The makeshift press area buzzed with energy, the hum of conversations, and the rapid clicking of cameras filling the air. Sun sat on a raised platform, his white leather jacket catching the glare of the stage lights. His golden-blonde hair peeked out beneath his sleek racing helmet, its visor dark and sharp like a beak. The helmet quickly became his signature, adding an air of mystery to his persona as "The Hawk."
This was his first official press conference as a rising star in the racing world, and the room was packed with journalists, reporters, and photographers eager to get a glimpse of the enigmatic racer. Microphones were thrust toward him as questions flew from all directions.
"Why the helmet, Hawk? Are you planning to keep your identity hidden permanently?"
"What drew you to racing? Was it always your dream?"
"Some are already calling you the future of the sport. How do you feel about the pressure that comes with that title?"
Sun leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. The dark visor reflected the faces of the press as he responded, his voice calm, deliberate, and laced with a touch of humor. "The helmet? Let's just say it keeps things interesting," he replied, earning a few chuckles. "Racing's about more than who I am under here. It's about what happens on the track."
Another reporter chimed in. "You've been dominating the circuits so far. Do you think the anonymity gives you an edge over other racers?" Sun tilted his head slightly, the movement almost birdlike. "An edge? Maybe. But at the end of the day, it's the racing that matters—not the mystery." The crowd murmured in approval, cameras clicking furiously as the journalists scribbled notes. In the sea of faces, one figure caught Sun's eye. A young man stood near the back of the room, a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. Unlike the others, he wasn't shouting questions or jockeying for attention. He simply observed, his sharp eyes focused on Sun with an intensity that felt different from the rest.
Sun's gaze lingered for a moment longer than he intended. The man had an air of quiet confidence that intrigued him. There was something about the way this one carried himself, the way he watched without pressing for answers, that set him apart.
"Focus, Hawk," Sun reminded himself silently, forcing his attention back to the reporters. Another question cut through the noise. "What do you want to achieve in your career, Hawk? Is it just about winning?"
Sun's posture straightened, and his tone lowered slightly, carrying more weight. "Winning's part of it, sure. But it's about more than that. It's about proving something—to myself, the people who've supported me, and anyone out there who's ever been told they can't chase their dreams. Racing is not just a sport. It's a chance to show the world who you are."
The room fell quiet momentarily, the gravity of his words sinking in before the questions resumed. As the interview continued, Sun's attention briefly flickered back to that one reporter, catching him smiling faintly as he jotted something down in his notebook. Sun made a mental note:
This one is different...
When the session wrapped up, and the press began to disperse, Sun rose to his feet, stretching slightly. As he turned to leave, he glanced one last time at the stranger, who was slipping his notebook into his bag and preparing to go.
"Let's see where this goes," Sun thought, a small smile forming beneath the visor. With that, he stepped off the stage, the hum of the press fading behind him, though the image of the mysterious journalist lingered in his mind.
—A few days later—
The late afternoon sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow over the practice track. Sun rolled his bike into the pit area; dust swirled around his boots as he killed the engine. He leaned forward on the handlebars for a moment to catch his breath. As always, the reflective bird-shaped visor of his helmet hid his face, maintaining the mystery surrounding him.
Just as he got off and reached for his water bottle, a voice called out, clear and confident but a bit out of breath. "You're not going to give me a comment, are you, Hawk?" Sun turned, his helmet helping him mask his surprise. A young man stood a few feet away, holding a small notebook and pen. He wore a cute cardigan over a simple shirt and jeans, and his dark hair wind-swept haphazardly as if he ran from the stands down to the garage as soon as the racer pulled up. A press badge hung loosely around his neck, and his sharp, honey eyes carried a mix of curiosity and amusement behind silver-rimmed glasses.
That journalist from the press conference.
"I don't do comments," Sun said, his voice slightly muffled through the helmet. The man grinned. "I figured. That's why I thought I'd come here to get one in person. Mel Rosscrest, Racer's Edge. And before you say no again, let me just say—I'm persistent." Sun leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he rested against his bike. "Persistent, huh? That's why you're wasting your time on a no-name racer?"
"Anonymous racer," Mel corrected, holding up a finger. "Big difference. A no-name doesn't dominate the track the way you do, doesn't make every lap look effortless, and definitely doesn't spark conspiracy theories about their identity online." Sun tilted his head slightly, amused but cautious. "Conspiracy theories?"
"Oh, yeah," Mel said with a chuckle, flipping open his notebook. "Some people think you're a retired pro making a comeback. Others say you're the secret protégé of Ra Pratunam, especially because of your name and the bird-helmet. My favorite theory, though? You're an AI riding the bike remotely."
That got a laugh out of Sun, a short, sharp sound. "AI? That's a new one."
"Glad I could entertain you," Mel said, jotting something in his notebook. "But seriously, Hawk—why stay anonymous? You've got talent, speed, precision. If you revealed who you were, you'd be a household name in no time. What's the hold-up?" Sun shrugged, keeping his voice neutral. "Not everyone's chasing fame. I'm here to race, not put on a show." Mel raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Fair, but you do realize the mystery is the show, right? People can't stop talking about you. The racing forums are practically a shrine to your highlights."
