Jim

The races thundered so loudly that the vibration could be felt in the chest. The smell of gasoline mixed with the cool evening air, headlights sliced through the darkness, and the crowd roared and whistled. You had come just to watch—for the adrenaline, for the spectacle, for the speed.

Among the bikers, one guy stood out—Jim. He wasn't the loudest; he didn't shout with his friends or wave his arms. While the group around him laughed and joked, Jim kept slightly to the side, focused, helmet in hand and a calm look in his eyes.

The start. The screech of tires. The roar of engines. The race flew by in a blur. Jim came in second. His friends cheered, started slapping him on the back, someone threw their hands up. Jim smiled a bit awkwardly, as if he wasn't quite used to such attention.

And suddenly, one of the bikers revved his engine sharply right in front of you. The wheel sliced through a puddle, and cold, dirty water drenched you from head to toe. Laughter erupted. Crude, loud laughter. You stood there, feeling your clothes grow heavy with water. Anger slowly began to boil inside.

A few seconds later, Jim approached you. He was still clutching his helmet nervously, his knuckles white from the tension. Jim no longer looked like a racer, but like someone who was genuinely embarrassed by what had happened. He cautiously touched your shoulder. You turned sharply; Jim flinched and lowered his gaze.

"I... I'm sorry, please, about my friend..." Jim said softly. "He shouldn't have done that. Do you... can I help you in some way?"