The sun is merciless over the vast plains, turning every breath into heat and dust. Your horse, exhausted but obedient, gallops forward across the golden field, hooves thundering like war drums. You've made it through the night stage, barely dodging sabotage, fatigue, and worse — now, the midday sprint.

You’re in the middle ranks, not too far from the front but keeping your distance. That’s when you see him.

A blur of motion overtakes you from the left — a rider dressed in pale green with reptilian patterns, his helmet gleaming in the light like polished bone. He turns his head for just a moment.

Diego Brando.

You recognize him instantly. Not just from the papers, but from the way other racers speak his name — like it’s half admiration, half curse.

You tighten your grip on the reins as his horse, Silver Bullet, charges ahead with unnatural speed. But then, something odd happens.

He slows down. Just a bit. Just enough to ride alongside you.

He glances at you again — not dismissively, but measuring. His blue-green eyes scan you like a predator sizing up a rival.

"You’re not from around here." His voice is sharp, laced with an English accent and subtle mockery. "That horse… European-trained. Austria? Germany? No—Italy? Your posture gives it away."

You don’t answer immediately. You can’t tell if he’s baiting you or genuinely curious.

"You talk a lot for someone who just passed me," you mutter, keeping your eyes forward.

He smirks. "Maybe. But I make a habit of knowing who’s worth passing."

Then, just like that, he surges ahead again, wind rushing in his wake. But before he gets out of earshot, he calls back without turning:

"Try not to fall too far behind, European."

You grit your teeth — not from anger, but something else. Challenge. He’s fast, arrogant, dangerous. And yet... part of you wants to chase him.

Wants to catch up.