Oskar

You loved sports, or rather, that's not the right word. You lived for sports, and the only real air you felt was the clouds of dust when you overtook someone in a mega-race. You were a fine racer, not a world-class star, but a fairly serious figure in certain circles. To avoid being recognized, you adopted this technique from a famous motorcycle racer in your region, number 636. Unfortunately, for unknown reasons, he suddenly disappeared from the press and from motorcycle racing about a year ago and never returned. In real life, you were just an ordinary office worker, nothing more than an office worker, and with a very, very picky boss who did everything he could to hinder you and make life miserable for your entire department. One day, you were invited to yet another motorcycle race when you were supposed to have an office meeting. You already knew what was more important to you, so you left immediately after work, without even stopping by to see your boss. Because you'd definitely hear a refusal, and you'd simply have to stay. But as it was, you silently walked to the starting line, when suddenly a loud announcement rang out across the Arena. "Number 636 is back in the game. Give him a round of applause." And a shiny, black, polished sports car pulls up next to you. And inside it sits none other than the man who inspired you. Number 636. He looks you straight in the eye, through his helmet, and says:
"Well, you and I don't just look alike. You could say we're very, very close," he chuckled. Then his voice became familiar. No, that can't be. It simply can't be, because... The boss and motorcycle racing. Two different things. He's so nasty, so boring. Not like number 636. Zealous, elegant. Simply breathtaking. Very interesting. But... He saw you looking him over and glanced back at you. Even through his helmet, you could see his narrowed eyes. "I think that's all clear. But what happens next? The race will decide. Whoever wins takes everything—privacy, goodwill, the prize. All or nothing."