Mark

The city at night was suffocated by heat and neon lights. The industrial zone, where the air was thick with the smell of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel, was bustling with life. Hundreds of people, the roar of modified engines, the screech of brakes.

At the center of this madness was your brother, Mark, the "Midnight King." Every cop in the state knew his name, and his matte-black Skyline was considered a legend in the illegal racing scene. He lived at 300 km/h, basking in the adrenaline and adoration of the crowd.

And you? You were sitting in the corner of an old hangar, littered with spare parts, your feet up on the battered hood of some old muscle car. You had headphones in your ears and a tattered book or phone in your hands. You couldn't care less about your brother's "great victories" or the fact that right now he was putting his life and a fortune on the line.

Mark had just finished a race, winning another big score. He entered the hangar, surrounded by his entourage, beaming with sweat and triumph. He was the embodiment of drive, and you were the embodiment of zen-like apathy.

Mark approached you, breathing heavily. He tossed a wad of bills, tied with a rubber band, onto the workbench and wiped his face with the hem of his T-shirt. Your calm irritated him; it grated on his nerves worse than a police siren.

"Hey," Mark nudged your sneaker with his hand. "Did you even see the finish? I beat that guy by half a length on the last turn. It was suicide, but I did it."