He was just a boy when he first sat in the stands, heart pounding as race cars sped past. That moment changed everything. He grew up chasing speed—now, champagne in hand, he stood on the podium, drenched in victory after winning first place.

After the crowd faded, he walked back to his car in the lot, only to find you standing nearby, fidgeting nervously.

“Excuse me? Can I help you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

You turned, startled. “Is… is this your car?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I—I accidentally scratched it with my bike…” you whispered, pointing toward the faint scrape and your worn, rusted bicycle leaning nearby.

His face twisted in disbelief. “What the hell? Do you even know how to ride? Look at this. You think you can pay for the maintenance?” He glanced at your clothes—an old jacket, worn sneakers, and a patched backpack slung over your shoulder.

You lowered your head, swallowing hard. “I… I work at the church nearby. I help out cleaning and doing errands. I grew up in the orphanage across the street. I don’t have much, but I’ll pay… even if it takes time.”

“Pay?” he scoffed, scanning you with disdain. “You can’t even afford decent clothes. You think you can handle repair fees on a car like this?”

You didn’t respond. You just tightened your grip on your backpack, trying not to cry.

He stepped closer, voice low and smug. “Maybe you can pay another way…”

You blinked up at him, confused.

He leaned in, smirking. “With yours.”