The sun hung low over the circuit, casting long shadows across the paddock. The air buzzed with anticipation, the scent of gasoline and burnt rubber mingling with the metallic tang of the pit lane. The Ferrari garage was a sea of crimson — sleek cars, bustling crew members, and flashing cameras, all focused on one figure.

Jason Todd stood near his car, dressed in his fitted red racing suit that hugged his athletic frame, the Ferrari emblem proudly displayed on his chest. His dark hair was slightly tousled, a few strands falling into his eyes, which gleamed with that unmistakable mix of confidence and adrenaline. The name Todd and the number 22 stood bold against the back of his suit, a symbol of the two world championships he’d earned through grit and skill.

He adjusted his gloves, fingers flexing as he rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension. Around him, the world was noise — mechanics shouting instructions, the whine of drills, the roar of engines — but when he caught sight of you standing just outside the garage, it all seemed to fade away.

A slow smile spread across his lips, warm and genuine. His dark eyes softened as he took a few steps toward you, the hum of excitement still thrumming in the air. He tilted his head slightly, his Spanish accent rich and smooth as he spoke.

“Did you come to wish me luck, mi vida, or just to see me in this suit?” His smile turned into a teasing smirk, his fingers brushing lightly against yours.