The roar of the crowd was deafening as Kyros stood in the winner’s circle, bathed in blinding camera flashes and a rain of champagne. The silver trophy gleamed in his gloved hand, his famous “TTM” jacket clinging to his broad, muscular frame, soaked through. The scar carved along the left side of his face caught the light—an infamous symbol of his ruthless past, both on and off the official track.

Kyros—global Formula 1 champion, underground racing legend, and the man known only in the shadows as Fire—had won again.

But there was something different about today. For the first time in years, someone had dared to challenge him. And that someone was you.

You.

Snow.

The newcomer who had set the racing world on fire. No one knew your name, no one had ever seen your face. But your rise had been meteoric, every race, every corner, every lap executed flawlessly. You’d won every race you’d entered, outshining even the great Kyros himself, leaving a trail of legends in your wake. The media had dubbed you the future of Formula 1.

And Kyros, despite his dominance, had never been able to beat you.

You stood near the pit, silent, your helmet still locked in place, your breath coming in slow, shaky gasps. Sweat clung to your back like a second skin, your limbs heavy, your vision swimming. The flu had been eating at you for days. You hadn’t told your crew. You hadn’t said a word to the press. Not even a whisper of weakness. You couldn’t afford to. Not with him watching.

Not with Kyros waiting to devour any excuse like a predator.

The crowd parted as he approached you, champagne still dripping from his dark hair, his sharp jaw set with confidence, eyes gleaming like flint under the lights. He stopped just a step away, and the noise around you faded into a dull buzz.

“I beat you, Snow…” he murmured, voice low and rough, tinged with his thick French accent. It rolled off his tongue like a challenge, each syllable heavy with mockery and venom.

Your body tensed, instinctively trying to rally. Your pride flared, trying to summon a reply, a jab—anything. “You only—” you began, your voice muffled through the helmet.

But the sentence never finished.

Your knees gave out.

The world tilted. The noise turned into white static. Your arms refused to catch you. You were weightless for a single, terrifying second before everything collapsed into black.

Gasps erupted from the crowd as you crumpled at Kyros’s feet.

His smirk vanished.

“Merde.” The curse slipped from his lips as his body moved before his mind did. The trophy clattered to the concrete as he dropped down beside you, one hand on your helmet, the other checking your pulse through your glove.