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The air shivers with noise. Engines scream in unison beneath the blinding floodlights of the Dinoco 400, a chorus of combustion that rattles bones. Han Jisung grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles blanche beneath his gloves. Sweat beads under his helmet, stinging his eyes, but he doesn’t blink. The track is alive around him—rubber smoke, the staccato snap of shifting gears, the blur of color as cars slice through the straightaway.
Ahead, Hwang Hyunjin’s blue and silver machine glints beneath the spotlights, taunting him. Four‑time champion, fan favorite, and the only thing standing between Jisung and the glory he deserves. The crowd is thunder above him, a sound that rolls across the stands like a wave, but he only hears the hum of his own pulse. This is it. My moment.
On the team radio, his crew chief crackles through static. “Pit stop in two laps, Jisung! You've got wear on your rears—”
He ignores it. He’s faster than Hyunjin. Has been all season. Rust‑eze might have given him a car that practically runs on fumes and duct tape, but his talent drives harder than any brand logo. The finish line gleams ahead, red and white stripes pulling him forward like gravity.
One more lap. He doesn’t pit.
For a fleeting second, he’s sure he’s done it—Hyunjin’s in the rear‑view mirror. Cameras flash, crowd screaming—but then, the car jolts. A violent lurch. The tire’s gone. Then another. The world jerks sideways in a storm of sparks and smoke. He crosses the line half‑sliding, half‑skidding as the flag waves, Hyunjin’s roaring engine beside him.
A tie.
Hyunjin’s smirk on the podium burns hotter than the champagne spray.
The locker room still hums from the chaos outside—photographers shouting, engines cooling down, crew members celebrating or sulking over second place. Jisung slams his helmet down on the counter, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Across the room, Hyunjin’s laughter cuts through the noise. He’s leaning back in a chair, still in his fire suit, sunglasses dangling from his collar as if he’s never broken a sweat. His Dinoco patch gleams under the fluorescent lights, a trophy in its own right.
“Nice race out there, Han,” Hyunjin says, lazy smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d actually make it this close before you blew it.”
Jisung turns, jaw tight. “You call a tie blowing it?”
Hyunjin stands, rolling his shoulders. He’s taller, irritatingly composed. “Well, when you throw away a win because you’re too proud to take a pit stop? Yeah, I’d call that blowing it. Tires don’t change themselves, champ.”
Jisung’s chest burns. “I could’ve had you. I did have you.”
Hyunjin steps closer, grin widening. “Almost doesn’t win races.” He glances at the Rust-eze logo on Jisung’s arm.
Jisung feels his pulse surge, hot and bitter. Rust‑eze. The stickers peeling at the edges of his car. The jokes on sports talk radio calling him “the rags‑to‑ragged rookie.” He remembers shaking hands with the Dinoco executives weeks ago, seeing that perfect blue in their company photos, imagining himself there—clean, sharp, fulfilled.
“Dinoco knows I’m faster,” he mutters. “Everyone does.”
Hyunjin tilts his head. “Then prove it.”
He brushes past, the faint smell of motor oil and champagne trailing him like arrogance made solid. “I’ll see you in L.A.” The door shuts behind him, leaving Jisung alone with the hum of the fluorescent light.
That night, Jisung paces while mechanics disassemble his car. “Next week,” he whispers. “Next week, I win. And then they’ll forget Hyunjin ever existed.”
His manager Mack, a stocky man with tired eyes and a semi trailer wrapped in bright Rust‑eze colors, snatches his phone away.
“You’ve watched that replay fifteen times,” Mack says. “Less screen time, more focus. We’ve got a long haul ahead.”
Jisung frowns. “Then how am I supposed to navigate?”
“Just follow me,” Mack replies, starting the truck. “You’re a driver, genius. Use your eyes.”
And so they go—headlights cutting through empty desert highways, night pulling tight around them. At first, Jisung hums with restless energy, tapping the steering wheel, replaying the race in his mind. He always prefers driving separately, able to listen to his music, drive the way he likes.
But eventually, fatigue creeps in—eyelids drooping, the rhythm of the road lulling him. He shakes his head, tries to stay sharp—he’s awake. He’s focused. The hum of the tires blends with the thrum of the engine, monotonous and hypnotic. His vision dips, blurs—until his tires hit a rumble strip and he jolts upright. The wheel jerks, and the world tilts in a blur of dust and flashing lights.
When he looks up, headlights flood his windshield—horns, screeching tires, chaos. Jisung sucks in a breath and jerks the wheel hard. His tires scream against the pavement. He skids sideways across lanes, the world flashing in lines of yellow and white. Metal howls as he spins around.
Somehow, miraculously, he misses the oncoming traffic. The car lurches forward, spinning off the barrier and shooting down the embankment. Gravel sprays, dust clouds erupt behind him. He doesn’t think—he just slams the gas, bouncing off uneven dirt and steering onto a thin, dark road that cuts through the desert.
“Okay, okay, just get back to the highway,” he says under his breath, scanning every sign. Except there aren’t any signs. Just open dark. Everything looks the same—flat, lifeless, no clue which direction he’s headed.
Then—blue and red lights flash behind him.
A piercing siren cuts through the still night.
“Oh, come on!” Jisung slams the accelerator, heart pounding as he takes a curve too sharp. The cop car’s lights reflect in his mirrors, edging closer. He keeps waiting for an on‑ramp, a way back, but there’s nothing—only sand and cracked asphalt ahead. His tires spit dust.
A loud pop cracks the air. His steering jerks—his back tire shreds. The car fishtails, almost spinning out. He grits his teeth and yanks the wheel straight, trying to keep control.
“Shit—”
He veers off the road completely, onto hard-packed sand. The headlights bounce wildly as the tires dig in. He tears through a sagging barbed‑wire fence, the metal scraping paint and sparking. Neon signs flash past. A pile of old tires explodes around him—rubber flying.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he yells instinctively to no one.
The front bumper catches on something heavy, and it drags along behind him, screeching and spitting sparks. He can feel it tugging at the frame, but he won’t stop. He can’t. He has to get back to the interstate; he has to get to California.
Then, through the haze of dust and neon glow, a wooden telephone pole stands dead ahead.
He yanks the wheel to swerve—it’s too late.
The car slams into the pole with a crushing metallic crunch. Airbags burst open.
The last thing he hears is the hiss of steam and the faint buzz of a radio still playing through the static.
Then nothing.
When he comes to, everything feels wrong. The light is different. Too warm. Too still. His head throbs rhythmically, and when he opens his eyes, it isn’t headlights he sees—it’s a ceiling fan turning slow circles above him, wobbling slightly with every pass.
He blinks, breathing sharp. The air smells like dust, oil, and sun-baked stone. His body’s stiff, his right hand scraped raw. It takes him a second to process the bars in front of him. Iron. Rusted at the joints.
