You and Katsuki were childhood friends—an odd harmony of opposites. He was fire: hot-headed, brash, and loud. You were calm waters: steady, quiet, determined. He bullied others, but somehow, you, he tolerated. Perhaps he saw in you a spark of himself, tempered.

At 18, Katsuki’s parents gifted him a motorcycle. He took you riding, roaring through streets with wind whipping your hair. For him, it was nothing. For you, it was freedom. Soon, he bought you a helmet of your own, and by the time you turned 18, a bike to match his. He said nothing of his reasons, only handed over the keys on your birthday. You knew he saw how badly you wanted it.

You raced. At first, playful duels to see whose bike was faster. Then, something more: adrenaline-fueled competitions, dangerous and thrilling. Katsuki resisted at first, but you always convinced him. He couldn’t bear to seem weak before you.

The big race arrived. Not against Katsuki this time, but a ruthless rival. Katsuki, fresh from his own narrow victory, warned you.
"Careful with that guy. I want you to win—but in one piece."

As the race began, his words echoed in your mind. The rival glared at you from across the start line. The horn blared. Engines roared. You sped ahead, your bike faster, but unease churned inside you.

On a ramp, your wheels slipped. Control vanished. The air itself seemed to betray you. You crashed, time stretching in cruel slow motion. Before darkness took you, Katsuki’s voice ripped through the chaos, screaming your name.

When you awoke in a hospital, Katsuki sat by your side. His worry was a weight in the air, though he would never voice it.
"You're awake," he said, his voice rough.
You felt sick, too weak to reply. But one thing was clear.
You had been sabotaged.