Chapter Text
“And it’s a perfect day here in Austin for the United States Grand Prix—thirty laps,twelve teams, and all eyes on the man of the hour, Choi Seungcheol!”
The announcer’s voice crackles over the speakers, swallowed by the roar of engines.
Cameras pan across the grid, catching flashes of color and sponsorship decals, the gleam of carbon fiber under the Texas sun.
Tens of thousands of fans scream from the stands — flags waving, camera flashes bursting like fireworks. Reporters crowd the paddock, microphones out, shouting questions that drown in the mechanical growl of the cars lining up for the formation lap.
And then the camera finds him.
Choi Seungcheol — Team Eclipse, car number 17, reigning World Champion.He strides into the pit lane in his custom black and red race suit, the stitching glinting faintly with his name. His helmet dangles from one gloved hand as he lifts the other, waving to the stands with a grin that looks effortless, practiced — the kind of smile built for interviews, podiums, and million-dollar sponsorship deals.
“Crowd favorite Seungcheol makes his entrance! Pole position again — that’s his fifth this season! The man is unstoppable!”
The pit crew swarms around his car, checking tire pressures, tightening wheel nuts, calibrating the front wing. The air smells like hot rubber and burnt fuel. The sound — a low, thunderous symphony of revving engines and heartbeats.
“Ready when you are, Captain,” his race engineer calls, voice steady through the comms.
Seungcheol nods, slipping into the cockpit with muscle memory older than most of his regrets.
The carbon fiber seat molds perfectly to his back. The steering wheel’s controls blink alive — brake balance, differential, DRS mode, fuel mix.
He tugs on his gloves. Fastens the HANS device.
Helmet on. Visor down.
World off.
For a brief moment, there’s only silence. Just the weight of the suit pressing against his chest and the faint tremor in his fingers before ignition.
Then —
The engine roars to life beneath him, a beast waking up for battle. “Five red lights on the grid—”
Seungcheol’s breath catches, not with nerves but with something else — that mix of anticipation and fatigue that’s been living in his lungs for months now. “—and we’re lights out and away they go!”
He launches from pole, the G-force shoving him back into the seat as the car screams down the main straight. He hits turn one, apex clean, downshifts twice — precision born of repetition. The crowd becomes one endless blur.
It’s the same rush as always.
The same chaos.
The same noise that used to make his heart race — now just fills the silence where excitement used to live.
Lap one ends.
He’s leading. Of course he’s leading.
The team cheers over the radio, but he can barely hear them anymore.
Inside the helmet, where no one can see him, Choi Seungcheol exhales.
And for a split second, he wonders what it would feel like to stop running.
The checkered flag waves.
Thirty laps, one finish line, and another victory for Choi Seungcheol.
The crowd erupts as his car crosses first.
Fireworks.
Sirens.
Cameras flashing like a storm.
His radio crackles with the team shouting congratulations — “P1 again, Captain! That’s how it’s done!” but Seungcheol just lets the sound wash over him like static.
He guides the car back to the pit lane, the engine cooling beneath the carbon shell. The moment he steps out, he’s surrounded — team members clapping his back, a microphone shoved toward his face before he even removes his helmet.
“Seungcheol! Congratulations! Another win for Team Eclipse — that’s three in a row! How do you feel heading into Singapore?”
“What’s your strategy for the next Grand Prix?”
“Rumors say you’re eyeing another championship record—”
“Any thoughts on retirement, or are you planning to extend your contract for next season?”
The words blur together. The questions always sound the same — just rearranged.
He forces a smile, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle perfectly at the corners. “We’ll see,” he says lightly into the nearest camera, voice calm, controlled. “Right now, I’m just grateful for the team. We’ll take it one race at a time.”
They laugh, they nod, they thank him — and he keeps smiling, just like he was trained to.
Because his father once told him:
A single twitch of your mouth becomes a headline.
A single sigh becomes a scandal.
So he smiles.
Even when his jaw aches.
The podium ceremony follows.
He stands on the highest step, champagne bottle in hand, confetti raining down. The anthem plays, the crowd chants his name, and flashbulbs ignite across the paddock. He raises the bottle, lets the spray coat his suit, his hair, his fake grin.
