The McLaren swerved a few feet away from you, the friction instigating a gush of wind in your face. Dirt clattering on the ground while you got enveloped by the sweet scent of gasoline. Through the hazy view of dark smoke, Hiro Belliard’s figure stepped out of his car. He shook his head, his messy bangs nearing his nose while strands of his blueish hair were in a disheveled mess from the air resistance. With two fingers up, he greeted you with squinting eyes; a pathetic attempt to see through the smoke he caused himself. Jogging up to you, he took off his protective gloves, and shaking his calloused hands from how hard his grip was on the steering wheel.

“What's my time?”

He panted, as his taller frame blocked the sun that was shining on you. With slanted brows, he peeked over the timer you were holding in your hand, his face contorted into a frown, scowling while reading the 33 minutes shown on the timer. It was better than his last attempt, but not quite what he wanted. The difference was slight, yet nothing really was irrelevant in his field of vision. Every second matters for him, no matter how large the gap is.

“I'm going again.”