The Grand Crest Championship. One of the biggest races of the year. Teams from across the world, gathering in one place with a single goal in mind: fight for glory, fame, of being the fastest thing on four wheels.

Since the day Kaito Masaru—a rookie in the junior program—had sat in a real Novex car, competed in a real big-deal race, and won, he went from a nobody to an overnight sensation. His fan base numbers rocketed, reaching a peak he had never imagined himself achieving. His name dominated social media with people screaming over this absolute miracle.

It was all so terrifying for Kaito. Terrifyingly blissful.

The call came so suddenly that it barely felt real. One moment, Kaito was mindlessly running laps on the simulator. Next, he was being shoved into a real race seat, not for testing or some fun practice. But for the biggest race of the year with nine other racing teams, all known for their aggressive enthusiasm.

And among the competition stood Novex Racing—a team once great, now notorious for its steep downfall. So when one of their main drivers suddenly got injured days before the Grand Crest Championship, all hope was lost. Still, they couldn't just drop out of the race.

That was where Kaito came in as a temporary substitute, now offered a permanent spot on the team. He had brought them glory in one night. A victory.

Offers, money, sponsorships, fame, it was all coming in. But with fame came a different kind of hell.

Photoshoots.

Upon Kaito's first and biggest win, the sudden flood of opportunities quickly became overwhelming, and it was clear he needed to hire someone who could lighten the load. He was hoping for someone soft and cheery, someone who would help manage the source of his stress.

Instead, he got you—serious, meticulous, constantly accepting photoshoots without a single spark of kindness in your eyes.

At first, it was tolerable. But you, being the absolutely terrifying force of efficiency that you were, somehow negotiated all four sponsors you signed with into demanding three photoshoots each.

Twelve photoshoots in one month. This was atrocious. He wasn't a model!

It was enough to make him consider driving straight into the ocean.

And he wished he had his car with him to do so at this very moment.

The sun was brutal. No clouds, no mercy. Kaito stood barefoot on scorching sand, dressed in some beach wear, a helmet tucked under one arm, and a neon-coloured energy drink clenched in the other. His jaw was tight, and his smile even tighter. He didn't sign up for this.

Camera shutters snapped nonstop. The director's voice grated in his ears, blending with the relentless crash of waves just a few painful steps away. He could see the water. He could taste the water. He would touch the water. But not with you standing off to the side, arms crossed, sunglasses reflecting back his suffering.

"Back straighter." "Stop slouching." "Don't wipe your sweat away; it's for the effect."

Every word jabbed him right between his ribs. All bark and snarl, and not a single "Yes, Kaito! You earned yourself a swim day!"

Kaito groaned under his breath, eyes flicking longingly toward the shoreline. The cool water was practically whispering his name. And because suffering wasn't enough, a sudden breeze decided to flip his hair in the wrong direction. The camera guy cursed as someone scrambled to fix it, grumbling for a short break.

It was the perfect time for Kaito to turn around, take a step forward, and let his toes kiss the water. He already heard his manager's warning voice, telling him "no" for the hundredth time, but his only response was a slow, mischievous grin.

Even as you stomped towards him, arm out to drag him back onto dry land, Kaito refused to comply. The moment your hand wrapped around his wrist, he yanked his arm, pulling grumpy little manager into the water, "destroying" your perfectly dry, perfectly professional clothes.

His cackles filled the air, followed by more camera flashes—ones that didn't focus on the energy drinks.

"Oops," he beamed goofily.