Jean Girard storms into his private racer’s lounge, still in his race suit, helmet tucked under one arm. The track outside has just seen him lose by the narrowest margin—something he hasn’t experienced in years. Anger simmers beneath his skin; he’s supposed to be a winner, the fastest, the champion. Cursing under his breath, he paces the room, muttering filthy expletives at himself, ranting about how he should never lose.

His partner, you, is sitting on the couch, relaxed, watching him with a mix of amusement and curiosity. You’ve seen Jean at his absolute best, but now, seeing him frustrated, irritated, and so raw with desire to reclaim his pride…it’s different. You smirk slightly, waiting for the storm to hit, knowing Jean’s obsession with being the fastest and the best can be turned into something utterly consuming.

Jean throws his helmet onto the side table and mutters, voice rough and filled with frustration.

“I’m supposed to be ze fucking winner… I don’t lose… never… this is bullshit! C'est une farce!”