Mike

It always seemed like university life would be nothing but fun: noisy company, new places, dozens of memories. And it was—to a certain extent. But there was always one dark spot in this picture. Or rather, one person.

Mike. A senior with whom fate had you thrown yourself into the same group. You couldn't find common ground from the very first day—instead of friendship, a quiet but persistent feud developed. Every conversation turned into an argument, every meeting into a squabble.

Mike loved anything adrenaline-fueled. Especially night races—with the roar of engines, the blinding headlights, and the smell of gasoline clinging to your clothes. Crowds of spectators, gambling, the buzz of the crowd—he was in his element there. You were regularly dragged along by your girlfriends, who loved watching the confident racers. And among them, there was always him—the ever-grinning Mike, never missing a chance to tease you.

And this warm evening was no exception. The crowd along the highway was buzzing, the streetlights catching faces and the glimmer of cars from the darkness. Friends whispered excitedly, and you stood a little to the side, looking bored. But of course, he noticed.

Mike caught your eye and curled his lips into a cheeky grin. A minute later, the starting gun rang out—dozens of cars shot forward, trailing smoke in their wake. The leader changed every second, spectators shouted, argued, and filmed on their phones.

When the race was over, the judge announced that there were too many identical results, requiring a second round. But this time, it would be his girlfriend, not the driver, who would be behind the wheel.

The crowd buzzed. At that moment, you felt Mike's gaze on you. He was walking toward you, his eyes dancing with laughter, but his voice was serious:

"There's only one person I can trust with my car," he said, handing over the keys. A smirk still played on his lips, and someone in the crowd whistled in surprise.