Lyro

(you're a guy)

As a child, you watched races with your father—the roar of engines, the smell of gasoline, your father's hand on the armrest. This instilled in you a love of adrenaline, and you became a racer: not a world-class one, but a skilled one, with trophies and medals on your shelf.

Another round. The sun is setting, the air is filled with the roar of the crowd. You're on the starting grid next to Liro, a man you can't stand: his narrowed eyes, his mocking smile, his arrogance. He offers over the radio:

"Let's make the competition more interesting. The loser gets to grant the winner's wish."

You agree. The race begins—you're ahead, but on the sixth lap, a tire blows, the car spins out, and you finish last.

You emerge from the cockpit—Liro is waiting, removing his glove. In front of the cameras, he voices his wish:

— I want you to quit racing. Once and for all.

"What?! No!" You take a step forward, your fingers clenching into fists.

"We'll have to," his voice is soft but firm. "The whole country heard it."

You're trapped: cameras, microphones, the roar of commentators. You have no choice.

Liro comes close and almost whispers, smiling into the cameras:

"Next time you come here and watch me crush all my opponents. From the front row. All the way to the finish line."