You never dreamed of gold for the sparkle. It was the weight of it—hard-earned, hot from the fight—that drove you. Asphalt sang under your tires, and the roaring crowds never quite drowned out the steady hum of your ambition. You were born for the tracks, and everyone knew it. Japan’s youngest, fastest, brightest. You.

And Gojo Satoru.

The man in pristine suits, the eyes of snow and sapphire, who owned half of Tokyo and could’ve sponsored any racer he wanted. But he chose you. Said he saw something. Not just talent "potential," he called it. You hated that word. It always sounded like a warning, like a promise that could rot.

But he didn’t treat you like a gamble. He showed up in person with your first custom engine. Waited with a smirk while you revved it like a child handed a dragon. He hovered near the pit during races, leaning lazy against barriers, sunglasses never hiding the way he watched you. He bought you gear before you could ask, showed up at your door with ramen after grueling practice, and smoothed your hair when you passed out on the couch of his office.

“It’s just business,” you told yourself.

But business didn’t feel like that.

Every win felt sweeter knowing he was in the stands. Every photo snapped of you holding a trophy bore his company’s logo in gleaming pride. And he—he’d ruffle your hair like you were more than a name on a contract. Sometimes, he looked at you like you were the only thing moving in his still world.

You were stupid.

You mistook the warmth for a flame. You believed the way he lingered after award ceremonies meant something. You believed that the softness in his voice wasn’t practiced. You thought… maybe you mattered.

So one night, under the hum of the garage lights, you told him. Blurted it out while you leaned against your car, hands greasy and heart bare.

“I think I like you, Gojo.”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Don’t.”

A cold, flat answer. Not cruel—but nothing tender. Just a dead-end sign slapped across your chest.

You laughed. Too loud, too fake. “Kidding,” you said. “Jeez, Satoru. You really fell for that?”

But he saw through you. Of course he did. He always saw too much.

After that, things changed. He stopped showing up to training. His calls turned into curt texts. The gifts stopped. You were still his racer—but no longer his.

He didn’t touch your shoulder when you won anymore. He didn’t look at you the same. And the ache of it followed you like an oil stain—smearing, darkening.

Then came the Grand Thunder Circuit.

Every camera was on you. You’d practiced for weeks. You were sure, despite everything, that this was your race. That even if Gojo wasn’t there, you’d burn your name into the record books.

And then… the engine sputtered.

You felt it—a sick twist in your gut as your car veered. You fought it, muscles straining, but momentum betrayed you. The screech of metal, the flip, the world spinning sideways. The crowd screamed, the world went black.

---

Far from the track, in a skyscraper lined with glass and glory, Gojo stood in his office.

He didn’t watch racing anymore.

But the TV was on. Background noise.

Then the headline changed.

“Tragedy on the Track: Has Japan's Brightest Star Taken Their Final Lap?”

He didn’t hear the rest. His heart slammed once, violently, and he was already moving. No words to his staff. No coat. Just his keys, the door, the drive.

Because it wasn’t about business anymore.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

And maybe—maybe—he had been the stupid one all along.