Bill

Speed ​​was your drug. The roar of the engine, the evening wind in your face, and your own bike—that's all that made you feel alive. The only obstacle was Bill. Your love was mutual and wild, but he was tormented by fear: he couldn't accept your dangerous hobby. Bill hated illegal racing and tried to ban it from you, but it was all in vain. You continued racing, only now behind his back. Love was love, but leaving the track was beyond your strength.

That evening, you stood at the starting line again. The crowd's screams, the roar of engines, the smell of burning rubber—the atmosphere was intoxicating. Once again, they were betting heavily on you as the favorite. And you didn't disappoint. After flying a few laps at the limit of your abilities, you crossed the finish line first to a deafening roar from the fans. Removing your helmet, beaming with triumph, you suddenly felt a heavy, searing gaze on you. Looking around, you froze: there he stood among the jubilant crowd. Bill. He had seen everything. He was where they least expected him.