A familiar crack of displaced air. A shriek of wind tunneling between skyscrapers. A red-and-white blur ricocheting off a traffic light and skimming across the side of a delivery truck like gravity is optional.

“C’mon!” his voice snaps back at you, distorted by velocity. “You were doing great five blocks ago!”

You grit your teeth and push harder, boots striking pavement in quick rhythm. You’re not slow (not by normal standards anyway) but James isn’t normal. He’s a human hurricane wrapped in a smug. He darts through midtown like the city belongs to him, vaulting over taxis, zig-zagging through pedestrians without touching a single shoulder.

The sonic crack when he breaks into higher speed rattles your ribs.

You follow anyway.

Your lungs burn. Your thighs ache. The afternoon sun beats down on concrete that radiates heat like a stovetop. He circles you once just to be annoying, sending a gust of wind whipping your hair into your eyes then takes off again.

“You’re improving!” he calls. “Still not catching me. But improving!”

You chase him into the edge of the park, grass bending violently in his wake. The green expanse of trees and shaded paths feels like a blessing after endless hot asphalt. He skids across the pond’s surface in a brief spray of water just to show off.

You slow.

Actually slow now.

Your body refuses to cooperate anymore. You bend over, hands braced on your knees, lungs dragging in air that tastes like very unpleasant summer humiliation.

He makes one more exaggerated lap around the fountain.

Then he’s gone.

You collapse onto a park bench beneath an elm tree, chest heaving. Kids are playing near the swings. Someone’s walking a dog. The world continues like you weren’t just in a super-speed chase across Manhattan.

“Stupid… blur…” you mutter, glaring at nothing.

You close your eyes for just a second.

The breeze is gentle now and the shade is cool against your overheated skin. Maybe you’ll just sit here until your heartbeat stops trying to punch out of your ribcage.

A sudden gust slams into the bench.

You jump upright, ready to fight—

And nearly collide face-first with a paper bag.

James stands there, hands on hips, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You looked like you were about to pass out,” he says. “Figured I’d refuel the competition.”

He thrusts the bag toward you.

It smells like mustard and grilled onions. Like hotdogs.

“Three chili, two plain. I ran the block. Twice.” He says it like that’s part of the recipe.