A jail cell. He’s in a jail cell.
“What the—?” His voice comes out rough, dry.
Someone whistles nearby. Jisung turns his head fast, instantly regretting it as pain flares behind his temple. That’s when he spots him—a skinny guy in a faded sheriff’s shirt, sitting backwards on a folding chair just outside the cell door. He’s got blonde hair sticking in every direction and a chipped mug of coffee in his dirty hand.
“Morning, sunshine!” the stranger says, grinning. “You been out cold all night. Not a scratch on ya—can’t say the same for the road.” He laughs. “I’m Felix. Deputy and part-time mechanic, depending on who you ask.”
Jisung stares, sluggishly blinking. “Where am I?”
“Radiator Springs, Arizona,” Felix says proudly. “Population: twenty-five. I gotta say, your arrival is the most exciting thing to happen to us in years.”
Jisung groans, leaning back against the wall. “Unbelievable. Listen, I need to get back on the road, I’ve got an important race coming up—”
“Ooo, you a runner?”
“I’m a race car driver,” Jisung says exasperated. “Han Jisung? Top contender for the Piston Cup?”
“Well,” Felix says, standing and jingling a set of keys, “you’ll have to wait until after the judge sees you, I’m afraid.”
Jisung sighs, dragging himself to his feet and rubbing the back of his neck.
Felix walks with a bounce in his step as they head down a narrow hallway to the exit door. The morning air is dry and bright, sunlight reflecting off the faded road signs and sun‑bleached bricks. The street ahead looks almost dead—old storefronts, a lone gas pump, and a few people standing outside, shading their eyes as Felix leads Jisung down the dusty main strip.
Jisung keeps his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, scanning every corner for a map, a sign, anything that would tell him how to get the hell out of here. “So, Felix,” he says casually, “I’m actually in a bit of a rush, so maybe you can take me to my car, I can get out of here, and you give the judge my condolences?”
Felix chuckles. “Buddy, your car is totally out of commission. It’s impressive you didn’t get any major injuries—I’ll have it fixed in a few days, tops.”
“A few days?” Jisung stops walking. “No, absolutely not. I’ve got a race in California. Is there a rental place around here?”
Felix beams over his shoulder. “Sure! Closest one’s two towns over, but uh, the road’s… not really functional at the moment.”
Jisung groans. “Unbelievable.”
They reach the courthouse—a squat, sunstained building with a wooden sign reading Town Hall. Inside, the air buzzes with the sound of voices. A handful of locals are already there, talking over one another.
“That punk tore right through my fence!”
“My flowerpots are gone!”
“My tires—”
Behind a folding table, a uniformed officer—stocky and serious, with dust still clinging to his boots—rubs his temples. “Alright, folks, alright. Let’s make this quick; where’s your lawyer, son?”
Jisung scoffs. “Cancún, probably.”
The officer glares. “Then we’ll assign you one.”
“I volunteer!” Felix raises his hand like a kid in class, all smiles. “Always thought I’d make a good lawyer. Who woulda thunk my first client would be a fancy race car driver?”
The judge, a stern older man with sharp eyes and a tired expression, looks over Jisung from his seat. “A race car driver, huh? I want him out of this town immediately. Case dismissed.”
“Really?” Felix exclaims. “Man, I’m good at this.”
Jisung smirks, turning on his heels. “You heard the man. Guess I’ll just—”
The back door slams open before he can finish.
“Sorry I’m late!”
A voice smooth as glass fills the room. Jisung looks up—and freezes. The newcomer steps in, sunlight cutting through the dusty air behind him like a stage cue. His hair catches the light—dark chocolate brown, tousled in a perfectly careless way. His shirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, a faint smear of blue paint along one forearm.
He’s unreasonably handsome—clean jawline, skin smooth and sun-kissed, eyes sharp. He flashes a small smile that makes Jisung forget how to breathe.
“Hi, guys.”
“Morning, Minho,” the townsfolk greet in chorus.
“Sorry, you just missed it,” Felix says, “Chan dismissed him.”
Minho glances around, then at Jisung. “He’s letting you go?”
Jisung flashes a smug grin. “Tragic, I know. You’ll just have to miss me.”
Minho arches an eyebrow, amused. “Sure.” He turns to the judge, expression shifting. “Chan, come on. Look at the road. It’s completely destroyed. We need him to fix it.”
“No,” Chan snaps. “I know his kind. It’s the last thing this town needs.”
The crowd murmurs uncertainly—but Minho isn’t done. He steps forward, hands clasped in front of him, that confident smirk curling into something devilish.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as we all know, Radiator Springs used to be a jewel in the necklace of Route 66,” he says smoothly. “People from all over the country would stop in our little town, and it continues to be our job to take care of any travelers passing through.”
“What travelers?” someone mutters under their breath, but Minho keeps going, voice warm.
“But how are we to do that job without a road? If no one drives through, Changbin’s garage shuts down. Mrs. Kim’s gas station goes under, and suddenly we have no groceries. One by one, we fade off the map.” He gestures toward Jisung. “The road must be fixed.”
The room erupts in agreement.
Chan hits his gavel and sighs. “Fine,” he says after a beat. “He doesn’t leave Radiator Springs until the road is repaired.”
Jisung’s shoulders drop. “You can’t be serious.” Doesn’t he get a phone call or something? But… he doesn’t have any numbers memorized, and his phone is still with Mack. He looks to Minho, who’s watching him with a teasing glint in his eye.
“Welcome to Radiator Springs,” he says with a smile. “Looks like you’ve got a date with Bessie.”
Jisung glares at him, cheeks burning. “Who the hell is Bessie?”
By the time Felix drags Jisung out to the edge of town, the sun’s already high and hot. The road looks worse in daylight—a long line of broken asphalt, bits of broken signage poking out from sandbanks like old bones. Jisung groans under his breath.
“Yeah…” Felix says, scratching his head. “You really did a number on her.”
Jisung crosses his arms. “How am I supposed to fix it? Can’t you call in a specialist or something?”
“No need,” Felix says cheerfully, leading him toward a hulking yellow machine parked beside this road. “Meet Bessie.”
Jisung stares. The machine looks ancient, patched with rust and grime. Two large metal tubs sit at the top, both filled with slow‑bubbling tar that sends up lazy curls of smoke. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Felix pats the side proudly. “Basic Service Equipment. B‑S‑E. Old girl’s been with us for decades.” He grins. “Pours fresh tar, lays gravel, smooths it all out nice and even. She's in perfect condition. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” Jisung repeats.
“Well, if you see a pipe bubble, duck. Tar tends to spray a bit if she gets grumpy.”
