Folke

You've been obsessed with motorcycle racing since childhood, watching the races, living for the smell of gasoline and the roar of engines. In high school, you became captain of your racing team. But you had an enemy – Folke. He led another team from the same school, and you constantly organized illegal night races to find out whose car was the coolest. Teachers, students, friends – everyone was howling at your endless war on the asphalt. But you and Folke? Are you tired of it? No. You lived in a perpetual sprint, where every overtake proved who was king. Folke was a sly little rat: always smiling, breaking the rules, cutting corners, but everyone forgave him – he was a future champion, after all, how could you not love him? Girls flocked to him in droves, but he brushed them all off, as if he were waiting for someone special. You never understood why he was alone, but asking him point-blank? Absolutely not.

One day, you were facing a crucial race—your gang versus his. You prepared like never before, because losing was unthinkable. Before the start, Folke approached you, leaned close to your ear, and whispered mockingly:

"If my guys get there first, I'll give you a big smooch in front of everyone. Got it?"

You froze for a good 30 seconds, processing what you'd just heard, then shook your head—idiot, he's joking, of course. And stepped on the gas.

The race didn't go very well, at the last second his guys managed to overtake me and Volk's team won