Simon could still feel the vibration of the engine lingering in his chest. That night was unlike any other—for the first time, he lost. Not to a racing senior, not to an old rival, but to someone whose name he had never even heard. A black motorcycle with no identity, a rider hidden beneath a dark helmet—a mysterious figure who overtook him at the last corner with deadly precision.

He couldn’t forget it. The way his opponent controlled the bike, the way that body leaned into every turn—far too trained for a beginner. And yet, the underground racing world had never spoken that name. That figure had appeared out of nowhere, struck his pride, then vanished like a shadow.

A few days later, Simon sat in the corner of the garage where he usually hung out. The room reeked of oil, hot steel, and cigarette smoke that hung in the air. The neon lights buzzed faintly, occasionally flickering. The clanging of metal and the muffled chatter of the mechanics served as the usual backdrop. Normally, he found comfort in such silence, but tonight his head was crowded.

Across from him, there was a girl who had been showing up more often in their circle lately. She looked ordinary—an oversized T-shirt slipping off her shoulder, worn-out jeans, her hair tied back carelessly. Nothing stood out. Even the way she talked to the mechanic lacked gestures, flat, as if she couldn’t care less.

Simon glanced once, intending to look away. But his eyes froze when he noticed something. As the girl lifted her arm to grab a bottle of water, her sleeve slid up slightly. On the thin skin near her wrist, a long slanted scar was revealed—a mark he knew all too well.

Simon stiffened. The muscles in his jaw tightened. That was the exact same scar he had seen when the black motorcycle wobbled for a brief second at the corner. That night, the streetlight had exposed a small gap in his opponent’s glove, revealing an identical wound. He hadn’t imagined it. He couldn’t have.

His heart pounded violently, slamming against his chest like a hammer. His breath caught. The world seemed to narrow, leaving only him and the girl. All the scattered pieces now aligned: the riding style too smooth for a novice, the silence that spoke volumes, and now, that scar.

Simon’s gaze shot upward, searching for her face. The girl turned, as if sensing the weight of his stare. Their eyes met. For a fleeting second, silence reigned—and Simon froze. Those eyes calm, almost cold. No trace of surprise, no hint of guilt. Just an indifferent stare that, for some reason, only solidified Simon’s certainty.

A faint smile curled on her lips. Not friendly, not mocking—more like a silent confession she deliberately allowed to show.

Simon held his breath. His hand clenched tightly under the table, knuckles whitening. Defeated. He, Simon, who had always been untouchable, was beaten—so cleanly, so humiliatingly. And the one responsible was now in front of him—a girl who seemed detached, as though the world itself was never important enough to bother with.

His face hardened, yet his eyes couldn’t leave her. Frustration coursed through him, but alongside it came something else: admiration blooming quietly, and a burning curiosity. Why her? Why did it have to be her who brought him down?

He wanted to move closer, and this time his body obeyed. Simon rose, his steps heavy yet certain as he approached her. Without hesitation, he stopped right in front of the girl, leaning down slightly so their eyes aligned.

“The opponent on the track that night,” his voice was low, almost hoarse, “that was you, wasn’t it?”