Jisung’s eyes go wide. “This cannot be safe.”
“Hey, safety’s mostly about attitude.” Felix points to the controls. “Start her up with this lever, release pressure here—oh, and the floodlights come on with this switch, so you can even work at night.”
Jisung sighs hard, muttering curses under his breath as he yanks one of the levers. Bessie growls to life with a rattling cough, spitting a puff of dark smoke.
The first few passes go about as badly as expected. The tar sputters unevenly; gravel piles up in lumps. Once or twice, a tar bubble pops near Jisung’s arm, spraying a black streak across his sleeve.
He wipes his forearm with a grimace and shoves Bessie into another slow crawl down the ruined stretch of road. The heat beats down on the back of his neck, sweat slipping under his collar. He’s so focused on not messing up the controls that it takes him a second to notice movement off to the side.
Across the street, in front of an inn, Minho is working. He’s dragged a few bags of soil and stone out front, hauling them one by one toward a half-finished flower bed. His clothes from the morning are gone; instead he’s in a white sleeveless tank and dirty jeans, fabric clinging to his body in all the right ways. His arms flex easily as he lifts, muscles tight and defined, veins visible when he grips the bags a little too hard.
Jisung’s hands slacken slightly on the levers.
Minho sets a bag down, straightens, and stretches his arms over his head. The tank rides up just a bit, showing a strip of toned stomach, his shoulders rolling as he loosens them. Jisung can’t help but stare, jaw tight, brain unhelpfully blank.
He’s so hot it’s irritating. That, and the fact that he’s the reason Jisung’s stuck in this nightmare.
Minho turns to grab a trowel from the porch railing, then pauses. His gaze flicks toward the road, landing right on Jisung. For a second, their eyes meet.
Jisung snaps his head forward, fumbling with the controls like an idiot. He shoves Bessie back into motion; the machine lurches, tar sputtering again as he forces his attention back to the job at hand, definitely not thinking about the way sunlight hits Minho’s skin.
By late afternoon, the stretch of repaired road looks worse than before—lumpy, uneven, full of smudged ridges and divots.
Felix drives a rusty tow truck over the bumps, laughing as it jostles the vehicle.
Chan’s voice cuts through the air. “You can’t be serious.”
Jisung turns, wiping his hands off on a rag. “Hey, I did what you asked. Road’s done, right?”
Chan’s mouth curves into something between a smirk and a challenge. “Tell you what. You want out of here that badly? Beat me in a race. You win, you go free. You lose—you start over and do it right this time.”
Jisung laughs, incredulous. “You? Race me?”
Chan only nods toward a garage across the street. Inside, when he flicks on the lights, two old sports cars gleam beneath layers of dust—sleek lines and classic frames that still look fast, even sitting still.
Jisung’s eyes widen. “Whoa. Where’d you get these?”
“Bought ‘em a long time ago. Come on.”
They pull out onto a wide stretch of hardened dirt outside town. The makeshift track loops between scattered sagebrush and rocky hills.
When Felix waves the flag, Jisung hits the gas hard, kicking up a cloud of dust. It feels good—for about ten seconds. Then the first turn arrives.
The tires slip. Dirt sprays sideways. Jisung fights the wheel, but the car slides out beneath him, spinning twice before bumping nose‑first into a group of cacti.
Felix jogs up, trying not to laugh. After doing a lap, Chan rolls to a stop beside him, dust settling around his car. “Looks like you’re starting over, superstar.”
The sun dips low as they pull the cars back into town, dust still clinging to the fenders. Jisung climbs out stiffly, brushing cactus spines from his jacket, his ego as bruised as the sports car's grille. He’s never spun out like that on a turn before, not on asphalt anyway.
Chan nods toward the main street. "You're not sleeping in my jail again. Figure out a place to crash.”
“Great. Where exactly?”
Before Chan can answer, Minho appears from around the corner, carrying a plastic bag. “I’ll give you a room. No charge—as long as you promise to pave the road properly. Deal?"
Jisung hesitates, then shrugs. “Deal.”
Minho leads him down a short path to the inn—a two-story building with a wraparound porch, white siding, and a sign reading “Radiator Springs Inn” in faded script. Fairy lights string along the railing, and fresh paint gleams on the doorframe. Inside the office, Minho flips on a lamp, revealing wood-paneled walls and a check-in counter stacked with maps.
“Room three’s yours,” Minho says, handing over a key. He gestures to a partly painted wall, roller marks fresh and even. “Trying to brighten things up—might pull in a few more customers off the interstate."
Jisung glances around, taking in the Western art on display and the faint smell of pine cleaner. Why's this guy so optimistic? he thinks. No one's coming. Out loud, he says, “It looks nice… cute.”
Minho laughs softly, picking up the roller. "It's a start. Better than letting it all rust away.”
“Isn’t it already?”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Give it some time. Might grow on you.” He points down the hall. “Bathroom’s shared. Lights out by ten.”
Jisung nods, key cool in his palm. “Night.”
The room is simple—a double bed with a quilt, a nightstand lamp, and a window overlooking the dark desert. He kicks off his boots, sinks onto the mattress, and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t have time to let this town grow on him, he needs to get to California or he’s kissing his career goodbye. He closes his eyes, and prays Mack finds him soon.
The next morning hits early, with dust already swirling in the dawn light. Jisung stands beside Bessie, arms crossed, glaring at the lumpy mess he made. Chan’s words echo in his head—do it right—but he’s still fuming from yesterday’s humiliation. His hands are already sticky with tar residue, and the machine’s kerosene heater hisses like it’s mocking him.
Felix waves from a distance, coffee in hand. “Morning shift! Chan’s watching, so no funny business.”
Jisung mutters under his breath and climbs onto Bessie’s seat. He adjusts the levers more carefully this time—releases the tar slowly, feeds gravel in measured scoops. The pipes gurgle, the tumbler spins with a low rumble, and black tar mixes evenly with the stones before smoothing out under the roller. It’s tedious, backbreaking, nothing like the roar of a race engine. Sweat beads on his forehead; a bubble pops from a pipe, splattering his cheek with hot tar. He wipes it off, cursing.
An hour later, he spots movement from the corner of his eye. Minho leans against a nearby fence post, arms folded, watching with that same easy smile. Shirt sleeves rolled up again, dark hair catching the breeze. Jisung’s focus slips for a second—long enough for the gravel to clump unevenly.
“Is Bessie giving you trouble?” Minho calls out.
Jisung kills the engine, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Takes a little getting used to. This thing is ancient.”
“Excuse you, don’t call her a ‘thing.’” Minho pushes off the fence and walks closer, glancing at the road. “You missed a spot back there. Loosen the pressure on the hopper next time.”
