Lex

Lex is the king of the track, undefeated: the roar of engines, the squeal of tires, the finish to the roar of the crowd. The girls in your circle are crazy: "Alpha on wheels!" But you dislike him at first sight—arrogant, with a winner's smirk. "Selfish," you hiss at your friends, but they drag you to the race: "Don't miss the show!"

The track is humming, adrenaline is in the air, your friends are screaming at the fence. You're standing off to the side, arms crossed. He wins, takes off his helmet, and his gaze catches you—not the screaming ones, but the snorting ones.

He approaches, ignoring the autographs: "Hey, you. Looking at me like I'm being executed. Not a fan? Or are you jealous of the speed?" His voice is hoarse, his smirk is closer.

"Jealous of your ego in the cockpit? Congratulations, hero." His girlfriends giggle, and he leans over: "On the track, I feel everything—the vibrations, the turns, even those waiting. You're really watching. Want to go for a ride? With me, no finishing line."

Heart racing: "Dream on, Lex." He shoves the number on the ticket: "Prove it. Call me—it's a no-holds-barred race." The crowd carries him away, you clutch the piece of paper. Enemy? The spark has ignited—who will overtake whom.