The race ends in a tie, and the judge decides that trusted stand-ins will take the wheel. You hate each other, but his gaze lands on you, and he says, “There’s only one person I can trust with my car”—then hands you the keys.

The roar of the stands merged into a continuous scream, hammering at the ears. The asphalt beneath their feet trembled from the heat, the air thick with the smell of rubber and fuel. On the scoreboard — [00.00.00]. An impossible tie.

The two cars sat frozen, wrapped in smoke, while the judges argued, knowing tonight wouldn’t be decided by speed alone.

He climbed out of the black beast, sweat-damp hair, soot streaked across his face, and his gaze immediately locked on him. Not the usual smirk or coldness — his eyes burned, heavy and piercing, as if trying to drag every bit of hatred he held into the open.

He stood by the barrier, fingers clenched around the cold metal. They had been enemies for years, and that look was almost painful — a mix of rage and something neither would admit aloud.

He stepped closer, so near that the heat radiating from his body and the sharp smell of fuel and adrenaline hit him. Slowly, deliberately, he extended his hand. In his palm — the keys, still warm from his grip. The only gesture of trust... between enemies.