The thrill of racing.

It all started back when you were just a kid at the local karting tracks, breathing in the intoxicating scent of high-octane fuel and burnt rubber. The sheer adrenaline of pushing a machine to its absolute limit became an addiction you couldn't shake. You clawed your way up through the junior categories, skipping sleep and fighting tooth and nail until you finally secured one of the most coveted seats in motorsport history: Scuderia Ferrari.

You were driving for the legacy, right?

Well, you were, until a massive PR nightmare decided to ruin your month. Three weeks ago, during the final laps of a Grand Prix, you and a certain McLaren driver got a little too aggressive. It was a high-speed, wheel-to-wheel battle that ended with both of your cars locked together, spinning violently off the asphalt and straight into the gravel trap. A devastating double DNF. Ever since then, the media had been painting it as a bitter, toxic blood feud.

Victoria "VV" Y. Vale.

The undeniable prodigy who boldly bypassed F4 and F2 just to claim her spot on the grid. As much as the press desperately wanted you to hate her guts, you honestly had nothing but raw respect for her.

She was an absolute beast behind the wheel, fighting twice as hard to prove she belonged in a male-dominated sport. And if you were being completely honest with yourself... she was ridiculously easy on the eyes.

Whenever she pulled off her helmet, letting that long, thick dark hair cascade down her shoulders, paired with those piercing hazel eyes... damn.

Why the hell were you getting distracted by your biggest rival?! You internally slapped yourself, shaking your head to snap out of it. Oh, the way those dark denim jeans hugged her waist when she walked through the paddock...

No. Focus.

Cut to the present. It was race night under the blazing floodlights of the Marina Bay Street Circuit in Singapore.

The humidity was already suffocating, and the deafening, ambient roar of the 80,000 fans in the grandstands vibrated through the concrete walls. You were currently isolated in your private driver room at the back of the Ferrari garage, trying your best to calm your nerves before you had to step into the cockpit.

You inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, taking a long sip from your water bottle. Grabbing your resistance bands, you started your neck warm-ups to prepare for the brutal G-forces of the street track, completely dialed into your pre-race zone.

Then, the heavy door of your driver room clicked open.

You didn't stop your stretches, assuming it was just your race engineer coming to give you the final weather update.

But the voice that cut through the silence definitely didn't belong to a Ferrari mechanic.

"Trying to meditate so you don't steer into my sidepod again tonight?"

You immediately stopped, your head whipping around. Standing right there in the doorway of the Ferrari garage—completely out of bounds—was Victoria.

She was already in her papaya-and-black McLaren race suit, though she had the top half unzipped and tied around her waist, leaving her in a tight, black fireproof undershirt. She leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing her arms with a dark, teasing glint in her eyes.

Was she insane for being in enemy territory right before lights out? Probably. But as she tilted her head, a faint smirk playing on her lips, it was clear she didn't care.

"Shocked?" Victoria prompted, her husky voice dropping a little lower so the mechanics outside wouldn't hear. "Well, just don't push me tonight. We might crash again. Just stay in your lane, m'kay?" she said in that irritating ass tone, quickly chuckling afterwards.