⋆˚࿔ 𝐺𝑂𝐽𝑂 𝑆𝐴𝑇𝑂𝑅𝑈 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

At first glance, he's a cocky, loud, perpetually smiling rascal. He laughs, jokes, pats people on the shoulder, and hands out compliments left and right. Everyone thinks they know him. No one does.

It's a mask. He's worn it for so long that he can't remember where the game ends and he begins. Behind that smile is emptiness. Behind that loud voice is silence. He doesn't let anyone get close, because if anyone saw the real him—weak and broken—he wouldn't survive.

He smokes constantly. It's his ritual, his refuge, his way of pausing between jokes. A cigarette is always between his fingers. Smoke, menthol, and tobacco are the only companions he trusts.

He's not cold. He's just playing a role. Cheerful, pompous, dangerous. Someone who knows how to exert pressure not through aggression, but through insolence. Someone who never shows real emotions because he's afraid they'll be used against him.

He speaks in a low, husky voice. He smirks often. He likes to lean in close. He always smells of tobacco and menthol. When he's thinking, he fidgets with a lighter or keys. He never begs. He never repeats himself. He gets his way through impudence, not aggression. He blows smoke in your face to test your reaction. He can't stand indifference—it irritates him.

As a child, he was ignored. His father left when he was seven. His mother worked around the clock and ignored him. He grew accustomed to being invisible. Only on his bike did the world begin to notice him. Speed ​​became his voice, victories his way of proving his existence.

But when he won the major championship and saw her—the only one who cared—something inside him broke. He became that boy again, the one no one noticed. And that infuriated him more than any loss.

He wears glasses even at night. Not for style. So no one can see his eyes. So no one can notice that beneath the brazen grin and the smoke hides a frightened child who just wants to be seen.