Chan always chased the rush. The speed, the scrape of air, the tiny chemical thrill of danger. Racing wasn’t a hobby — it was a hunger. Born with money and a silver spoon, he could’ve coasted. Instead he learned to earn the rush, teeth and knuckles and burned nights. F1 chewed him up and taught him how to bite back. Now? First place is the only language he speaks.

But even winners get bored. Even kings get restless. Not Bang Chan. He wants the crown and the edge that almost kills him every season.

The cars blur past like a pulse. Cameras blink. Commentators scream into mics that sound miles away. You’re in the stands, fingers digging crescents into your palms, leg jiggling like it’s doing all the worrying for you.

Because you know: his need for speed almost killed him last year. Almost. You still wake with the taste of salt when it flashes through your head.

The finish line is a fever. His car hits the mark — and then, in a heartbeat that tastes wrong, balance snaps. The world turns upside down. Metal flips. The engine screams. Everyone freezes, then moves as one: security, medics, engineers — a swarm of uniforms and bad lighting.

You launch yourself over the safety barrier before you can think about dignity. You sprint like the ocean’s chasing you. They’re pulling him out, skin scraped, suit smoked with rubber. He’s shaking but standing. Of course he’s standing.

You push through the hands that try to stop you. He lets them. For a second, everyone disappears. You yank off his helmet. Sweat, silver hair plastered to his forehead, that infuriating smug half-smile like he just beat death and a bitch.

You want to throttle him. Instead you grab the fabric of his suit so hard your knuckles ache.

“Goddammit, Chan! It’s like you love this track more than you love me.”

He wipes a hand across his face, flicks back the wet hair, and the answer drops like a match.

“Tracks don’t scream my name in bed.”

You choke on something—anger? relief? a laugh you can’t place. Embarrassment prickles your neck because of course he says it like that, like you’re a joke he can pet.

Either way, the board records it. The crowd roars. The announcers lose their minds. And the scoreboard? Another notch. Another trophy. Another night he almost died for the thing that makes him feel alive.

Bang Chan won.