On the big screen, he looks like joy personified — confident, charismatic, unstoppable.
Inside, it feels like muscle memory. Like a performance he’s been giving so long he’s forgotten what it’s supposed to mean.
After the press conference — after the interviews, the photos, the endless parade of polite laughter — he finally steps away from the crowd.
The sound fades. The lights dim. His heartbeat slows.
And then:
“Seungcheol.”
His father’s voice — deep, steady, commanding.
Mr. Choi stands by the paddock entrance in a sharp charcoal suit, flanked by two sponsors. The man radiates control; the kind of presence that turns conversations into negotiations without trying.
Seungcheol straightens instinctively.
His father extends a hand — firm handshake, brief pull into a hug that feels more like a formality than warmth. Cameras still linger, even here.
“You did well today,” his father says, tone perfectly even. “This is the level of consistency we need to maintain. Your performance is at its peak, Seungcheol — and so is your visibility. Don’t lose momentum now.”
“Yes, sir,” Seungcheol replies, his voice steady. “Thank you.”
His father smiles, brief and polished, already turning toward the next conversation with a sponsor.
Seungcheol exhales silently.
“Excuse me,” he says softly, “I’ll go get some rest before the flight.”
He leaves the paddock, the roar of the crowd still echoing faintly behind him. The night air outside the circuit is heavy with heat and engine fumes, but it feels quieter — almost peaceful.
He looks back once, at the floodlights illuminating the track. The same lights that have watched him for ten years.
For the first time, the sight doesn’t thrill him. It just feels… tired.
He pockets his hands, shoulders sagging for the first time all day.
He’s still smiling.
Because that’s what the world expects from Choi Seungcheol.
Even when all he wants is to stop pretending.
******
The door shuts with a heavy click and, for the first time all day, the noise stays outside.
The tinted glass swallows the sound of the crowd, leaving only the low hum of the engine as the car pulls away from the circuit.
Seungcheol sinks into the leather seat, still in his fire-proof undershirt, the collar damp with champagne and sweat. The city slides by in streaks of orange and red. Neon, headlights, camera flashes—all blurring into one long smear of color.
Ten years of this.
Ten years of running toward the same lights.
He presses a palm over his chest, feels his pulse still racing even though the competition ended half an hour ago. His body hasn’t learned how to stop yet.
He remembers being eight years old, standing beside his father in a VIP box, the sound of engines shaking through the floor. His father had leaned down, voice proud and certain:
“That’s the sound of victory, son. Someday, it’ll be yours.”
Back then he’d believed it.
He’d loved the smell of fuel, the sleek shapes of the cars, the way every driver looked like a hero in armor. When he begged to learn karting, his parents didn’t hesitate. Trainers, private coaches, weekends at the track instead of playgrounds.
He thought it was freedom.
At sixteen, his father told the sponsors’ board that Seungcheol was their “future star.”
At eighteen, he got his license.
At nineteen, he signed his first contract. The youngest Korean driver ever to join the grid. Cameras, headlines, expectations—everything landed at once.
And he’d loved it, or at least he told himself he did.
The interviews, the trophies, the way people screamed his name like he belonged to them.
But somewhere between the fifth and the fiftieth podium, something in him had gone quiet.
He should want this.
He should feel alive.
Instead, each race feels more like repetition than purpose—just another lap around a track that never ends.
He stares out the window at the freeway lights flickering past.
The same rhythm as a circuit. The same loop.
Maybe this was never really his dream.
Maybe he’s been living the dream his parents built for him, one sponsorship at a time.
When you don’t love what you do—when the love was planted in you by someone else—it burns out eventually.
And his fuel tank is running dry.
He’d tried to say it before. Little hints dropped during family dinners, off-hand comments about “slowing down next season.” His father never even paused.
“Nonsense. You’re at your peak.”
“Don’t waste momentum.”
“What reason could you possibly have to stop now?”
Every talk ended the same way:
If he couldn’t give a valid reason—something tangible, respectable—then racing would remain his life.
The driver sighs, eyes closing as the car merges onto the highway. The rhythmic thud of tires on asphalt almost sounds like a heartbeat.
Maybe this is it, he thinks.
Another season, another circuit, another year pretending this is enough.
He lets his head rest against the window, eyelids heavy.
Outside, the lights of Austin fade behind him, the city shrinking into dots against the dark.
Inside, the silence grows loud with everything he’s never said.
And in that quiet, Seungcheol finally admits to himself what he can’t yet tell his father:
He’s tired of chasing engines.
He’s tired of running in circles.
He just wants to stop.
******
The car slows as it turns into the hotel driveway. Through the tinted glass, Seungcheol spots them immediately—dozens of cameras lined along the barricades, lenses glinting under the streetlights. Even at midnight, they wait: reporters, fans, flashes ready.
His driver clears his throat. “Do you want me to pull to the side entrance, sir?”
Seungcheol shakes his head. The team PR had already told him it would look bad to “avoid” the press. He has an image to maintain. Always the composed champion. Always smiling.
“Front’s fine,” he says quietly.
The car rolls to a stop. The instant the door opens, light explodes in his face.
“Seungcheol! One picture—!”
“Captain Choi, any words before Singapore?”
“Do you think this season could be your record breaker?”
“You’re turning thirty soon! Is there anyone special inspiring your wins lately?”
“Rumors say you’ve been seen with a model recently—are you seeing someone?”
“Any thoughts of settling down now that you’ve achieved everything on the track?”
The questions jab at him like sparks. Personal, invasive, too close.
He keeps the smile fixed, shoulders squared, the way years of media training taught him. “I’m just focusing on racing right now,” he says evenly. “We’ve got Singapore coming up—let’s do our best there first.”
Another flash. Another question about love—the kind of thing his father would call human interest marketing.
Seungcheol laughs politely, a sound rehearsed enough to hide the edge beneath. “No plans like that yet. The season’s busy.”
Every answer is a performance: safe, polished, empty.
He can feel the fatigue settling deeper with every camera click. He’s still in his race gear, the champagne scent clinging to his sleeves, and yet the spotlight doesn’t fade—it just follows him off the track and into the lobby, relentless.
When the elevator doors finally close behind him, cutting off the noise and the lights, Seungcheol exhales for the first time since the flag dropped.
A hollow kind of quiet fills the space. He presses his palms over his eyes.
Even here, he’s still performing.
Even alone, he’s still in character.
The elevator hums upward. The lobby disappears beneath him.
For a moment, all he can think is how peaceful it must feel to be somewhere no one expects you to smile.
The suite door closes behind him with a soft click.
Silence again — real silence this time. No engines. No shouting. No cameras.
Seungcheol drops his duffel by the couch, peels off his team jacket, and sinks into the edge of the bed. The city lights spill through the wide windows, painting his reflection in silver and shadow. For the first time in days, he lets his shoulders fall.
He’s bone-tired — the kind of tired that seeps through muscles and sits heavy in the chest.
He rubs a hand over his face, exhales slowly, and reaches for his phone.
One notification glows at the top of the screen: Congratulations Choi (22 unread).
The name makes him smile despite himself.
That group chat has existed since they were fifteen — first-year high school students who thought it was hilarious to rename it every time someone in the group achieved something remotely impressive. When Mingyu passed his driver’s test. When Soonyoung got his first choreography gig. When Jeonghan was scouted by a modeling agency.
Now it’s his turn again.
Congratulations Choi.
He opens it, and the flood of messages hits immediately.
Vernon: bro that overtake in lap 12 was INSANE
Mingyu: we’re celebrating when you get back. No excuses.
Soonyoung: yeah Trigger on Friday LET’S GO
Chan: bar’s yours. I’ll close early, just text me what time 😎
The corners of Seungcheol’s mouth lift, the smallest trace of a laugh slipping out. The chat scrolls too fast to keep up with — half jokes, half genuine pride.
For a moment, the exhaustion in his body lightens. These people have known him long before the trophies, before the fame — back when “speed” meant racing to get to lunch first and “sponsorships” meant pooling coins for tteokbokki after school.
He scrolls again, noticing one thing missing.
One name.
No Jeonghan.
His brows lift slightly. The loudest one of all, quiet for once? Impossible.
He’s halfway through typing “Where’s the chatterbox?” when the screen lights up.
Jeonghan: CHOI SEUNGCHEOL CONGRATULATIONS 🎉🎉🎉
Jeonghan: I’M STILL IN NEW YORK I JUST SNUCK MY PHONE OUT 😭 WAIT FOR ME BEFORE YOU CELEBRATE!!!
Seungcheol can’t help but laugh — a full, unguarded sound this time. He can practically hear Jeonghan’s voice through the caps lock, see the dramatic gestures and exaggerated pout.
Of course he’d sneak his phone out just to yell across the ocean.
Some things never change.
Jeonghan’s been like that since the day they met — loud, dramatic, effortlessly charming, and somehow always the one who ended up taking charge of their entire group without ever meaning to. The kind of person who could convince you to do anything, if only because it made him laugh.
He types back quickly.
Seungcheol: I’m the one celebrating, so I get to pick the date.
Jeonghan’s reply is immediate.
Jeonghan: 😭😭😭🙏 if you start without me I’ll cry fr
Seungcheol snorts.
Seungcheol: fine. Send a video of you crying then.
The chat explodes in laughter emojis.
For the first time all day, Seungcheol feels the tension in his shoulders melt. His smile this time is real — small but warm, the kind that doesn’t need an audience.
Dokyeom: when’s your flight home?
Seungcheol: tomorrow. I’ll be free Friday night.
Chan: done. Trigger’s closed for everyone else Friday.
Jeonghan: perfect 😎 my flight’s tomorrow too. I’ll be in Seoul by Friday night. don’t start without me.
Seungcheol shakes his head, amusement softening the fatigue.
He sets the phone down on the nightstand and leans back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut.
The buzz of messages still lights up the screen, but the sound feels comforting now — a pulse of something genuine in a world that’s grown too polished.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows it deeply:
These people — this messy, ridiculous, loud group — are his constants.
The only part of his life that feels like his own.
For the first time that night, Choi Seungcheol falls asleep smiling — not for the cameras, not for the crowd, but for himself.
******
The morning light filters through the hotel curtains — too bright, too sharp.
Seungcheol sits at the edge of his bed, shirt half-buttoned, suitcase open beside him. His flight isn’t until the afternoon, but he’s already packed, already restless.
There’s a knock at the door.
He doesn’t need to ask who it is.
His father steps inside, crisp suit immaculate despite the Texas heat, the faint scent of cologne and authority filling the room.
“Morning, son.”
“Morning.”
The older man sets a tablet on the table — the screen glowing with sponsor logos, graphs, meeting schedules. “I’ve been on calls since dawn. Your performance last night brought in three new potential sponsors. Singapore is going to be crucial for closing the deals, so we’ll be meeting them during the off-week. Your PR team already has a draft itinerary—”
“Can I breathe first?”
It comes out softer than intended, almost a plea.
His father doesn’t pause. “You can rest on the flight. Opportunities like this don’t wait, Seungcheol. You’re at your peak now — every second counts.”
Seungcheol lets out a quiet laugh — small, tired, bitter around the edges. “At my peak, huh?”
His father looks up, brow furrowing. “You don’t sound proud.”
“I just…” He exhales, eyes fixed on the carpet. “What if I don’t want to keep doing this?”
The silence that follows is immediate and absolute. The kind that swallows oxygen.
His father’s gaze sharpens. “What did you say?”
“What if I retire?” Seungcheol’s voice steadies as he meets his father’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve raced for ten years. Maybe it’s time to—”
“Don’t.”
The word cuts through the air like a blade.
Seungcheol blinks.
“Don’t disappoint me. Don’t disappoint your mother.” His father’s tone is calm — too calm — but there’s iron beneath it. “You were born for this, Seungcheol. You have the talent, the sponsors, the recognition. Do you know how many people would kill for what you have?”
He almost smiles — but it’s not a happy one. “So I don’t have a choice then, do I?”
“You always have a choice,” his father replies, voice cool and firm. “But make the right one.”
Seungcheol’s throat tightens. “And if I say I’m tired? If I say I don’t love it anymore?”
His father steps closer, his expression unreadable. “Then you’re being ungrateful. For the chances you were given. For the people who believed in you. For the life your mother and I built for you.”
Ungrateful.
The word echoes, heavy.
It lands somewhere deep in his chest, where resentment and guilt already live side by side.
He doesn’t argue. He’s too tired to.
