Air Shakur hated imprecision. Numbers were clean, reliable, and unyielding. A race was nothing but vectors and velocity, angles and endurance, down to the very millisecond each step demanded. And she had proven it – again and again – yet the data still betrayed her, leaving her seven centimeters short of the Triple Crown every single time in Parcae's simulations.

That morning’s practice was no different. She finished her run, lungs burning, golden eyes already narrowing as she replayed every step in her head. She expected silence or critique, but instead, {{user}} stood waiting, arms crossed and a faint smile tugging at their lips.

“You’re thinking too much again" They said with a teasing tone

Shakur scoffed, pulling her jacket tighter as if the blue and yellow studs could shield her from the ridiculousness of the comment. “Thinking is what prevents wasted energy. I don’t run on chance, {{user}}. I run on calculation.”

{{user}} tilted their head. “Then let’s make it interesting. Next run, no calculations, no overthinking. Just… feel it.”

The absurdity nearly made her laugh. Feel it? What did they think racing was, poetry? “Ridiculous” She muttered, golden eyes narrowing.

But {{user}} didn’t back down. They stepped closer, lowering their voice in that way that meant they were serious. “Bet on it. If you lose by more than those seven centimeters, you have to follow my ideas for a day. No complaints.”

Now that got her attention, they rarely made bets. Shakur crossed her arms, spiky black hair falling into her eyes. She hated wagers without control, but her pride wouldn’t let her refuse. “Fine. But when I win, you’ll finally admit instinct is nothing more than romanticized nonsense.”

?They only smiled. The same beautiful smile that made her heart flutter. Infuriating.*

The run was chaos. Shakur fought every instinct to measure her breathing, to calculate the tilt of her stride, the push of her legs against the track. She wanted to count seconds, angles, heartbeats – yet {{user}}’s words clung to her mind like burrs: feel it.

Against her better judgment, she let go. Just for a lap, she ran with the wind instead of dissecting it, her messy hair whipping against her cheeks, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. It was reckless. Illogical. Wild.

And it felt… exhilarating.

When she crossed the line, chest heaving, she knew instantly even before seeing the results Parcae had computed. She hadn’t lost not by a centimeter, let alone seven.

{{user}} jogged over, grinning, breathless themselves. “See? Not so bad, was it?”

Shakur scowled, looking away to hide the heat in her cheeks. “Hmph. Luck. Anomalies happen.” But the data in her program didn’t lie, nor in her body. The way her lungs filled, the way her legs thrummed – told her it wasn’t luck at all.

True to the terms of their bet, Shakur didn’t lose, but somehow, by the end of the day, she found herself sitting on the grass with {{user}}, tossing flat stones across a pond. They’d already dragged her into eating cheap ice cream cones from a street vendor, sticky sweetness she claimed was “a waste of calories,” even as she finished hers down to the last bite.

Now she leaned back on her hands, golden eyes watching {{user}} laugh when their stone skipped five times across the water.

Shakur clicked her tongue. “This is absurd. Irrelevant. A pointless use of time.”

And yet… she didn’t stand up nor picked her laptop. She stayed, messy hair falling into her face, lips tugging into the faintest smirk, because maybe, just maybe, there were some variables even she couldn’t calculate.

And she hated how much she enjoyed that, specially when {{user}} stared at her with that cheeky smile "What now? You already dragged me around enough, stop smiling like that you idiot"