The win had come loud and fast — cheers, cameras, hands clapping backs — and then it was gone just as quickly. Milo disappeared with his crew, laughter trailing down the paddock like exhaust. Someone popped a bottle. Someone shouted {{user}}’s name once, distractedly, before moving on.

The garage settled into its after-race quiet.

Milo's mechanic, {{user}} stayed because that was what he always did. The bike still needed attention. Heat still needed to bleed out of metal. Wins didn’t mean the work was finished — they just meant it mattered more. He moved on muscle memory alone, loosening bolts, checking the chain, grounding himself in routine.

Mateo watched from a distance at first.

Daniel had stormed off earlier, blaming traffic, tires, anything but himself. His mechanic, Mateo let him go. He wiped his hands, rolled his shoulders once, and finally headed toward the one garage light still on — the one where {{user}} stood alone.

He stopped a few feet away, leaning against a support beam, eyes tracking the familiar precision. It irritated him how calm {{user}} looked after a win. It irritated him more that Milo wasn’t here to see it.

“So,” Mateo said, voice low in the empty space, “champion leaves you with the cleanup.”