Jisung bristles, but there’s no real bite in Minho’s tone—just quiet confidence. He restarts Bessie, trying not to notice how Minho lingers, watching him work. The rest of the pass goes smoother; the tar spreads even, gravel settles flat.
By noon, Jisung’s arms ache, his shirt clings with sweat and grime, and a small section of road actually looks decent—smooth black asphalt gleaming under the sun. Minho walks out again, and straightens. “Not bad, hotshot.”
Jisung cuts the engine, chest heaving. “You got any recommendations for food? I’m starving.”
Minho huffs a small laugh. “We’ve got one diner. Or Mrs. Kim’s gas station—she’s got a grocery section if you’re into instant noodles and canned soup.”
Jisung’s about to make a joke when he notices Minho looking him over—eyes skimming from his tar-streaked arms down to his dusty jeans, then back up to his face. Something flickers in Minho’s expression, quick and unreadable, before he clicks his tongue.
“Come on,” Minho says. “You’ve earned a break. I’ll show you around.”
They walk down the main road, passing a squat building with a wide garage door rolled halfway up. Inside, the smell of rubber and motor oil hangs thick in the air. A big, broad-shouldered man in a grease-stained shirt stands beside a stack of tires, wiping his hands on a rag. Beside him, a younger guy carefully lines bottles of polish on a shelf, adjusting each one until they’re perfectly even.
“Changbin! Jeongin!” Minho calls. “Jisung’s here to meet you.”
Changbin turns, grin easy and bright. “You getting the road done?”
“Trying,” Jisung replies.
“This is my garage,” Changbin continues. “Tires, detailing, repairs—the works. If it’s got wheels, I can work on it.”
Jeongin steps forward, wiping an invisible smudge from the counter. He’s a little younger than Jisung, focused, eyes sharp. “And if he ruins your paint job, I’ll fix it,” he says.
“He’s picky,” Changbin says affectionately.
“Precise,” Jeongin corrects.
Minho nods toward him. “Jeongin’s always wanted to be in a pit crew.”
Jeongin ducks his head, but there’s a clear spark in his eyes. “Yeah. Fast stops, clean work, no mistakes. Always thought that’d be… I don’t know. Perfect.”
Changbin claps his shoulder. “Kid would crush it out there. Right, Minho?”
“Definitely,” Minho says. “He’s got the mindset for it.”
Jisung leans against a workbench. “Y’know I don’t really get along with my crew.” He flashes a crooked smile. “Maybe when I finally get out of here, I’ll take you with me.”
Jeongin blinks. “You’re kidding.”
“You never know,” Jisung says. “Help Felix fix my car faster and you might just have yourself a deal.”
Jeongin just rolls his eyes, and they say their goodbyes. A little farther down, they pass Mrs. Kim’s gas station—old pumps out front, a small storefront with posters in the window. Mrs. Kim, gray hair pulled into a bun, lifts a hand from behind the counter.
“Afternoon, boys!” she calls.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Kim!” Minho replies, while Jisung gives a small wave.
Minho tilts his head toward the building. “She keeps this place running by sheer will. If the road dies, so does her shop.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it,” Jisung mutters, oddly aware of the weight behind Minho’s words.
They finally reach the diner—a narrow building with big windows and a faded neon sign humming softly. Inside, the air is cool, the smell of coffee and grilled food welcoming. Red vinyl booths line the walls, and a young man with an apron and playful eyes looks up from behind the counter.
“Hey, Minho,” he says. “You brought company.”
“Yeah. This is Jisung,” Minho replies. “Jisung, Seungmin. He runs this place.”
Seungmin nods once. “Sit wherever. I’ll grab you menus, but it’s mostly burgers, sandwiches, and whatever pie I didn’t burn today.”
They slide into a booth, Minho on one side, Jisung across from him. The vinyl squeaks under Jisung as he leans back, muscles finally starting to relax. Seungmin takes their order—a burger and fries for Jisung, chicken sandwich and coffee for Minho—and disappears into the kitchen.
Minho rests his arms on the table. “So. I hear you’re famous.”
Jisung sighs. “I was supposed to be headed to Los Angeles. Big race for the Piston Cup. Dinoco scouts will be watching.”
“Dinoco,” Minho repeats. “Gas and oil company right?”
Jisung’s eyes light up. “They’re everything. TV spots, big money, the best equipment. Once I get that deal, I’ll be set.” He taps his fingers on the table. “No more calling me a rookie or a fluke.”
Minho studies him quietly for a moment. “And then what?”
“...What do you mean?”
“Let’s say you win the race, get Dinoco, get all the fame,” Minho says. “What happens after that? What do you want then?”
Jisung opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s never really thought about it. “Well… then I’ll be on top. Everyone will finally take me seriously. I’ll become the best that’s ever been.”
“And what if you couldn’t race anymore?” Minho asks, voice even. “If something happened. Career over. What would you do?”
Minho’s eyes are soft and curious. It wasn’t an attack, but it sure did land like one in Jisung’s chest.
He stares at the table, tracing a scratch on the surface with his thumb. “I don’t know,” he admits, almost too quiet to hear.
Minho doesn’t push. He just hums softly and leans back as Seungmin arrives with their food, sliding plates onto the table. Conversation shifts to lighter topics—road stories, weird fan encounters, Minho rolling his eyes at some of the tourists he’s met over the years. They eat, talk, and for a little while, Jisung forgets about the clock ticking down to Los Angeles.
But when lunch ends and they step back into the sun, the weight returns. He glances at the stretch of unfinished road and feels a knot pull tight in his chest. If racing disappeared, what would be left of him?
He gets back to work.
By evening, the sky fades from bright blue to deep purple. The floodlights on Bessie click on, casting harsh white circles over the fresh asphalt. Jisung moves slower now, muscles aching, but he refuses to stop. Every foot of smooth road feels like one step closer back to his life.
Eventually, another set of headlights rolls up. A familiar tow truck eases to a stop nearby, and Felix leans out the window, grinning.
“Hey, buddy!” Felix calls. “You’ve been at this all day. You’re gonna turn into tar if you don’t quit.”
“I’m fine,” Jisung says, though his voice is rough. “I just need to finish. I need to get back on the road.”
Felix hops out, slamming the door. “Oh, that can wait. You need a break. Come on—let’s do something fun.”
Jisung hesitates, looking at the road, then at Felix’s hopeful face. His shoulders drop a fraction. “What kind of ‘fun’ are we talking about?”
“You’ll see,” Felix says, eyes bright. “Get in.”
Against his better judgment, Jisung climbs into the passenger seat. Felix turns the key, and the truck rumbles to life. They drive out of town, the lights fading behind them as the road shifts from asphalt to dirt. After a while, Felix turns off onto a narrow track that leads to an open field, fenced in and quiet under the stars.
