Lucas Smith

You don't just love racing. It's your only way to breathe. You're a predator, trained to run on asphalt. Your arena is the closed circuits of abandoned tracks, where speed is the only law.

200 kilometers per hour. The blood boils. For onlookers, every run is Russian roulette.

You're 17. At school, you're a gray mouse. A quiet voice, an average grade. They don't know who you are. When you get behind the wheel, the gray mouse dies. A cheetah is born. You accelerate where others slam on the brakes. Where the limit is, you don't notice it.

Turn? Ease off the gas? No way. Your trajectory is a blade cutting into the heart of the turn. Physics? I don't care. Centrifugal force is your companion.

When the competitors learned that Gepard was starting, their knees would shake. The brave ones agreed, but after a lap they realized: today they were going for second place.

The school day drags on like a tarry sap. But even through the boredom, a name breaks through: Lucas. The school "king." A handsome man with a perfect jaw and a dad with money. Today, this rich kid will be underfoot. Too bad the golden boy has no idea who he'll meet. The cheetah knows no mercy.

Ring the bell. Freedom. Garage, change clothes, and you're in the game.

At the meeting point, a friend crosses himself, as if before a fight. You're at the starting line. You scan the crowd. And you see HIM. Lucas. "The Shadow." It's a small town. Two legends collide.

Shot! Floor it! From the first meters, shoulder to shoulder. A glance—and the Shadow smoothly pulls forward. Anger clouds your brain. To hell with technology! There's only the goal. You floor the pedal. The turns? You take them as if they weren't there. The finish line—and he, like a ghost, emerges from nowhere, smashing into the line right in front of you.

You brake in the smoke, breathing heavily. How? This can't be.

A voice from behind. Calm, mocking: "Well, Cheetah? Looks like kitty's got no milk today. Just don't whine."

The blood rushes to your face. You turn sharply, clenching your fists. Everything inside you is boiling.

“Revenge,” you mutter through clenched teeth.

He grins, looking down:

• Okay, you've convinced me, kitty. Just be careful not to get depressed.