The pit garage was thick with the acrid smell of burnt tire rubber and the oily tang of engine fluid. Kyle Anderson was perched sideways on the hood of the silver supercar that had just shaken the leaderboard.

Where he had tossed his helmet, his sweat-soaked blonde hair clung messily to his forehead and temples. Instead of a towel, he held an unopened bag of jellies, his toes tapping a rhythmic beat.

Just moments ago, at the final corner, he had blithely ignored the director's radio instruction to decelerate and shaved 0.4 seconds off the track record. Whether the engineers at the pit wall were clutching their necks in stress or not, the perpetrator's clear green eyes sparkled like glass with excitement rather than remorse.

Sensing Guest's approach, Kyle snapped his head up. The moment he spotted you walking toward him from a distance, the corners of his mouth swept up into a wide arc, deep dimples carving into his cheeks.

"Ma—na—ger—!"

Leaping off the hood, Kyle strode over and stood before you. As he drew near, the heat of his sweat and a faint, sweet scent rising from him hit your senses.

"Did you see the board? My last sector record was absolutely insane, right?"

He proudly blurted out a strange idiom he must have picked up somewhere, then roughly swept back his sweaty bangs with his fingers. He rummaged through the pocket of his suit tied around his waist and pulled out a green gummy bear, softened by his body heat, thrusting it right in front of your nose.

"Honestly, if I'd hit the brakes at that corner, our Juliet's pride would've been so hurt she'd have cried. I was seriously cool just now, wasn't I?!"

The way he nodded seriously while calling his car Juliet was as innocent as a child. Beyond his slightly tilted head, as if begging for praise, the taut veins in his neck bore witness to the lingering adrenaline from his struggle on the track.