The field is dotted with cattle, dozing or lazily chewing in the dark.
“This is your idea of fun?” Jisung asks. “Watching cows?”
Felix grins. “Not just watching.” He eases the truck to a slow crawl alongside the fence. “These guys belong to a rancher a few miles out. Watch this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a harmonica.
“What…”
Felix rolls down his window, lifts the harmonica to his lips, and starts to play. The melody is simple and a little off-key, but it’s warm and steady, carrying softly across the field. At first, nothing happens. Then one cow lifts its head. Another turns. Slowly, a small group begins to wander closer, drawn to the sound.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Jisung mutters, watching as more cows drift toward the fence, forming a loose semicircle in front of the truck.
“Cows love music,” Felix says between notes, then keeps playing, changing to a slightly faster tune.
Jisung leans forward, completely thrown. “What is my life right now?”
Felix kills the engine, hops out of the truck, and jogs to the fence. “Come on,” he says, climbing over. “They’re harmless.”
“Felix,” Jisung protests, but Felix is already on the other side, standing among the cows like he’s one of them, harmonica still going. The animals crowd closer, big eyes calm, ears flicking.
Jisung swears under his breath and follows, swinging himself over the fence. The ground is uneven and soft under his boots. One of the cows steps up to him, close enough that he can see the texture of its fur and the wet glint of its nose.
“Uh… hey,” he says quietly.
“Go on,” Felix encourages. “They like scratches.”
Jisung reaches out and pats the cow’s head, fingers sinking into warm, coarse hair. The cow huffs softly, then leans into the touch. For a second, everything is weirdly peaceful—Felix playing a slow, wandering tune, cows gathered in a loose ring, the night air cool on Jisung’s face.
“This is so strange,” Jisung says, but there’s a hint of a smile growing.
“Strange’s not always bad,” Felix replies.
Something shifts in the far end of the herd. A heavier shape moves, pushing through the others. The animal lifts its head, eyes catching the light from the trucks headlights, broad shoulders tense.
Felix’s playing falters. “Okay,” he says carefully, lowering the harmonica. “Time to go.”
Jisung glances over. “Is that…”
“A bull.” Felix backs up slowly. “Seems he didn’t like my song.”
The bull snorts, stomps once, then starts toward them with clear purpose.
They break into a run, stumbling through the grass as the bull picks up speed. Cows scatter out of its way. The ground shakes under Jisung’s feet; he doesn’t look back, just hears the heavy pounding and angry snorts growing louder.
“RUN!” he shouts.
“I AM! Felix yells.
They reach the fence, scramble up, and practically throw themselves over. Jisung lands hard on the other side, rolling to his feet just as the bull slams into the fence with a crash, wood rattling, breath huffing in furious bursts. Splinters spray; one post tilts.
Felix doesn’t waste a second. “Get in, get in—”
They sprint to the tow truck, dive inside, and slam the doors. Felix jams the keys, engine roaring to life as the bull backs up for another hit. The fence groans.
“Go, go!” Jisung shouts, half terrified, half hysterical with adrenaline.
Felix floors it. The truck lurches forward, tires spitting dirt as it tears back down the track. In the mirror, the bull charges the fence again, but this time the posts hold just enough. The animal paces along the boundary, snorting, before finally fading into the darkness behind them.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Then Jisung starts laughing, loud and uncontrollable.
“You’re insane,” he manages between breaths. “You are actually insane.”
Felix grins, still a little breathless himself. “Yeah, but you had fun, didn’t you?”
Jisung leans back against the seat, heart still racing, a wide grin stuck on his face. “Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, I did.”
Jisung looks out at the dark road ahead, the stars hanging quiet above the desert, and lets the warmth of the moment settle in. For the first time, he thinks Minho might be right. This place is growing on him.
The morning sun sits soft and hazy over Radiator Springs, the sky a clear stretch of gold and blue. Bessie rumbles along smoothly as Jisung works, humming under his breath as tar pours and gravel mixes. For once, everything’s going right. The road looks straight and even; it almost glows under the light.
Then a sputter.
A cough.
Then a new noise—a high‑pitched whine he hasn't heard before.
“Don’t you dare,” Jisung mutters, adjusting the control valves. The machine clanks once, then dies with a reluctant groan. The tar stops flowing. Steam snakes from one of the pipes. “No, no, no.”
He tries restarting it twice—nothing. His patience snaps. He kicks the side of the machine, tar bubbling as if laughing at him, then storms off and sinks onto a nearby bench. He rubs his palms over his face, breathing hard. Everything’s gone sideways since the Dinoco 400. The tie, the crash, this stupid punishment—it all churns in his gut. Suddenly, the thought dawns on him: even if he manages to ever get out of this place, there’s a chance he might lose. All this, for nothing. No glory, no sponsorship, no proof that he can be great.
What if they’re right? What if he’s just an overconfident rookie, destined to crash and burn?
Footsteps crunch on gravel.
“You okay?”
He looks up. Minho stands there, hands in his pockets, a calm curve to his mouth.
“Bessie stopped working,” Jisung grumbles.
Minho tilts his head. “We’ll have Felix take a look at her later.”
“That thing hates me,” Jisung mutters.
Minho’s eyes flicker with something between sympathy and mischief. “You ever ride a bike before?”
Jisung blinks. “Like… a bicycle?”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Motorcycle. Come on. I want to show you something.”
They end up in a small garage tucked behind the inn. Dust floats through shafts of light as Minho pulls away an old tarp, revealing a sleek black motorcycle with faint scratches on the frame.
“Think you can hold on while I drive?” he asks, glancing back.
Jisung hesitates, but lets his pride take over. “Yeah, I think I can manage.”
Minho crouches to check the tires, then rummages through a cabinet for another helmet. As he bends down, his shirt lifts, revealing a small tattoo on his lower back—thin, faded lines that peek out above his jeans.
“A tramp stamp?” Jisung blurts before thinking.
Minho straightens quickly, tugging his shirt back down with a sheepish look. “College. Drunken mistake.”
“No, no,” Jisung says with a grin. “It’s cool. I’ve got a few myself.”
He lifts his shirt slightly, revealing dark ink plastered from his hip up along his ribs. Minho’s eyes trace it for just a second too long, and suddenly Jisung is too aware of his own skin.
The motorcycle fires to life with a growl. They tear out of town fast, Jisung’s arms tight around Minho’s waist. The rumble of the engine vibrates through his chest, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the road.
They hit the trees outside town first—patches of dappled sunlight flashing between branches. The air smells sharp and earthy, the world rushing past in shades of green and gold. Minho leans into the curves, confident and smooth, and Jisung lets out a startled squeal when they bank hard around one turn.
Minho’s laughter carries over the wind. “Relax, aren’t you a race car driver?”
