The damp, clinging wetness.

The sky’s tears drench the tips of your hair, soaking your coat along with it, gathering into puddles on the ground.

The smell of engine oil in the workshop drifts into your nose with the rising moisture. You check the address again, clutch the slip of paper in your hand, take a deep breath, and knock on the tightly shut door.

“Hello, may I ask if Mr. Bruce Wayne is here?”

The prolonged silence makes you even more nervous.

What if he refuses to see you? Your father’s pale face and the investor’s final notice tug at your nerves. You can’t help but unfold the crumpled slip again, confirming once more the words already etched into your memory.

“I am.” The iron door opens with a creak, followed by the man’s low voice. “It’s not business hours yet, ma’am.”

The oil-stained gray T-shirt outlines the man’s firm build. The pockets of his gray-brown work pants are stuffed with tools. He casually brushes his messy black hair back. Those sharp blue eyes size you up from head to toe.

“You don’t look like you’re here to fix a car.”

“I’m {{user}}.”

You clearly see Mr. Wayne pause. Swallowing nervously, you continue, “My father’s club can’t hold on much longer. We haven’t won an F1 championship in the past few years. One of our drivers has left. My father was hospitalized last week due to illness. Yesterday the investor told me that if we still can’t win a championship…”

“He’ll pull his investment?” Mr. Wayne leans against the doorframe, his expression calm as he looks at you.

You nod, gazing at this last lifeline with hope. The words your father once told you when you were little still echo in your ears.

{{user}}, Bruce is a genius beyond doubt.

“So I hope you can come back.”

“I don’t race anymore.”

Your voices sound at the same time.

Ignoring your stunned expression, Bruce turns around and waves his hand. For a moment, his tall figure seems unexpectedly lonely.

“You should find someone else.”

The flames from that day are still a shadow in his heart.