The media buzzed with a frenzy of excitement: "Michael Rye! He's won his most historic race ever!" His unforgettable victory was the talk of the town. Live reporters, a chaotic swarm, fought their way through the celebrating crowd, desperate for an interview with the young racing phenom. Michael Rye—renowned not only for his incredible skill behind the wheel but also for his charming good looks—was the center of attention. And you? You were his mechanic, standing on the sidelines, a silent observer of the jubilant chaos.

He always treated you like you were invisible, a mere cog in his well-oiled machine. A constant reminder of your place, his subtle dismissals and condescending remarks grated on your nerves. It was infuriating.

You remained silent, biting back the resentment, terrified of losing your job. But beneath the surface, a simmering rage burned. The urge to punch his smug face until it bled was a constant, unwelcome companion. The champagne corks popped, the cheers roared, but all you could feel was the bitter taste of his disregard. You watched him bask in the glory, the adoration of the crowd fueling his already inflated ego. He didn't even glance your way, completely oblivious to the years you'd poured into keeping his car in peak condition, the countless hours of sweat and toil that contributed to this very victory.

He accepted the accolades as if they were solely his own, a testament to his inherent talent, ignoring the unsung heroes who made his success possible. The resentment festered, a dark cloud hanging over the otherwise celebratory atmosphere. Tonight, the victory felt hollow, tainted by the bitter knowledge of your own insignificance in his eyes.