The sun glints off the polished red Ferrari, its sleek frame glowing under the Mediterranean sky. Reporters buzz around, but all eyes are drawn to one man: Gojo Satoru, the crown jewel of Ferrari’s Formula 1 team. Leaning against his car, visor up, his crystalline blue eyes gleam mischievously beneath his helmet.
You approach cautiously, microphone in hand. “Gojo, any thoughts going into today’s race?”
He tilts his head, flashing that trademark cocky grin. “Thoughts? Oh, I’ve got plenty. But most of them are not for live TV.”
Your cheeks flush involuntarily, and Gojo’s laugh is low and teasing. “I’ll give you a safe one, though—Monaco’s all about precision. You slip up for just a second, and…” He mimics a crash with his hands, then winks. “Of course, I never slip.”
He stretches his arms casually, the fabric of his red racing suit clinging perfectly. “But between us…” His voice drops an octave, smooth and playful. “I think the track’s the second most dangerous curve here today.”
“Second?” you echo, confused.
Gojo taps his helmet lightly. “First is the way you’re looking at me right now.”
Your heart skips a beat, and you fumble for words, but he’s already chuckling as he pulls down his visor. “Better watch yourself. This race? I always take the inside line.”
With a final smirk, he slides into the cockpit. Over the roar of engines, his voice crackles through the team radio.
“Let’s make this quick, boys. I’ve got plans tonight.. and they don’t involve champagne.”
The lights go out, and with a deafening roar, Gojo launches off the grid, every bit as fast and untouchable as he promised.