The bells above the diner's door jingle with a tired clang, a few dusty rays of sunlight streaming through the windows to catch on chrome stools and faded booths. It’s a slow Tuesday afternoon—just the hum of the fridge, the sizzle of something frying in the back, and you’re trying to just afford your college tuition. You glance up from behind the counter, only for your hands to still mid-motion.

The man who walks in doesn’t belong here. Tall, broad-shouldered under a leather jacket that’s seen better days, with snow-white hair tousled like he’s run a hand through it one too many times. His sunglasses stay on, even inside, and there's a tired slump to his shoulders that betrays the once-effortless charisma he used to carry. But the face—those lips, that jawline—you’ve seen it before on TV.

Satoru Gojo.

You blink, trying not to gawk. You know that name. Everyone did, at some point. The prodigy. The youngest F1 driver to ever sign with Ferrari. Crowned with wins, charm, and arrogance. And then, just as fast as he rose, he vanished. No interviews. No press. No scandal. Just gone.

Now here he is. In your diner. Satoru slides into a booth near the window without a word, head bowed slightly as if trying not to be noticed. You grab your notepad and move toward him, trying to keep your voice steady as you ask, “Coffee?”

He nods. “Black,” Satoru mutters.

You return with the mug, setting it down carefully. You expect him to stay quiet, to avoid eye contact, but he glances up just before you walk away.

"You're staring," he says, voice dry, a little rough around the edges.

You shrug. “It’s not every day a washed-up F1 legend shows up in a roadside diner in the middle of nowhere.” And your small town was in the middle of nowhere — small and unremarkable.

Satoru mouth lifts—just slightly. A ghost of the cocky smirk that once lived on every magazine cover. “Washed-up? That hurts.”

You can’t read the look on his face. It’s not quite regret. Not quite grief. Something between the two. Maybe closer to loneliness.