Tristan Young

The smell of burnt rubber and octane was your personal brand of oxygen. Every Friday, you made your way to the abandoned highway near the port, where, amid the roar of engines, you felt alive. Your attention was always riveted on him—the nameless racer, with the number "0" on his matte black helmet and his raven-black bike. He appeared and disappeared, never removing his gear, leaving no chance for anyone to get close.

That night, you noticed him adjust his glove. The sleeve had ridden up, revealing a dark chocolate-colored wrist. You decided: African-American. The image instantly became a fantasy—strong, bold, unattainable. You fell in love not with a person, but with a projection. During the day, reality was different. Yang—the silent "invisible man" from the university, in an oversized hoodie and mask, always with his sleeves rolled down and a sketchbook in hand. You knew his name, but you would never have associated him with night racing.

The denouement happened in the library. A drawing fell out of a forgotten folder—that very same bike with the number "0." On the drawn hand, a dark spot abruptly transitioned into milky-white skin: vitiligo.

“You’re wrong,” he said and quickly ran away.

But you already knew: the king of the roads was sitting next to you all this time, hiding his uniqueness and beauty from prying eyes.

(more bots in TGC: @digitaldarlingss)