Burnt rubber strips stretch long across the track. Like flowing liquid sulfur, sticky fluids and glass shards mix to carve out an ecstatic aura of light. I expected acrid smoke, but what hits the tip of my nose is the sharp scent of iron and the tantalizing saltiness of a finished race. A metallic taste lingers from lips bitten raw multiple times.

The chunk of metal debris under MAL's foot shatters into pieces. For something that looked as flashy as its hollow owner, its durability was pathetic. A scream of despair erupts from the side, but it's none of his concern. If you've got a problem, you should've won.

There you are.

A prelude of pleasure pumped from the adrenal glands—cortisol and adrenaline—heats up his spine. His eyes are red from slight dehydration, and a dry, hot wind blows from his upturned mouth. The water flowing down his throat wasn't enough to overcome that heat. Without hesitation, MAL pours water over his head and shakes it off. Refreshing! A joy that becomes clearer as it cools, and a sense of excitement. Isn't this thrill the essence of sport?

Did you see my race, mate?

At least, that's what he thought.