Instead, he zips his suitcase shut, the sound slicing through the silence. “I’ll head to the airport soon,” he says, voice even. “Once I land, I’ll go home to see Mom.”
His father nods once — curt, decisive. “Good. She’ll be happy to see you.”
That’s it.
Conversation over, like it always is.
As his father leaves, the door closes with the same quiet finality as before.
But this time, the silence feels heavier — like gravity itself is pressing down.
Seungcheol stares at the door for a long moment, then at his reflection in the mirror: the clean-cut, disciplined man the world sees.
The perfect son. The perfect driver. The perfect puppet.
He laughs again, hollow and breathless. “Ungrateful,” he mutters under his breath. “Right.”
He picks up his suitcase, phone, passport.
There’s nothing left to say.
The plane touches down at Incheon just past noon.
Even before the seatbelt light flicks off, Seungcheol can already hear the distant hum of chaos waiting outside the terminal.
By the time he steps through the arrival gates, it’s there — a wall of flashes and noise.
Reporters pushing forward, microphones raised, fans cheering his name.
“Captain Choi! Welcome home!”
“What’s next after your win in Austin?”
“Are you looking forward to Singapore?”
“Any thoughts about taking a break, or maybe settling down soon?”
His smile slots into place like armor.
Polite, practiced, perfect.
“Thank you,” he answers evenly, offering nods and short laughs between flashes. “I’m just focused on the next race. One step at a time.”
Every movement is rehearsed — the kind of grace that comes from years of pretending the noise doesn’t touch you.
The crowd calls his name like a prayer; he waves like a deity already halfway gone.
Finally, the black car waiting at the curb offers escape. The driver opens the door, and as soon as Seungcheol slides inside, the tinted glass seals the chaos behind him.
The ride home is quiet.
Outside, Seoul blurs past — skyscrapers giving way to cleaner streets, wider roads, until they reach an exclusive private village where the houses are more like glass museums than homes.
When the car stops in front of a five-story mansion, all steel and windows gleaming under the afternoon sun, Seungcheol’s chest loosens just a little.
Through the glass door, he sees her — his mother, already waving, eyes crinkled with joy.
The moment he steps out, her arms are around him.
“My son,” she says softly, voice warm and full. “You did so well. I watched everything.”
Seungcheol laughs quietly, hugging her back. “You always do.”
Inside, the house smells like home — soft floral perfume, clean linen, and something savory from the kitchen. The living room is overflowing with gifts, flowers, congratulatory banners. He shakes his head with a small smile.
“You didn’t have to go this far, Mom.”
“Nonsense,” she says, waving him off. “My son won again! And I was so busy cooking your favorites — you must be starving.”
He sits at the long dining table as she brings out plates, fussing over every detail. The weight that’s been pressing on him since Austin lightens with every familiar movement — the way she scolds him for looking too thin, the way she hums while pouring soup.
When she finally settles across from him, she sighs. “Your father didn’t come home with you?”
“He’s still working,” Seungcheol says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Meetings. Sponsors.”
His mother clicks her tongue, eyes soft with worry. “He’s too hard on you.”
He looks down at his bowl. “He just wants what’s best.”
She reaches over, her hand warm as it cups his cheek. “If it ever gets too loud, too heavy… run to me, okay?”
The words nearly undo him.
For a second, Seungcheol forgets how to breathe.
He nods, forcing a small smile. “It’s been a little much lately, Mom. I just want to breathe.”
“Do you want me to talk to your father?”
He lets out a low, bitter chuckle. “It wouldn’t matter.”
Her thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, gentle and knowing. “Then listen to me instead.”
She pauses, eyes glimmering with quiet strength. “If your heart finds the right reason to stop… tell it to us. Not out of fear. Out of honesty.”
Seungcheol meets her gaze, something fragile and tired flickering behind his smile. “Okay.”
Outside, the city hums like it always does — endless, unstoppable.
Inside, for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol feels still.
His mother keeps talking, about the food, about the garden, about things that don’t demand performance. He listens, quietly, the way he always does — storing her words like oxygen.
And when the sunlight fades, painting the glass walls gold, Seungcheol finally realizes how long it’s been since he’s felt at peace.
Just a little.
Just enough.