"He's going for it! Marco is looking for the gap!" the commentator's voice boomed over the global broadcast, though Marco couldn't hear it. "He's taking the inside line on the Devil's Curve! This is madness! THIS IS MOTOGP!"
Marco squeezed the brake lever, the carbon discs biting hard, the G-force trying to throw him over the handlebars. He flicked the bike down, defying physics, the rubber tires screaming for mercy.
He had the line. He was going to pass.
The rear suspension linkage, stressed beyond its limit, gave way.
Instantly, the bike stopped being a precision machine and became a chaotic missile. The rear tire lost traction, gripped again suddenly, and launched Marco into the air like a ragdoll.
Marco flew. For a split second, time seemed to freeze. He saw the grandstands, the sea of yellow flags, the blue sky that suddenly looked very far away.
Then, gravity reclaimed him.
He hit the gravel trap hard, tumbling violently, dust exploding around him. But that wasn't the worst part. His bike, a 160-kilogram beast of metal and fuel, tumbled after him. The fuel tank ruptured on impact with the tarmac. Sparks from the grinding metal kissed the high-octane spray.
"OH MY GOD! CRASH! CRASH! A MASSIVE CRASH FOR MARCO ROSSI!" The commentator shrieked, his voice cracking with genuine horror. " The bike has exploded! He's in the fire! Marshals! Where are the marshals?!"
The crowd, which had been roaring with adrenaline, suddenly gasped as one. Then, a hush fell over the circuit, heavier than the roar of engines.
Inside the fire, Marco felt a searing heat, but strangely, the pain was fading fast. He tried to crawl, his gloved hand reaching out of the smoke. He could see the marshals running toward him, their bright orange suits blurring in his vision. He could see the camera drone hovering low, broadcasting his final moments to millions.
"Get up, Marco... just get up..." he whispered, the taste of copper and smoke filling his mouth.
He looked at the finish line in the distance. So close. He just wanted to race. That was all he had ever wanted. To go fast. To feel the wind.
"I... didn't... win," he choked out.
The roaring crowd faded into a dull buzz, then silence. The last thing he saw was the weeping face of a marshal looking down at him, shaking his head.
Marco Rossi, the Phoenix, had burned out.
"And in tragic news today, the world of motorsport mourns..."
The voice was tinny. Distant.
"Marco Rossi, aged 27, pronounced dead at the scene..."
The darkness was replaced by a flickering blue light.
"He was a generational talent. A light extinguished too soon."
Marco blinked. The heavy eyelids felt wrong. They felt... sticky? Heavy, but not with death. Just with sleep.
He took a breath. It smelled like instant noodles and old dust.
"No..." he whispered. His voice sounded strange. Higher pitched. Softer. It lacked the gravelly depth he was used to.
He sat up. A wave of dizziness hit him, but not the concussion kind. It was the head-rush of low blood sugar. He looked around.
He was in a small, cluttered room. Posters of bikes were taped haphazardly to the peeling beige walls. There was a messy desk piled with school textbooks, a half-eaten cup of ramen, and a small, cracked TV sitting on a plastic crate.
On the TV screen, a news anchor was looking solemn. Behind her, a montage of Marco Rossi's greatest victories was playing in slow motion, accompanied by sad piano music.
BREAKING NEWS: LEGEND DIES IN VALENCIA.
Marco stared at the screen. He looked down at his hands.
They were pale. Thin. The calluses from gripping handlebars for twenty years were gone. The scar on his left thumb from a wrench slip in 2018? Gone. These were the hands of someone who held pens, not throttles.
"What the hell?"
He threw the thin blanket off his legs. He was wearing oversized basketball shorts and a t-shirt that said 'Fast Lane' in a cheesy font. He scrambled out of the bed, tripping over his own feet. His balance was off. His center of gravity was all wrong.
He stumbled toward a dirty mirror hanging on the back of the door.
The face staring back wasn't Marco Rossi. It wasn't the rugged, tanned face with the sharp jawline that graced the covers of magazines.
It was a kid. Maybe seventeen. Shaggy black hair that needed a wash, dark circles under eyes that looked too big for his face, and a frame that looked like a stiff breeze could knock it over.
"I'm... a kid?" Marco touched his cheek. The reflection did the same. "I died. I definitely died. I felt the heat. I saw the darkness."
He looked back at the TV. "So why am I watching my own obituary?"
Suddenly, the door to the room creaked open. Marco spun around, his heart hammering against ribs that felt too fragile.
A girl, maybe fourteen years old, stood there. She had the same black hair, tied back in a messy ponytail, and wore a stained apron that looked like it belonged in a mechanic's shop. Her eyes were red and puffy.
"Kai?" she sniffled. "Are you awake?"
Kai. That was the name. The memory didn't belong to Marco, but it surfaced instantly, like a file being downloaded into his brain. Kai Tanaka. 17 years old. High school student. Part-time mechanic at his uncle's failing shop. obsessed with MotoGP.
"I..." Marco started, then stopped. He had to play this cool. He couldn't just scream 'I am the ghost of Marco Rossi!'
"Yeah. I'm awake."
The girl—Rin, his sister—stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at the TV screen, saw the footage of the burning bike, and fresh tears welled up in her eyes.
"It's true, isn't it?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Marco... he's really gone."
