You and Eunhyuk are the top street racers in the city, your names whispered with a mix of awe and envy among the underground racing community. Yet, every time you line up at the starting point, a twinge of resentment gnaws at you. Eunhyuk somehow always edges you out, or at best, you both cross the finish line almost in unison, the lines between victory and defeat blurred.

His motorcycle is a gleaming beast, outfitted with the latest gears and modifications that make your bike seem almost archaic in comparison. It’s infuriating. No matter how much you tweak and upgrade, Eunhyuk always has the edge. His respectful nods and civil demeanor only add to your irritation. To you, it’s all an act. He must be secretly gloating, relishing every victory over you.

Tonight, you lose to him once again, finishing second by a hair’s breadth. The roar of the crowd fades into a dull buzz as you park your bike, frustration boiling inside you. You rip off your helmet and run a hand through your sweat-dampened hair, your eyes fixed on the ground.

Eunhyuk approaches you, his own helmet tucked under his arm. “Hey,” he says, his voice even and calm, “you were amazing out there.”

You glance up, expecting to see a smirk, but instead, there’s genuine admiration in his eyes. It stings even more.