✓ UNLIKELY MATCH | HEESEUNG

45 - Tokyo Belongs To Me

HEESEUNG'S POV

Race day is finally here, a day that feels both monumental and utterly meaningless. It's early in the morning when I get out of bed and take a shower, letting the water soothe my aching muscles as it falls down my frame. I close my eyes, throw my head back and let the cascading water wash away the tension clinging to me like a second skin. But the tension isn't just physical.

I finish my shower, the ritual providing little comfort, and dry off before dressing in my racing suit. The routine feels mechanistic, a pre-race ritual performed countless times before. Yet, this time, the red fabric feels heavy and I don't feel the usual confidence that comes with slipping into my second skin. The fire that usually ignites in my gut for every competition feels like a dying ember. Instead, a cold dread settles in my stomach, and it's so damn hard to shake off. 

"Ready?" Lorenzo waits for me in the lobby when I make my way downstairs. His eyes search mine, looking for any sign of the fierce competitor he knows so well. I manage a nod, but it's more out of habit than actual readiness.

"Almost," I manage, my voice rough. The lie sticks in my throat, a bitter pill I can't quite swallow. Ready? Nowhere near it. But there's no turning back now. 

The drive to the circuit is filled with the usual chatter from Lorenzo, but I barely hear him. I'm so consumed by my own feelings that I fail to engage in the conversation. Tokyo's circuit is not so far from the usual tracks I dominate, but it's tighter, more technical, demanding precision over raw power. I spent hours studying and analyzing every corner, every braking point, every possible overtaking opportunity this unforgiving track presents. Junseok will have a hard time adapting to this track, that's for sure, and I'll have the time of my life enjoying him losing control of his car. 

"Remember, Ferrari just needs a win. It doesn't matter who from the two of you crosses the line first," Lorenzo speaks and I roll my eyes, staring outside the window and at the vibrant Tokyo skyline. It's a warning I choose to ignore because I'm not about to eat his dust and I'm not about to let him win after what he's done to me. I haven't had the time to fully process the fact that he almost murdered me, but it doesn't mean I forgot. "Don't underestimate him. He's hungry for a win and hungry drivers are dangerous drivers." 

"Let him be hungry," A wry smile touches my lips. "I bet he'll choke on it when he sees me in his rearview mirror the entire race." Maybe a little payback is due. Maybe I'll make him end up eating his own exhaust fumes. What can I say? Revenge is a seductive fantasy. 

"No penalties, Heeseung," I nod curtly, folding my arms across my chest while I lean against my seat. No penalties does not mean no attempts at payback. I might not be able to push him off the track, but I can certainly push him to make a mistake. 

As we pull into the paddock, the unfamiliar layout unfolds before me. The Tokyo circuit twists and turns like a concrete dragon. Gone are the long, sweeping corners that allow for bursts of raw speed; here, precision and strategy reign and I'm absolutely pumped. This track is about to bow down to me.

"Nice crowd," Lorenzo mutters from beside me as we make our way past Junseok and towards the pit crew. "Remember, true victory comes not just from winning the race, but from winning respect."

His words settle in my gut as I nod, the sight of my car making me smile. She shines under the harsh stadium lights, a magnificent beast I've spent countless hours taming. She's perfect, an extension of myself dressed in a red that screams defiance. It's not the arrogant, attention-grabbing red of my past victories, but a deeper, richer crimson—the color of hard-won control and calculated aggression. This red speaks not of reckless speed, but of focused precision, a reflection of the driver I am now.

The pit crew stand around the car, checking it for one last time before they let me unleash the beast. I get inside, sink into the familiar embrace of the seat, and let out a focused breath. The roar of the engine as Lorenzo fires it up vibrates through my core and my gloved fingers tighten around the steering wheel, the crimson glowing through the paddock. 

The cars are lined up on the starting grid, each one a sleek and powerful machine poised for battle. The countdown begins, each second ticking away with agonizing slowness. My heart pounds in my chest, the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I await the signal. And then, finally, it comes. The lights flash green, and we're off.

The of acceleration is exhilarating as I push the car to its limits, navigating the twists and turns of the track with precision and skill. I didn't spend hours memorizing the track layout for nothing. Every corner is etched into my muscle memory. Junseok throws his car into the lead at the start, but his aggression is sloppy, his lines wide. I exploit these openings, a silent predator stalking its prey. 

"Be careful," Lorenzo says on the radio. "He's desperate and might pull something reckless." 

"It's the least of my worries. He won't win this way," I reply through the mic. Lorenzo's concern is valid, but right now, I'm in the zone. Every twitch of the steering wheel, every tap of the brakes feels like an extension of myself. The car and I are one, a blur of red cutting through the track. 

Junseok's aggression becomes increasingly erratic. He lunges for overtaking opportunities that aren't there, his tires screaming in protest. It's a desperate attempt to regain the lead, but it also leaves him vulnerable. I see my chance on a tight chicane. He brakes too late, locking up his wheels and going wide. This is it. I dive into the gap he's created, the car taking the corner perfectly, hugging the inside line with laser focus. The crowd cheers as the lead finally becomes mine. 

The next few laps become a blur. And then, with a final, heart-stopping turn, the checkered flag comes into view. The finish line is a mere breath away and I accelerate, pushing the car to its absolute limit. It groans in protest but responds like the finely tuned machine it is. 

Climbing out of the cockpit, I'm greeted by a different kind of hero's welcome. The cheers make my heart beat faster and Lorenzo and the crew pit run to me, their faces alight with pride and excitement. Lorenzo is the first to reach me, pulling me into a tight embrace that speaks volumes without a single word exchanged. The rest of the crew surrounds us, their jubilant shouts drowning out the roar of the crowd.

"You did it, mate!" They exclaim, slapping me on the back with a force that would leave a lesser driver winded. Even through the haze of exhaustion, a genuine laugh escapes my lips. This isn't just my victory; it's theirs too. Hours spent in the garage, late nights strategizing, countless tweaks and adjustments—it all culminated in this moment, this shared triumph.

"Yeah," I reply, the words catching in my throat. "We did it."

I'm on top of the world. Jay, Sunghoon and Jake make their way through the crowd and they throw their arms around me in a group hug, their usual coolness replaced by a joyous mess of limbs and hair. Laughter erupts from the pile, a sound raw and genuine. These guys, my best friends since we were kids dreaming of racing glory, understand the journey better than anyone. And it's what makes this victory all better. 

"Dude, that was epic!" "Man, you're a freaking legend!" "I knew you could do it!"

Their word fade away into the background when, somewhere in the sea of faces, I spot her. She's standing there, her eyes locking with mine and I suddenly can't breathe, can't think straight, can't do anything but stare at her as if the world has shrunk to just the two of us. 

Because, before she knows it, I grab her hand and make her turn to me, my eyes wide open, my heart hammering against my ribcage. "Sena," I breathe her name like a plea and look into her teary eyes, my brain trying to process that she's here. My woman is here, witnessing my victory and I don't care about the world around us as I pull her closer, cupping her cheeks before our lips meet and I kiss her so desperately I could suck the air right out of her lungs.

And the pieces of my shattered heart click back into place when her arms snake around my neck, pulling me closer, her tears mingling with the salt sweat on my face. My woman is here and winning the race pales in comparison to the victory I now hold in my arms.