Alex Woods

The roar of the crowd. Thousands of voices merging into one continuous rumble that makes the air vibrate. The smell of burnt rubber, asphalt, and adrenaline. The sun blazes over the grandstands, reflecting off the polished bodywork of the race cars lined up on the starting grid.

— "The season finale race continues! I'm Bob Catlos, and with me, as always, is my old friend Darrl Catry! We're into the second half of this historic day!" — "Oh, the pressure is overwhelming, Bob! If I get any more excited, you'll have to find a new partner!" — Darrl's voice trembles with excitement; he's clearly not joking. — "You're telling me! We have three contenders tied for the points lead, and the winner of this race takes the championship title and the 'RACE_SEASON' Cup! Will Marcus Velez triumph before retiring from the big leagues?" — "Six-time champion! A legend! It'll be a shame to see him go… So many years on the track, so many victories…" — "No need to be sad, Darrl! Because we have Kaito Tanaka! For as long as I can remember, he's been breathing down Marcus's neck! Youth, hunger, talent! That guy was born to win!" — "Hey, you're forgetting about our surprise! Alex Woods! Or as fans like to call him — 'Shadow'! He earned that nickname for his sharp, almost invisible maneuvers on the track!" — "You know, I think this came as a surprise to everyone. An unknown rookie started his career as a dark horse, but now everyone knows who he is! Will he become the first rookie to win the Cup? A legend, a contender, and a rookie — three drivers, one champion!"

The race continues. Up ahead is the third turn. Tanaka is right on Velez's tail, but there's no room to pass. Side by side, speed over three hundred. Kaito jerks the steering wheel left — a feint, testing the reaction. Marcus shifts, blocking the line; his experience won't fall for a cheap trick. And in that moment, Tanaka slams the brakes. Why? There's nothing ahead. But behind…

The following driver doesn't react in time. His front wing slams into Kaito's wheel; Kaito jolts but holds the car together. But the other one… he's thrown sideways. A moment. Another impact. The screech of metal, grinding, a cloud of dust and debris. Someone slams into the barrier, someone else spins across the track. A pile-up of carbon fiber and rubber blocks the racing line.

— "Crash at turn three! Pile-up behind the leaders! What am I seeing, Darrl?! Alex is in that mess!"

— "Oh, no! There's no way out of that! Unless they come out in pieces!" — Darrl's voice cracks into a falsetto.

Alex's fingers shift gears with machine-gun speed, as if he's not driving the car but breathing through it. Steering wheel — hard right, then left, another jerk, full throttle, brake, full throttle again. He slides between smoking chassis like a needle between vertebrae, feeling gaps that shouldn't exist. Debris scratches his side panels, sparks fly past his mirrors, but he emerges from the dust cloud intact, as if he just stepped out of another dimension.

— "He made it through! A brilliant maneuver by Alex Woods! How did he do that?! That's simply incredible!"

The track opens up. Ahead are only Marcus and Tanaka. Alex floors it; the engine screams at its limit, the tachometer needle frozen in the red zone. He passes Tanaka on the outside — Tanaka doesn't even try to defend, too slow to notice the attack, too confident in his safety. Now Marcus. One overtake. One title. One step from immortality.

— "While the others head for the pits, Alex moves into the lead! But… wait! What's this?!"

— "Shadow isn't pitting!" — Darrl isn't commentating anymore; he's shouting. — "His team is telling him to come in! The engineers are begging him over the radio! His tires are destroyed; he's got one and a half laps left, and the tires… God, you can see the cord! He's on bare rubber!"

— "He can't hear them! Or he doesn't want to! Alex, come in! This is suicide!"

Alex doesn't want to hear. In his ears — only the roar of the engine and his own heartbeat, maxed out. He sees the checkered flag. He can almost feel it. Just a little more. Just a little bit more.

— "That's it, Darrl! One lap left, and Alex has a huge lead! Can he do it?"

— "Yes, the win is in the bag! Who would have thought? A rookie, a dark horse, a nobody — and suddenly… It looks like we have a new champion! Alex 'Shadow' Woods!"

Final turn. Speed — 320 kilometers per hour. The left front wheel twitches. Another jerk. Alex pushes the pedal harder — he can't lose speed. Not now. Not when victory is in his grasp. He can already see the finish line, the checkered flag, the stands rising to their feet.

— "Oh, what's this?! Look!"

A crash that drowns out the engine. The left front tire shreds at 300 kilometers per hour. The car is thrown violently toward the barrier. Alex wrenches the steering wheel, trying to hold the car, but gravity is no longer on his side. Carbon fiber slams into the barrier with a terrible screech, audible even through his helmet. Sparks. A roll. Another impact. Silence.

— "Alex! Alex Woods has crashed! He didn't pit, and his tire blew on the final turn! This is… God, Darrl, this is a disaster!"

---

The TV above the counter wheezes, the image flickering. The smell of frying oil, cheap coffee, and gasoline from the trucks outside. Somewhere in the kitchen, Mary curses at the broken coffee maker.

Alex stands in the middle of the dining area, the broom frozen in his hand. The server's uniform hangs loose; his forearms are covered in fresh bruises from unloading a flour truck yesterday. He stares at the screen.

Marcus Velez, calm, almost tired, speaks:

"I rewatched his race. The one where he refused to change tires. You know what I thought? 'There's a guy who's never tasted asphalt before.' Now he has. He has talent. The question is whether he has time to not kill himself before he learns to use it."

Kaito Tanaka appears. Perfect hair, perfect suit, perfect smile. Eyes like ice.

"Your main rival, "Legend Marcus Velez?" — the reporter asks.

"Legend?" Kaito laughs. "Just an old man who doesn't realize his time is up. I didn't come to wait for the throne to empty. I came to burn it."

"What about Alex Woods?"

Kaito's smile widens. He leans toward the camera.

"Shadow? Oh, of course. He was a great driver. I hear he's working now… at a diner? Well, to each their own. I'm sure he makes a fantastic cup of coffee."

His eyes narrow.

"You know what's the funniest part? The old sponsors didn't even remember his name when they signed with me. I asked, 'What about that guy?' They looked at each other and said, 'What guy?'"

The smile doesn't waver.

"You're nobody now, Shadow. And I know you're watching this, loser!"

The broom hits the floor with a dull thud. Alex stands, breathing hard. His face is a mask of rage; his golden eyes blaze. His fists clench. For a moment, he looks ready to walk out, get in a car, and—

But there is no car. Only the old TV, the stench of frying oil, dirty plates, and a server's uniform that has become his skin.

He jabs the power button. The screen goes dark, reflecting his own gaunt, unshaven face.

"You fucking bastard," — his voice cracks. — "Fucking… son of a bitch."

He stands with his back to the room, shoulders raised, chest heaving. One phrase spins in his head like a broken record:

"You're nobody now, Shadow."

Then he turns.A customer sits at the window table. Waiting. Infuriatingly patient.

Alex meets their gaze — and something like shame flickers in his eyes before he looks away. He picks up the broom, sets it against the wall. Straightens his shirt — useless, it's ruined anyway. Runs his fingers through his hair. Then, pulling himself together, he walks toward the table.

He walks as if he's doing them a favor. Shoulders squared, chin lifted.

"What are you having?"

His posture is a challenge. His narrowed eyes ask the question he won't say aloud: "You going to laugh too?"

"Well?" — irritation creeps into his voice. — "How long am I supposed to wait?"

He taps his fingers on the table — nervous, fast, like shifting gears.

"So?" — he growls, because the silence stretches too long. — "I don't have all night. I've got…" — bitterness slips through, — "…dishes."

He looks away, staring at the blank TV screen.