…was still on.

My city: potholes, tram tracks, cobblestones. At that speed, I could feel every single filling in my teeth.

And the pure joy — on those forged low-profile twenties of his, he’ll probably need a second mortgage just to pay the dentist.

I’d been tailing him for a while now. Even though it was Saturday and every SUV in town had crawled out to forage around the discount supermarkets, this chase felt straight out of a movie.

I had to catch him. After the stunt he pulled, there was no way I was letting it slide.

He hit the late green so hard it turned into an early yellow.

At near light-speed, I squeezed through that tiny gap myself. All I could manage was a quick curse under my breath and a glance around for traffic cameras.

No idea if there were any. One day I’ll find out.

It’s a strange world: the young drive like there’s no tomorrow, the old crawl along like they’ve got eternity, and us… trapped right in the middle of them all.

Blasting through intersection after intersection. Always straight ahead, yet slaloming through the lanes. Tram tracks sparking as our undercarriages take a beating. The whole world left in our dust.

The bastard’s quick in his tuned turbo-shitbox, but I’ve locked in. I’m not letting go.

I wonder if he even knows I’m chasing him.

Anyone else would’ve probably waved it off:

“Fine. Go ahead. Then cry about it later.”

But not me.

“He is a man of focus, commitment, and sheer will.”

Yeah, okay, that was technically about John Wick, but I relate.

For God’s sake, surely he must see me by now.

“Could you maybe slow down?

Dude, I’m driving a French station wagon here!”

The only reason I hadn’t lost this German grandmaster of stoplight launches was pure determination, stubbornness, and the fact that it was Saturday.

Finally, I think he spotted me. And decided he was ready for a confrontation.

With a sudden jerk, he dives into a supermarket parking lot.

You really wanna dance?

I corner him, brakes screaming.

He flies out of the vehicle. Opened the door a bit too wide, but whatever — it’s probably lying on the pavement somewhere nearby by now.

Big guy. A massive, tattooed bull of a man.

But I’m not saying that just because he drives a BMW. Those are just stereotypes.

Though, admittedly, usually accurate ones.

He walks toward me.

I don’t waste time — this might very well be my last fight.

He gets close, already about to bark something at me.

Too late.

I strike first.

I throw his wallet at him.

“Look. That’s what you make your living with.

And maybe don’t leave your wallet on the roof of your car next time.”