Marco felt a strange pang in his chest. It was surreal to see someone grieving for him while he was standing right there. It was also deeply touching. This kid, Kai, and his sister were clearly huge fans.
"He... he went out doing what he loved," Marco said, his voice awkward. He wasn't good at comfort. He was good at apex speeds and tire management.
Rin wiped her nose on her sleeve. "You've been asleep for twelve hours, Kai. Uncle Jiro is yelling for you. He says if you don't come down to the shop and help with the scooters, he's going to sell your NSR."
The word triggered something in Marco's brain. NSR.
The Honda NSR250. A classic two-stroke beast. A legend of a bike. This kid had an NSR?
"I'm coming," Marco said, a sudden spark of energy shooting through his spindly limbs. "Tell him I'm coming right now."
Rin looked at him, surprised by the sudden intensity in his voice. Usually, Kai was lethargic, depressed about their parents' debt, and reluctant to work. "Okay... but wash your face. You look like a zombie."
She left the room, closing the door softly.
Marco turned back to the mirror. He clenched his fist. It was weak, but he could work on that. He took a deep breath.
"Okay, Kai Tanaka," he muttered to his reflection. "You have no muscles, no money, and apparently a very grumpy uncle. But you're alive."
He looked at the TV one last time. The news was showing the wreckage of his bike. A pile of carbon fiber and twisted metal.
"Marco Rossi is dead," he said, a fierce grin slowly spreading across the teenager's face. "But the race isn't over."
He grabbed a hoodie from the floor, pulled it over his head, and bolted out the door.
He had to see the bike.
The downstairs of the building was a chaotic, grease-stained workshop called 'Tanaka Motors'.
An older man with a bandana tied around his bald head was wrestling with a rusted exhaust pipe on a delivery scooter. This was Uncle Jiro.
"About time, Sleeping Beauty!" Jiro barked without looking up. "Grab the 10mm socket and tighten this flange. My back is killing me."
Marco didn't hesitate. His body moved on autopilot not Kai's autopilot, but Marco's. He walked to the tool board, grabbed the 10mm socket wrench, slid under the scooter, and found the bolt by feel alone. Click, click, click. Perfect torque. Done in four seconds.
He slid out and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants.
Jiro stared at him, the unlit cigarette falling out of his mouth. "Since when do you move that fast? Usually, you drop the wrench three times and complain about the grease."
"Just woke up on the right side of the bed," Marco lied smoothly. His eyes scanned the shop. "Where is it?"
"Where is what?"
"The NSR."
Jiro sighed and pointed toward the back of the shop, where a tarp covered a shape in the corner. "It's there. But don't get any ideas, Kai. The engine is seized, the carbs are gummed up, and we can't afford the parts. I told you, a collector offered me two grand for the frame. We need the money for the rent."
Marco felt a surge of defensive anger that was pure Kai, mixed with the professional pride of Marco. "We are not selling it."
He walked over to the corner and pulled the tarp away.
Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight coming through the dirty window. There it was. A 1994 Honda NSR250R SE. It was in rough shape scratched fairings, surface rust on the chain, tires that were practically stone but the soul of the machine was there.
Marco ran Kai's hand over the fuel tank.
"It's dead, Kai," Jiro grunted, returning to his scooter. "Let it go."
Marco ignored him. He swung a leg over the saddle. The suspension squeaked in protest. The clip-on handlebars were low, aggressive. The riding position was cramped, especially for a skinny kid, but to Marco, it felt like sitting on a throne.
He gripped the handlebars. He closed his eyes.
In his mind, he wasn't in a dusty shop in Tokyo. He was on the grid at Mugello. He could feel the engine vibration waiting to be unleashed. He could see the lights turning from red to nothing.
He squeezed the clutch. It was stiff. He clicked the gear shifter. Neutral.
"Uncle Jiro," Marco said, opening his eyes. His gaze was sharp, intense, completely unlike the sullen teenager Jiro was used to.
"What?" Jiro asked, pausing his work.
"Give me one week," Marco said firmly. "I'll fix it. And I'll prove to you it's worth more than just scrap parts."
Jiro scoffed. "You? You can barely change a spark plug without stripping the threads. You've been watching too much TV."
"One week," Marco repeated. "If I get it running... and if I can beat the lap record at the local track day... we keep it. If I fail, you can sell it. Hell, I'll help you carry it to the buyer."
Jiro narrowed his eyes. He looked at his nephew. There was something different about the kid today. He stood straighter. He held the bike with a terrifying familiarity.
"The local track day is next Sunday," Jiro muttered. "The record for the 250cc class is held by that rich kid, Ryu. He rides a brand new production racer."
"I don't care about Ryu," Marco said, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "I care about the clock."
Jiro hesitated, then grunted. "Fine. One week. But you use your own allowance for parts. I'm not funding this suicide mission."
"Deal."
Marco looked down at the dashboard. The speedometer went up to 180km/h, but the limiter could be removed. The tachometer redlined at 11,000 RPM.
Hello, old friend, Marco thought, patting the tank. You and I have a lot of work to do.
"Rin!" he shouted toward the stairs. "Put on some coffee! We're pulling an all-nighter!"
From the top of the stairs, a confused "Ehhh?!" echoed down.
Marco spun the wrench in his hand, the metal blurring.