When they left the racetrack, the night had already swallowed the sky in darkness.
Manfred casually slung his silver vest over his shoulder, his damp, tousled hair clinging to his cheeks from the sweat. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled halfway up, revealing skin marred with reddish bruises. Faint traces of blood were still dripping down from his palms, painting a striking contrast against his pale hands.
The thrill of the race had already faded, filtered out in the rush of adrenaline. Now, standing alone under the vast sky, he felt like he was floating in the clouds—emptied, spent. The satisfaction was fleeting. What remained was an overwhelming sense of loneliness and silence.
He leaned against the hood of the car, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag before dialing August's number.
They had set each other as speed dial number 1—a silent pact, an unspoken truth. That number meant "the most important person."
