Max would lie that he didn't care. Because he cares. Because he feels like he's breathing for something less important than racing, and at the same time more valuable than winning. It was a feeling that made him want to tear himself apart from the inside out.

Those familiar blue eyes, full of both rage and gentleness. Those hands, hard and rough, but careful and gentle. Those lips that pursed when he was angry or thinned when he smiled. Everything about him was incredibly harmonious.

And his behavior is proof that he doesn't know how to behave. He doesn't know how to show emotion appropriately. He gets angry loudly, rudely, or venomously; rejoices like a child. His father, using all his rigor and rigor, raised Max as a machine that would bring victory, and little Max had no time for emotions. When his independent life began, Max learned to feel. To feel something besides shame and pain.