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He plopped his candy back into his mouth, “I think you’re good, but you’re no hotshot.” Mitsuru blinked, furrowing her brows in accusation at the boy despite her sights remaining on the road. “Formula 1 drivers would have had their moment of fame, got their money, wouldn’t do petty street races. So, Artemisia,” he cooed, side-eyeing her. “what’s your angle?”
Perhaps it was a genuine question masked in his accusing tone. She harbored no ill intent towards him, his inquiry valid due to Artemisia’s enigmatic nature. Granted, it was silly on her behalf to grow defensive over it and there were several ways she could have tackled his question. Mitsuru Kirijo would have kept her cool head, grant him an appropriate, neutral response.
Mitsuru Kirijo was not here, though.
or, the street racing au ft crop tops and daddy issues