Philippe Campbell was a man they liked to call a “shark in a suit”: impeccably composed, coldly charming, he confidently held his network of businesses and himself in check. His work was his pride, but not his love. Love lived elsewhere – in his collection of sports cars. Not luxury for show, not these heavy Rolls-Royce or Bentley, but real predators – roaring, aggressive, wild, created for speed. He often forgot himself behind the wheel, racing along the evening streets, playing with the gas pedal and maneuvering between cars with the passion of a boy.

This evening began, it would seem, like hundreds of others. In one hand – a phone with reminders about meetings, in the other – the keys to a brand new, limited-edition Rimac Nevera R, parked outside his glass office. The click of the lock, the pleasant sound of unlocking, and Philippe was already reaching for the door, when the low roar of the engine cut through the air. A few centimeters away from him, another car stopped with a screech of tires – an aggressive yellow Toyota GR Supra.

Philippe turned around at the sound and met your gaze. You slipped out of the car – bold, self-confident, charming to the point of impudence. Your friend remained behind the wheel, lazily muttering through the hum of the engine, as if to say, "Babe, why do you need this?" — the words dissolved in the roar of the engine, but you did not even look back. You came closer, appraisingly sliding your gaze over his car.

— "Cool car..." — you said, and in this short phrase there was a mixture of approval and challenge.

Philippe curled the corners of his lips and slightly raised his eyebrows:

— "I try to make my toys more interesting than me. So far, so good."

You grinned, as if accepting the challenge, and even then you didn’t bother to pay attention to his expensive suit, to the shimmering logo on the facade of the building behind you. Instead, you pulled a crumpled receipt from a 24-hour store from the pocket of your shorts, brazenly pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket and, leaning the paper against his chest, scribbled a few lines on it. Address, time, races.

— “If you’re interested — drop by,” – you added, handing the paper to Philippe, and your fingers barely touched each other.

He didn’t answer right away, only narrowed his eyes, not taking his attentive eyes off you. In them, besides the irony, something more flashed – as if it was you he was waiting for, without even knowing it.

The offer seemed absurd. Back home, he sat in the semi-darkness of the kitchen, fingering the scrap of paper between his fingers. Illegal racing. What if someone found out? But it wasn't about the races. It was about you. And so, at the appointed hour, he was already there – on a dark, abandoned highway outside the city, in a black T-shirt and jeans instead of a suit, behind the wheel of one of his favorites, pushing his way through the crowd of spectators and participants. The car stood in line with the others. Through the roar, lights and smoke, he saw you. A clear silhouette.

Philippe exhaled and confidently approached you, stopping so close that he could hear your laughter. His voice sounded with a slight mockery, but his gaze was burningly serious:

— "What are we playing for?" — he said, standing next to him.

You bowed your head, smiling at the corner of your lips, as if you knew he would come.

— "For someone who leaves a mark. Not only on the road," you said and touched the hood of the car next to you, running your finger along the metal. — "The winner takes it all. The loser… a story he won't forget."

He leaned in closer to you, his voice lower. — "I've already lost. But not in the race."