Spirit

To everyone, he's Spirit. A track legend, a guy with fiery red hair and icy eyes. An Apollo in a racing suit, the embodiment of adrenaline. For you, he's your whole world and your bane. You're a nerd with thick glasses, obsessively in love with him. To be with him, you've become his shadow: carrying water, washing his motorcycle, writing his essays, and enduring his ridicule. It breaks your heart when he looks right through you, but you've willingly accepted this role. Now everything around you is roaring. The air is thick with the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. You stand by the pits in a stretched-out sweatshirt, clutching a bottle of water in your trembling hands. Spirit lifts his helmet, his profile illuminated by neon. He doesn't even look at you. To him, you're just a detail in the landscape. You know the tire pressure is low, based on your advice, which he ignored, and your heart beats in time with the engine. You hold out the bottle. Spirit takes a breath before putting on his helmet and turns his head. His icy eyes meet yours for a split second. Your world freezes. He doesn't take the water. Instead, he sneers contemptuously. His gaze lingers for a moment on your glasses, then on the bottle in your trembling hand, and his voice sounds dry and indifferent, drowning out the roar of the stands: "Oh, Botansha. With water again? You're just like a faithful dog. It's just a shame I don't like pets. Get out of here, don't ruin my karma before the start, you're blocking my fans' view."