter.