The air was fresh and still as Nico rolled his kart out of the van, its wheels squeaking faintly against the gravel. His breath clouded in the cool dawn, and the faint glow of the rising sun painted the edges of the world in gold. He glanced at the card in his hand, now slightly wrinkled from being handled too often. The quickly scribbled number stared back at him like a challenge.
Ahead of him, outlined against the pale light, a figure stood by what might generously be called a track. Faded white lines and bunch of weeds marked its boundaries. The figure was stationary, hands in his jacket pockets, the stance of someone who didn't mind waiting but hated being late.
"You're early," the figure said without turning around. The voice was unmistakable—deep, commanding, and strangely compelling.
"You said sunrise," Nico replied, setting his kart down and brushing the dust from his hands. "I wasn't going to waste your time."
The man—Vincent—turned to face him. In the dim light, his sharp features looked even more seasoned, each line and crease etched with experience. "Good. You'll need that attitude. Racing isn't for the lazy or the faint-hearted."
Nico stiffened under the man's gaze, feeling both inspected and challenged. He watched as Vincent walked over to his kart, crouching beside it with a practiced eye.
"This is what you brought?" Vincent asked, his voice heavy with skepticism. His fingers traced the frame, lingering on the patches and welds that held the kart together.
"It's all I have," Nico said, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his tone.
Vincent let out a low hum, neither approval nor disapproval. "She's seen better days. But she's held together, somehow. You make this work on the track?"
"I do what I can," Nico shot back, his voice firmer this time.
Vincent stood, dusting off his hands. "We'll see. Track's rough, but it'll do. Three laps. Full speed. Don't hold back."
Nico nodded, slipping into the familiar rhythm of preparation. Gloves, helmet, and the kart sputtering to life under his touch. The engine's cough was almost embarrassing against the silence of the morning, but he didn't let it faze him.
He rolled the kart to the start line Vincent had marked with a pair of stones and focused on the road ahead.
"Go!" Vincent shouted, the single word sharp enough to make Nico jump into action.
The kart swerved forward, tires spinning slightly before finding grip. The engine roared its protest as Nico pushed it as hard as it could go. Dust and loose gravel flew up behind him, the air thick with the smell of fuel and metal.
The track was unforgiving. Every bump banged his bones, and every patch of overgrown grass threatened to throw him off balance. But Nico's hands were steady on the wheel. He leaned into each corner, braking late and accelerating early, squeezing every ounce of speed from the aging machine.
"Late braking," he whispered to himself as he approached a particularly sharp bend. The tires squealed, and the kart trembled, but it held.
By the second lap, his arms burned from the effort of wrestling the wheel through the tight turns. The straight sections were worse—the engine's limitations glaringly obvious as it struggled to pick up speed. But Nico didn't let up.
The third lap felt like a battle of wills. His kart against the track, his determination against the strain on his body. When he finally crossed the finish line, he killed the engine and fell back in his seat, his chest heaving.
Vincent was waiting, arms crossed and expression unreadable.
"Not bad," he said, his tone giving nothing away. "Your lines are tight, and you know how to compensate for the kart's weaknesses. But you're leaving time on the table in the straights. That engine's holding you back."
Nico peeled off his helmet, his hair damp with sweat. "Tell me something I don't know."
Vincent raised an eyebrow. "Attitude, huh? Good. You'll need it." He gestured toward the kart. "This thing won't get you far in the leagues. But with the right tools, you could go places."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Nico asked, his hands tightening on the wheel.
"It means I've got access to tools, connections, and knowledge you don't," Vincent said, his sharp eyes locking onto Nico's. "But it also means you've got to prove you're worth the investment."
Nico frowned. "Why me? There are plenty of other drivers with better karts, better records."
Vincent's expression darkened, and for a moment, Nico thought he saw something like regret in the man's eyes. "Because I know what it's like to start at the bottom. To fight for every scrap of recognition. I see that in you. But don't think I'm doing this out of charity. If you waste my time, we're done. Got it?"
Nico hesitated, the weight of Vincent's words settling on his shoulders. "What do you want me to do?"
"First, I want you to fix that piece of junk you call a kart," Vincent said, his voice matter-of-fact. "You've got raw talent, but talent alone won't cut it. I'll give you access to a workshop and parts. The rest is on you. I want to see how much you're willing to work for this."
"And then?" Nico asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Then we'll see if you've got what it takes to move up the ranks," Vincent said. He stepped closer, his presence striking. "But understand this: I don't do handouts. Every advantage I give you, you'll earn."
Nico nodded slowly, his doubts swirling but his determination solidifying. "Okay. When do we start?"
Vincent smirked. "Tomorrow. Same time. Don't be late."
As Vincent turned and walked away, Nico stood by his kart, his mind racing. This could be it—the chance he'd been waiting for.
But it wouldn't come easy.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Nico returned home with his kart, his father's curious gaze following him as he pushed it into their small garage.
"You're back early," his dad remarked, wiping his hands on a rag. "What happened?"
Nico hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "Met someone. He's offering to help me—if I prove myself."
His father's brows furrowed. "Help you how?"
"With parts. A workshop," Nico said, his voice cautious. "He seems to know what he's talking about."
His father sighed, setting down the rag. "Be careful, Nico. Not everyone who offers help has good intentions."
"I know, Dad," Nico said quietly. "But I can't pass this up."
His father stared at him for a moment before nodding. "Alright. But don't get your hopes up too high. This racing world—it's tough. You're going to need more than talent to make it."
Nico nodded, though his mind was already elsewhere.
That night, Nico sat at the kitchen table, an old manual spread out in front of him. The pages were yellowed, the diagrams dirty from years of use. He traced the lines of an engine diagram, mentally noting what he'd need to upgrade his kart.
His father appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "You sure about this?"
Nico looked up, his brown eyes steady. "I have to be."
His father nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Then I'll help where I can. But this is your dream, Nico. Make it count."
Nico nodded, the weight of his father's words settling on his shoulders. Tomorrow, the real work would begin.