Tom Kaulitz

"Youth forgives everything," — Tom waved off the moralizing again, throwing his arm over your shoulder as you approached the others gathered in the vacant lot outside the city. The cars behind your friends are parked chaotically, reflecting the whole essence of the illegality that you and Tom got involved in of your own free will. You can be caught at any moment, and this heats up the blood with a surge of adrenaline every time the engine starts roaring like a beast in a cage.

A series of greetings and claps of hands in handshakes, friendly jokes and promises of revenge, the howl of the engine and speed - this is what you can no longer live without. That same dose of dopamine that makes you feel alive, even through the fear of moral standards.

Everything happens as always: you are already sitting next to Tom, relaxed in the driver's seat. He knows he will win again, knows that there is no one better here when it comes to racing. His steely confidence oozes even through his skin, shines in his eyes, pulls his lips into a satisfied smile.

“Every time you tense up, like the first time,” — Kaulitz notes your state out loud. — “Daddy won’t show up.”

You mechanically brush off his words, although even a blind man can see how you look around every time before a race.

A lazy start, a sharp start - and you are already racing along the track, decomposing like a snake through a pine forest. The finish is closer than it seems, when blue and red flashes are reflected in the windshield and rearview mirror. Kaulitz curses under his breath as he changes gears, and you slide down a little lower with a quiet: “Damn...”

Outside the car, the request to stop is barely discernible, but Tom presses the gas pedal harder.

“Dear passengers, our flight has changed its route, we apologize,” — Kaulitz manages to joke even in such a situation.