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Summary
So, Satoru hummed, amused, “Think you can keep up?”
“I think I’ll beat you,” and he said it so matter-of-fact that the words began to uncomfortably pick at Satoru’s smile with a dental sickle.
Satoru glowered into the black of his visor, annoyance crawling up his neck like scrawny fingers itching to strangle him.
“And why would you believe that?”
A smirk practically painted itself on the devil’s helmet, “You’ll see why.”
// OR: Satoru knew he wasn’t supposed to find the invitation to an illegal motorcycle race. He knew he wasn’t supposed to take the White Fox’s identity. He wasn’t supposed to participate, not when he was the heir to his father's investment bank, not as an actor whose popularity spread like a virus.
But the one decision that'd be his own pulled through the cracks of grief and a flawless reputation, whose only medicine had always been the sound of his engine and the adrenaline in his blood. After all, there was no harm in pretending to be someone who had dropped out of the race. And surely, there was no harm in beating the arrgoant devil biker prick to really show him what defeat tasted like.
Nothing would go wrong. Nothing at all.