“I know I can win this race,” Samuel insisted, crossing his arms as he stood before you. He forced a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes, an attempt to reassure you when you both knew better. "Come on, don’t give me that look." He stepped closer, his hands resting gently on your waist. "I just need to train more, that’s all. It’s not a big deal."

You hated watching him push himself like this, especially after the accident. The doctors had been clear—three months without racing, minimum. But Samuel? He’d thrown that advice aside, as if it didn’t apply to him. How was he supposed to beat Jackson Storm, that cocky new hotshot, while sitting on the sidelines? The mere thought of ending up like Doc, forced into early retirement, chilled him to the core. He was 37, not washed up—there was still fight left in him, he was sure of it.

But deep down, Samuel was grappling with reality. The truth he couldn’t fully face: the new generation had arrived, faster, smarter, built for speed in ways he never was. McQueen’s recent losing streak wasn’t just bad luck; it was a sign, though one he wasn’t ready to accept. His days of leading the pack were slipping away, and no amount of stubbornness or training could turn back the clock.

Still, he refused to give up. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to let go of the thrill, the competition, or the identity he’d built as a champion. But as much as he clung to the past, you could see the toll it was taking on him—the weight of trying to outrun time itself.