“Yeah, emphasis on car! With walls and seatbelts!” Jisung yells back, his knuckles white where they grip Minho’s jacket. But he’s laughing too.
They burst from the trees into open desert, the road winding along red rock formations. The sound of rushing water swells as they pass under a carved‑out tunnel, and then the world opens—the road curling past a glistening waterfall cascading down layered stone. Jisung stares in awe, the spray misting his skin, the sunlight scattering across the water.
At the end of the climb, they reach it: a huge, weather‑worn building built into the rock face. Wood shingles peeling, windows broken, but the bones still strong.
Minho cuts the engine, and silence falls.
“Welcome to the Wheel Well Hotel,” he says. “Used to be the crown stop along Route 66. Hundreds of travelers a week. Honeymoons, families, vacations.”
Jisung steps forward, running his fingers along a faded sign. “Really? This place?”
“Yep,” Minho says quietly. “I wish I could’ve seen it—I bet it was beautiful.” His voice is solemn, but his eyes are sparkling.
“Y’know, how does a guy like you end up in a place like this?” Jisung asks without thinking. “You don’t exactly… fit in.”
Minho laughs under his breath. “I was an attorney in Los Angeles. Big money, big parties, big everything—but I was miserable. One day I got on my bike and didn't stop until the engine gave out. It was around here that I broke down—Felix, Chan, everyone—they helped me, took me in, and I just never left.”
Jisung nods slowly. “Sure, everyone needs a break from the fast life. But after a while, why not go back?”
Minho turns toward the canyon edge, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well… I fell in love.”
Jisung’s stomach sinks a little. “Oh.” His voice comes out too quickly. “With who?”
Minho chuckles, takes his arm, and gently pulls him toward the cliffside. “With this.”
The view unfolds below them—the broad sweep of desert, rolling orange dunes and stone structures, the waterfall they passed still glittering even from here. In the distance, tiny cars speed along the interstate, oblivious.
“They don’t even know what they’re missing,” Jisung says quietly.
Minho nods. “Yeah. I love it up here. My dream is for this place to open again—to have people stop by, see it, fall in love like I did.”
Jisung looks at the horizon, then back at Minho—the calm look on his face, the breeze in his hair, the faint dust of sunlight on his skin. Out of nowhere, a thought hits him hard and fast: I want to be the one to make his dream come true.
The ride back from the old hotel is smooth and quiet. The air is warming up, morning sunlight slanting pale across the canyon walls as they weave down the narrow roads toward town. When they roll into Radiator Springs, Minho parks by the curb. Jisung swings off first, legs a little unsteady. Minho lifts his helmet, ruffling his hair, cheeks flushed under the light.
“Thank you,” Jisung says shyly. “That was… really nice.”
Minho smiles. “Don’t mention it. It was fun for me too.”
Felix waves from beside Bessie, crouched with a wrench in one hand and grease on his cheek. “Oh good, you’re back! She’ll live but I need the seal driver from Chan’s garage. You mind grabbing it?”
“Sure,” Jisung says. He waves bye to Minho and heads up the road, still a little floaty from the ride.
Chan’s garage smells like motor oil and dust. It’s dim inside, the windows hazy. Jisung picks his way between old car parts and toolboxes until he spots the cabinet Felix described. But it’s not a tool that catches his eye first—it’s the yellowed edges of newspaper clippings pinned to a corkboard on one wall.
He steps closer.
A headline glares back at him: “Bang Chan Wins Piston Cup —Three in a Row!”
Jisung frowns, leaning in, following the dates—thirty years ago, give or take. Another clipping shows a photo of a younger Chan, beaming in a racing suit, trophy aloft.
Then, from above, something glints faintly. Jisung cranes his neck and spots them—a row of polished trophies on the top shelf. A line of Piston Cups, each gathering a thin layer of dust.
“What the hell…” he breaths.
“What are you doing?”
Jisung jumps, spinning around as Chan steps out from the doorway, arms crossed.
“You—” Jisung stammers, pointing toward the trophies. “You were Bang Chan? The Bang Chan? Like, six-time Piston Cup champion Bang Chan?”
Chan’s face stays stern. “They’re just cups.”
Jisung nearly vibrates with energy. “Why didn’t you tell me? You were a legend! I remember watching a clip of you in high school—your control was insane. Why did you ever quit?”
Something shifts in Chan’s expression. “You think I quit?”
Jisung freezes. Another headline catches his eye: “Crash! Bang Chan Out for the Season!”
Chan brushes by him, eyes landing on the old clippings. “It was bad. Broke three ribs, two vertebrae, shattered my leg.” His tone carries no self‑pity, just gravel and old ache. “Took a while to put myself back together. When I came back, I thought they’d welcome me with open arms. Instead, they told me I was finished. History. They moved on to the next rookie in line.”
He looks back at Jisung, face falling. “There was a lot left in me. I just never got the chance to show it.”
Jisung swallows. “Then show me,” he blurts.
Chan laughs once, dry.
“I’m serious,” Jisung says. “Let’s go to the track. Let’s see if you still got it.”
Chan squints at the challenge, and Jisung can already tell he’s going to give in.
They end up at the dirt track again, the sun hanging high and bright, dust swirling around the edges of the course.
Jisung waves for Chan to start, and watches as the car glides across the first stretch effortlessly, drifting through turns, tires cutting sharp arcs in the dust. He hits the throttle and spins once in a perfect loop before stopping beside Jisung, who’s standing slack-jawed.
“That was amazing,” Jisung breathes. “You make it look easy.”
“It’s not,” Chan says. “Hop in.”
Jisung slides into the passenger seat, skeptical. Before he can speak, the car jerks forward into a smooth, arcing glide. The wheels bite the loose soil; Chan accelerates, hits the first curve—and instead of slowing, he turns right.The back end swings wide, and they slide cleanly through the corner. Chan doesn’t even flinch.
“You don’t fight dirt,” he says calmly over the roar of the engine. “If you try to hold the car too tight, you’ll spin out. You want control, you have to let go of it a little.”
The car swerves again—left turn, hard right counter steer. They drift smooth around another curve. The motion’s dizzying and mesmerizing all at once.
“You see that?” Chan says. “If you go hard enough left, you’ll find yourself going right. The track decides what works—you just learn to listen.”
Jisung exhales shakily. “That’s insane.”
“That’s racing,” Chan says. He slows the car, stops near the start of the track, and switches off the engine. For a few seconds, only the quiet settling of dust fills the air.
“Everyone wants to be fast,” Chan says, leaning back in the driver’s seat. “But speed’s useless without control, and control’s worthless without patience.”
They spend the next hour trading seats, Chan showing him how to ease into turns instead of muscling through, how to let the tires glide over dirt instead of burying under it. At first, Jisung fights every instinct he has—he oversteers, jerks the throttle, kicks up too much dust. But slowly, something clicks. The car catches the rhythm, starts to move with the curve instead of against it.
“That’s it,” Chan calls out as Jisung slides through a turn without spinning. “Don’t think so hard. Feel it.”
Jisung grins, remembering what it was like to fall in love with racing all those years ago.
Chan folds his arms, watching him coast to a stop, his face shifting to something serious. “Y’know, I keep all that old stuff to remind myself to never go back to that world. And now it’s come to find me.”
Jisung wipes sweat from his brow. “Hey, I’m not like those guys.”
“Really?” Chan’s eyes narrow. “When’s the last time you cared about someone other than yourself?”
The words hit like a punch to the stomach. Jisung opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Chan doesn’t wait for an answer. “The townsfolk here—they’re good people. They care for one another, not because they have to, but because they want to. You could learn from that.”
They drive back into town in silence. Felix waves them down on the roadside, beaming. “Got her fixed! She’s good as new.”
“Thanks,” Jisung says, forcing a small smile.
He climbs back into the operator’s seat, hands dusted with dirt, head still full of Chan's words. As Bessie rumbles to life, Jisung thinks again of Minho’s dream, and feels something ignite in his chest. He jumps right back to work, smoothing and pressing until the last strip of asphalt gleams black and clean under the floodlights. The townspeople gather to help—Changbin re‑hoisting the roadside signs, Jeongin polishing shop windows, Mrs. Kim fussing with flower boxes. One by one, the town flickers back to life.
When the final light clicks on above the repaired road, Jisung knocks on Minho’s door.
“Come on,” he says. “You’ve gotta see this.”
They walk through the main street together. Bright neon signs glow against new pavement, people strolling and laughing. Minho doesn’t say much—but the look on his face says everything. His eyes are shining.
Jisung’s chest tightens. “You like it?”
Minho meets his gaze. “I love it.”
Before Jisung can say more, Chan steps forward from the crowd. “Nice work, superstar. You’re free to go.”
“Yeah…” Jisung forces a weak smile. “Guess I can leave now.” The idea feels heavy suddenly. “Kinda weird. I wish I didn’t have to.”
They drift down the street, stopping to chat with Changbin and Jeongin, sharing snacks with Seungmin, dancing with Mrs. Kim outside the gas station as music floats through the street. Everything feels warm, alive.
Minho bumps his shoulder as they walk. “You know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to go.”
Jisung glances at him. “Of course I do. The race is in two days.”
“Yeah,” Minho murmurs. “But does all that make you happy?”
Jisung hesitates. It sounds nice: staying here, no more pressure, no more competition. But deep down, there’s a passion, a need he can’t shake. “I mean… it’s not easy, but I love racing. I live for it. The speed, the road—it’s like it’s what I was born to do.”
Minho listens, nodding slowly. “Then I get it,” he says softly.
For a moment, Jisung’s chest aches. As much as he isn’t able to give up racing, a part of him can’t seem to accept the idea of leaving, of saying goodbye for good.
“Minho, I—”
Minho suddenly frowns, gaze flicking toward the horizon. “Is that… a car?”
Headlights bloom down the road—one, then dozens. The low rumble of engines grows louder, the glow spreading until the whole street floods with blinding light. Vehicles of every shape and size roll into town, reporters already spilling out, microphones snapping on, cameras flashing.
“Jisung! Where have you been?”
“Did you crash? Are you injured?”
“Are you still racing in Los Angeles?”
Jisung barely has time to blink before Mack barrels through the chaos, face pale. “Kid! Oh, thank god! You’re okay!” Mack grabs his arm. “I’m so sorry—come on, we’ve got to go, we can still make it.”
Jisung stumbles backward, trying to process the noise, the lights, the shouting voices.
“Thanks for the tip,” a reporter says to Chan, who’s standing a bit off to the side.
Jisung’s stomach twists. “You told them?”
Chan just stiffens.
Jisung scans the crowd and catches flashes—Changbin’s concerned face, Seungmin yelling at reporters to back off, Felix trying to get to Jisung. And then Minho, standing just outside the crowd, expression unreadable, but it breaks Jisung’s heart all the same.
“Wait!” Jisung yells, trying to pull free. “I need to say goodbye!”
But Mack’s already pushing him toward the car, cameras closing in. “You can call them later. If you want that win, we’ve gotta go to California now.”
As they speed off down the road, Jisung twists in his seat. The last thing he sees of Radiator Springs is the warm light spilling across the streets—and Minho, still watching until the dust swallows him whole.
Los Angeles hums with noise—crowds, flashbulbs, cameras snapping as Jisung steps out of his trailer. The roar of the track fills the air, the smell of fuel sharp and thick. Everything he’s ever wanted is right here: the Piston Cup finale, the sponsorship scouts, the Dinoco team watching from the VIP box.
He should be excited.
But he isn’t.
Not even a little.
The buzz that used to make his pulse race now feels hollow. The pit area’s nearly empty—his old crew quit after the last race. Now it’s just Mack managing a handful of nervous temp mechanics.
Jisung straps into his car, heart heavy. This was supposed to be it, he thinks. Everything I’ve been working for.
So why does it feel like this?
The green flag drops, engines scream, and the race explodes into motion.
Jisung’s in a good position—top three after the first few laps—but his rhythm’s off. Every time he settles into the curve, something pulls him out. Flashes of light and memory: Minho laughing by the roadside, Minho stretching under the sun, Minho’s hand brushing his shoulder. The image burns across his vision until—
“Jisung, watch the turn!” Mack yells over the radio.
He jerks back into focus—too late. The car fishtails, grazing the inside wall before sliding back into the infield. Gravel spits up, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding too fast to think.
Hyunjin takes the lead, clean and confident, the blue-and-silver car slicing through traffic.
Mack’s voice crackles back in. “You okay, kid?”
Jisung exhales, shaky. “I don’t know, Mack. I don’t think I can do this.”
The radio crackles—then another familiar voice cuts in, even and firm.
“I didn’t come all this way just to watch you quit.”
Jisung freezes. “What the—Chan?”
He looks toward the pit wall—and stares. Chan stands at the crew booth, headset on. Behind him, the Radiator Springs gang crowds around—Felix waving wildly, Changbin and Jeongin wearing matching pit vests, the sheriff holding a clipboard he clearly doesn’t understand.
Chan adjusts the mic. “I heard you needed a crew chief, didn’t know it was this bad.”
Jisung laughs weakly. “I thought you said you’d never come back?”
“Didn’t have much choice,” Chan says. “Felix didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“GOODBYE!” Felix yells over the radio, loud enough to distort the feed.
Chan sighs. “And, well… you know how Minho gets. Very convincing.”
