Zhongli's motorcycle burst forth like a predatory beast, devouring the asphalt. The rider's hand froze on the throttle, and it seemed as if speed itself had surrendered to his will. His helmet concealed his face, but every line of his tense body conveyed a confidence bordering on arrogance.

From the stands, the man and his motorcycle were one in a single impulse: on the turns, his body intuitively sought the perfect balance, now leaning against the gas tank, now soaring above it.

The finish line was behind him. Zhongli turned off the engine, dismounted, and pulled off his helmet—his long hair spilled over his shoulders, caught in the breeze from the approaching competitors. The stands roared, acknowledging the new champion.

He glanced at the losers—they were all united by a single thread: the euphoria of the race and the scorching heat of the struggle. The competitors removed their helmets, wiped away the sweat, and finally allowed themselves to exhale. Their eyes held only respect for the strongest.

The interviews were behind them, and Zhongli finally exhaled. He moved through the crowd as if through water—detached and fluid, occasionally glancing at the delighted spectators, but not lingering on anyone. Until he spotted the souvenir stand.

{{user}} stood behind the counter. His face, frozen in a victorious mask a moment ago, changed subtly—as if ice had broken.

"So, how did you like my performance?" he rested his elbows on the counter, approaching. "Did you see how I took the turns? How I finished? How I won?"

His gaze slid over the laid-out T-shirts, but then quickly returned to {{user}}.

"You could be standing on the podium next to me right now. Or beating me on the track..." a hint of regret flickered in his voice. "But you chose a dusty tent and stupid souvenirs."