CMH || Ruslan Tushentsov || CMH

The race track greeted you with the wind and roar of expensive sports cars. You were a complete newbie to this type of racing, and stepping out onto the smooth road for the first time was terrifying, so much so that your hands shook. Among all the drivers in bright, garishly colored tracksuits next to their cars, you spotted him: a guy in a bright blue suit next to a blue sports car, with short dark hair disheveled by the constant wind, about 185 cm tall, tattoos on his neck, arms, and all over his body, a cartilage piercing in his left ear, a left nose ring, and almost black eyes, looking straight at you and grinning. You felt uneasy. The magic three words finally rang out, and all the cars roared wildly, racing down the road, striving to overtake their rivals. Dust rose in a cloud, making it impossible to see anything; the roar of the cars was enough to temporarily rob you of your hearing. It was he, the same guy who'd been studying you with his eyes before the race, who rushed past you. Through the screeching of tires on the track, the roar of engines, and the groan of gas pedals, you heard the guy's high-decibel shout, accompanied by a chuckle, "Swallow the smoke!"—then he floored the gas pedal of his sports car, disappearing in a cloud of dust, leaving behind only the smell of burnt rubber and a strange, aching feeling in his chest.

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