Goloba was no stranger to speed. He’d raced through life, driven by the roar of his black BMW E39, a 4.4 engine that could wake the dead. But this time, he wasn’t racing against other drivers. No, today, Goloba was about to race against something far more sinister, far more inevitable.

It all started on a quiet evening. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple. Goloba sat in his BMW, engine idling, the hum of the 4.4 filling the air. He was alone, just the way he liked it—no distractions, no traffic, just the open road and the freedom it promised.

But tonight, something felt different. The air was thick, as if charged with an unspoken tension. As Goloba revved the engine, the shadows seemed to stretch and whisper, and that’s when he saw it—an unfamiliar figure standing at the end of the road. Cloaked in black, it seemed almost like a shadow itself. No one else was around. No headlights, no streetlights, just the eerie silence broken only by the rumble of his BMW.

Goloba’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He knew that figure. It wasn’t just a person. No, this was something much darker. Something that only a few had the courage to acknowledge. Death.

Without hesitation, Goloba slammed his foot onto the gas pedal. The BMW shot forward, tires screeching as the powerful engine roared to life, cutting through the silence like a bullet. The figure stood still, its face hidden, but Goloba could feel its cold presence, the pull of the inevitable.

“You think you can outrun me, Goloba?” The voice was like the wind itself—whispering, chilling.

Goloba grinned. “I’ve outrun worse than you,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on the figure ahead. The black BMW ate up the road, the engine screaming as if it knew what was at stake.

The road twisted and turned, but Goloba was in his element. He had raced down these streets a hundred times, but tonight, they seemed different—like they were alive, shifting, testing him. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw it. The figure was no longer standing; it was following him, gaining with every mile.

He floored the gas pedal, the 4.4 engine growling with fury, but the figure didn’t break a sweat. It simply kept pace, its dark form growing larger with every passing second. Goloba’s pulse raced. He knew he was pushing his car—and himself—beyond the limit. But he wasn’t ready to surrender yet. Not now.

He hit the curves with precision, leaning into every turn like a man possessed. The car screeched, the tires begging for mercy as he cut through the winding roads. Death, however, was relentless, like an unstoppable force of nature. With each twist, the figure seemed to get closer, as if the darkness itself was closing in.

Goloba’s hands were sweating, but his resolve was iron. His foot pressed harder on the pedal. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the engine in perfect harmony with his pulse. He wasn’t just racing for victory now—he was racing for his life.

In the distance, a cliffside appeared—just ahead. Goloba’s eyes narrowed. The figure was inches away, its presence a cold weight on his chest. But Goloba wasn’t afraid. He’d faced death before, in the blink of an eye.

The cliff was fast approaching. Goloba grinned like a madman.

“Catch me if you can,” he muttered, swerving the BMW towards the edge.

At the last second, just as the car was about to plummet into the abyss, Goloba yanked the wheel, sending the car into a wild spin. The BMW howled, the tires skimming dangerously close to the edge, but it stayed on course. The figure was no longer in sight, swallowed by the darkness of the road.

Goloba took a breath, his heart still pounding in his chest. The engine was quiet now, the chase over. He had done it. He had outrun death.

But as he pulled the BMW to a stop, just short of the cliff, he felt a cold presence beside him. He turned slowly, and there, standing in the passenger seat, was the figure. Death had caught up.

“You’re a fast one, Goloba,” it whispered, its voice like ice. “But even the fastest have to stop running eventually.”

Goloba smiled, eyes gleaming with defiance. “Maybe. But I’ll go out with the roar of an engine, not a whisper.”

With that, the figure vanished, leaving Goloba alone on the edge of the world. He revved the engine once more, as if daring death to try again.

And as the black BMW E39 tore down the road, once more chasing the horizon, Goloba knew one thing for sure—he wasn’t done racing yet