At that, Jisung’s throat tightens. He pulls into the station. The team swarms him—Felix refueling, Jeongin replacing a busted mirror, Changbin checking tire pressure. In half the time it took his old crew, they’re done.
Chan’s voice steadies in his ear. “Alright, superstar. Eyes forward. You can win this with your eyes shut. Now get out there and prove it.”
Jisung punches the accelerator. It’s like something clears in his chest.
Corner after corner, he finds the flow again. Fast, clean, fearless. By the final stretch, he’s in second—right behind Hyunjin.
Chan’s calm but electric over the radio. “You’ve got four turns left. Drive it deep and hold your line.”
Jisung pushes harder. On the next curve, Hyunjin clips his side panel, sending him off the track and into the dirt. Don’t fight it. He turns hard right, lets the back end swing, and drifts through the dirt. Tires bite again, the car slides back onto the asphalt, and Jisung rockets forward into first.
The crowd loses its mind. Chan cheers over the radio.
He’s got one lap left.
Then—chaos. Behind him, metal screams and engines crack. For a moment, all he sees in the rear mirror is smoke. Hyunjin’s car flips once, hard, then collapses into the infield. The track breaks into static and shouting.
The finish line is seconds away. But Jisung’s grip loosens. He sees flashes—the twisted wreckage in the photos of Chan’s crash, the same helpless look in Hyunjin’s car spinning out of control.
He brakes. Hard.
The crowd gasps.
Steering off the main path, he slows next to the crumpled car. Hyunjin’s window is shattered, the right front tire gone, but he’s conscious, dazed, trying to move.
Jisung jumps out, yanking his helmet off. “Hey, don’t move—I’ve got you.”
Hyunjin’s already shoving the door open, face pale and streaked with sweat. He coughs, shoulders trembling. “What are you doing? You were gonna win, you idiot!”
Jisung shrugs. “Eh, it’s just a cup.”
Hyunjin stares as Jisung ducks under his arm, looping it over his shoulders and pulling him upright. Hyunjin limps hard, leg dragging, but together they move—slow, uneven steps across the asphalt.
The announcer’s voice cracks overhead: “Uh… folks, I’ve never seen something like this before. Han Jisung is helping Hwang Hyunjin to the line!”
“Is this allowed?” another voice says.
“I don’t think they care.”
A wave of sound thunders through the stadium as they walk over the finish line. Cheers. Applause. People are on their feet, chanting, clapping, jumping.
Chan’s voice comes faint over the radio still clipped to Jisung’s suit. “You did good, kid. Real good.”
The chaos fades as the race ends. At the Dinoco station, the medical crews rush forward—paramedics sprinting with stretchers and equipment. One grabs Hyunjin gently by the shoulders, guiding him down, while another checks on Jisung. He waves them off, eyes still on his rival being loaded into the ambulance.
“You’re insane,” Hyunjin mutters, managing a tired grin.
Jisung exhales, every muscle in his body shaking. “Yeah, yeah. Just know I’m beating you next time.”
Hyunjin’s team is grateful, thanking him profusely. Press crowds in, reporters calling questions from all directions; Jisung just nods blankly, heart still hammering.
Then someone yells his name. He turns—and Minho is pushing through the crowd.
Jisung barely has time to react before Minho’s arms are around him, tight and warm. The noise blurs instantly.
“Wha—I thought you didn’t come,” Jisung says, breath catching.
“Of course I came,” Minho says, pulling back just enough to look at him. “I was in the stands. You were incredible out there.”
Jisung’s heart swells so fast it hurts. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Minho says, a smile crinkling his eyes. “You really are a superstar.”
They’re still standing close, neither quite letting go—until a tap lands on Jisung’s shoulder. A deep voice breaks in.
“Mind if I have a word?”
Jisung turns to see Mr. Tex, head of Dinoco, hat in hand.
Minho steps away, sending a small wave. “I’ll see you around, hotshot.”
“Son, that was some real good racing out there,” Tex says with a smile. “How’d you like to be a part of the Dinoco team?”
Jisung blinks. “But I didn’t win.”
“There’s a lot more to racing than winning,” Tex laughs. “And what you showed out there is exactly what the racing world needs.”
Jisung glances past him—the old Rust‑eze sponsor talking with Felix and Changbin near the pit wall, laughing and clapping. They look so proud, so alive.
He shakes his head gently. “I appreciate it, sir. But the folks at Rust‑eze gave me my start. I’m sticking with them.”
Tex smiles, tipping his hat. “Can’t argue with that. If you ever need anything, kid, you let me know.”
Jisung nods. “Actually… there might be one thing.”
Changbin and Jeongin’s garage bursts with noise—top drivers passing through for tune-ups, journalists sniffing around, the place livelier than it’s been in years. Changbin gawks as another famous face walks in. “I can’t believe this. We’re booked solid for weeks!” Jeongin laughs, re‑arranging tools.
Outside, Felix leans out of the Dinoco helicopter, cackling over the radio. “Guys! I can see the whole town from up here!”
“He’s gonna fall and die,” Seungmin says with a sigh.
Down the main road, Jisung steps out of his shiny red sports car, waving to everyone as he passes. Chan is pinning a new Radiator Springs Piston Cup banner to the lamppost.
“Where’s Minho?”
Chan smirks. “Where do you think?” He shakes his head, waving in the rearview mirror as Jisung drives off toward the canyon.
At the old hotel, Minho sits by the cliffside, the late afternoon sun painting gold across his skin. He turns at the sound of tires crunching gravel.
“Hey,” he says softly as Jisung gets out. “Just passing through?”
“Actually,” Jisung says, walking closer, “I thought I might stay awhile. I hear this place is back on the map.”
“Really?”
Jisung plops down next to him. “Yeah, there’s a rumor floating around that some hotshot race car driver is setting up his racing headquarters here.”
“Ohh,” Minho’s mouth twists into a small grin, “is that so?”
Jisung shrugs, pretending not to smile. “Well, y'know. I guess this place grew on me.” He looks at Minho for a long moment—his hair falling over his forehead, the sunlight catching his eyes. “I really missed you, Minho,” he says quietly.
Minho’s face softens. He leans in, presses a light kiss against Jisung’s lips, then pulls back just enough to murmur, “Me too.”
Jisung smiles and leans in for more, but Minho stands quickly.
“Last one to Seungmin’s buys dinner.” He hops onto his bike, revs the engine, and shoots off down the road.
Jisung blinks, then laughs. “You little—get back here, you fucker!”
His car roars to life, diving after Minho as dust bursts behind his wheels. The two of them streak down the winding road, laughter echoing through the canyon. Jisung lets Minho win, and they talk over milkshakes and burgers, the town humming around them under the endless open sky.