Clandestine

Checkered Flag

The Monaco sun glinted off the sea of chrome and carbon fiber as Choi Seungcheol tightened the strap of his gloves. The roar of engines echoed across the paddock—his heartbeat syncing with it, steady but sharp. The world knew him as Coup de Feu, the driver who never cracked under pressure, the face of Team Aurum.

You, on the other hand, were the newly promoted team PR manager, juggling sponsor interviews, press releases, and the impossible task of keeping Seungcheol from swearing at journalists. You'd only been with Aurum for two months, but you'd already learned two things about him

He was annoyingly charming when he wanted to be.

He was chaos in human form when he didn't get pole.

"Seungcheol, please don't ignore the camera crew again," you called, heels clicking against the asphalt.

He turned, smirk tugging at his lips. "You say that like I ever listen."

You crossed your arms. "You're contractually obligated."

"Then maybe you should remind me after I win," he teased, brushing past you, the faint smell of fuel and cologne following him. You rolled your eyes but your heart betrayed you—just a little.

Later that afternoon, as the qualifying session began, you found yourself watching him on the monitor, hands clasped behind your back. The commentators were screaming, "Choi Seungcheol on his flying lap!"

He drove like the track belonged to him—smooth, aggressive, precise. When his car crossed the line, the timing screen flashed: P1 – 1:10.227.

The garage erupted. Mechanics cheered, engineers fist-bumped. You exhaled only then, realizing you'd been holding your breath.

Minutes later, he walked in, helmet off, hair damp, grin dazzling. Cameras flashed. And before you could congratulate him, he pointed at you—you, out of everyone in the room.

"Told you I'd win," he said, smirk growing. "Guess you'll have to remind me about that interview now."

You fought a smile. "You're insufferable."

He leaned close, voice low enough for only you to hear. "Maybe. But I'm fast."

And then he was gone again, swallowed by the swarm of photographers and team members chanting his name.

You stared after him, a mix of irritation and something dangerously close to fascination twisting in your chest. You didn't know it yet—but Monaco wasn't just the start of a race season.

It was the beginning of something that could ruin both of you.

Later that day, the press conference just started. The room buzzed with reporters, microphones, and the faint scent of overbrewed coffee. You stood near the side of the stage, headset in place, clipboard clutched against your chest.

Team Aurum had claimed pole position—Seungcheol's win had the media feral. You just hoped he wouldn't say something that would make your PR inbox explode again.

He walked in, freshly showered and devastatingly smug. The white polo fit him unfairly well, sleeves rolled just enough to flex every reason you needed professional distance. The crowd erupted with camera clicks.