"And you're here to dig up my secrets?" Sun asked, leaning forward slightly. "Not exactly," Mel admitted, his grin softening. "I'm here because you're good. Like, really good. I've covered enough races to know when someone's got that edge. You do. I just want to know what drives you to stay in the shadows when the spotlight's right there waiting for you."
Sun was silent for a moment, his helmet giving nothing away. Finally, he spoke. "Maybe I'm not ready for the spotlight. Or maybe the spotlight's not ready for me." Mel smirked, jotting the line down. "Cryptic. I like it. One last question: when the time comes—if it comes—will you reveal who you are?" Sun tilted his head slightly, considering the question. "Maybe. If the time's right." Mel nodded, snapping his notebook shut. "Fair enough, Hawk. I'll leave you to it. For now. But something tells me we'll be talking again soon."
As Mel turned to leave, Sun called out, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "You're not bad at this, Rosscrest." Mel glanced back, his grin wide. "Neither are you, Hawk." Then he disappeared towards the exit, leaving Sun alone with the roar of engines in the distance and the quiet hum of questions left unanswered.
–☀︎–
The soft glow of the desk lamp cast long shadows in Sun's room as he sat down at his computer, still wearing the casual jacket he'd thrown on after his press conference. The house was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of Dua shifting in her spot near the door.
On the desk, Nef stretched lazily before curling up beside the keyboard, her sharp green eyes watching him intently. Next to Sun, Seti lounged on the arm of a chair, occasionally flicking her tail. Hapy perched regally on the windowsill, surveying the room as if she were its queen.
Sun leaned back, exhaling slowly. His thoughts hadn't strayed far from the journalist he'd spotted in the crowd—Mel Rosscrest. Something about him lingered in Sun's mind, a curiosity that demanded to be satisfied. He tapped a few keys, bringing up a search engine. "Mel Rosscrest journalist" was his first query, and it returned an impressive array of results. Sun raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"Let's see what you've got, Mel," he muttered under his breath, clicking on the first link. The page loaded to reveal an article about rising stars in underground racing. Mel's tone was sharp yet thoughtful, weaving together facts with an evident passion for the sport. Sun found himself impressed—not just by the depth of the research but by the way the young writer captured the nuances of racing culture.
Nef stretched her paw lazily toward the keyboard, as if trying to help. Sun smirked, gently nudging her paw away. "Not yet, sweetie. Let me figure this guy out first." Seti let out a low chirp from her perch, and Sun glanced over. "Yeah, I know. He's interesting, isn't he?"
He scrolled through several more articles, each revealing a different side of the journalist. Mel had written about everything from racer profiles to behind-the-scenes exposes on the politics of the circuits. One piece, however, caught Sun's attention:
The Enigma of The Hawk: A Racer Without a Face.
Sun hesitated, his cursor hovering over the link. He clicked, leaning closer to the screen as the article loaded.
"The Hawk doesn't just race; he dominates. In a world where personalities are as important as skills, he stands apart—faceless, nameless, yet undeniably unforgettable. But who is the person beneath the helmet? While speculation abounds, one thing is clear: The Hawk is more than a racer. He's a force of nature, rewriting the rules of what it means to succeed in this sport. And whether he reveals himself or not, he's already cemented his place in racing history."
Sun read the article twice, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Mel's words were flattering but balanced, capturing the mystique Sun had worked hard to maintain. He clearly respected the sport and the racers in it, but there was something more—a genuine curiosity that made his writing feel personal.
Hapy jumped down from the windowsill and gracefully leaped onto the desk, settling beside Nef. The two cats exchanged a look before turning their attention back to Sun. "You two approve?" Sun asked with a smirk. Hapy responded by nudging her head against his arm, purring softly.
He clicked back to Mel's profile, scrolling through the list of articles. Each one revealed more about the man. Mel wasn't just a journalist; he was someone who truly cared about the stories he told and the people behind them. Seti stretched, finally hopping off the chair and strolling over to rub against Sun's leg. Sun reached down to scratch behind the tabby's ears. "Yeah, Seti. I think he's different too."
Dua gave a soft huff, lifting her head to glance at the cats before settling back down. Sun chuckled. "Don't get jealous, girl. You know you're still the favorite."
As the hours slipped by, Sun continued to read, immersing himself in Mel's world through his words. By the time he leaned back in his chair, stretching out the tension in his shoulders, the faint beginnings of dawn were starting to paint the sky outside. Closing the final article, Sun leaned back, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Mel," he muttered. "You're as much of a puzzle as I am. Let's see if we can solve each other." With a faint smile, he shut down the computer and stood. Hapy and Nef jumped gracefully off the desk, following him to the bathroom door, while Seti sauntered after them. Dua wagged her tail lazily as Sun ruffled her fur on his way in.
The house was quiet again, but Sun's mind buzzed with possibilities—both about the mysteries surrounding the circuits and the journalist who seemed determined to uncover them.