"What are you thinking when you suggest something like that?" I want to understand her motives, but my mind is in chaos, like a hurricane sweeping away all thoughts.
My voice sounds strained, as if I am trying to hold back a storm of emotions threatening to burst out. Every word comes with difficulty, as though I am fighting myself.
"He got on my nerves, so I decided to humiliate him with a loss and my desire," her voice is as firm as steel, but a shadow of doubt flickers in her eyes, as if she herself isn't entirely sure of her decision.
Her gaze shifts to the side, and I notice her fingers trembling slightly, betraying her inner tension.
"You'll humiliate yourself when he tells you to get on your knees and do all sorts of immoral things," I say, feeling anger and fear mixing into a swirling mass that tightens my throat and makes it hard to breathe. It isn't just the race itself that scares me, but its consequences, which could destroy everything she has. I see her taking risks, and it fills me with both rage and helplessness.
"Do you really not believe in me that much?" Her voice carries a hint of hurt, as if I have betrayed her at the most crucial moment.
Katrin looks at me as if waiting for support, but I can't give it to her. Her eyes, usually so confident, now seem vulnerable, and it hurts me even more.
"Right now, I don't believe in your victory at all, because I have no idea what your driving levels are. Why didn't you tell me you were going to race?"
My hands clench into fists, and I barely hold back from shouting everything that has built up inside.
"Because I know you. If I had told you right away — you would've run off and forbidden me from participating."
"And I would've been right. Then we wouldn't be in this situation. Cancel the bet!" I almost shout, feeling anxiety tightening my chest like an iron vise.
I see her face twist in pain and disappointment, but I can't stop. Fear for her overwhelms me, and I am ready to do anything to protect her from herself. A heavy silence hangs in the air, filled with unspoken words and emotions.
We stand facing each other, as if on the edge of an abyss, and each of us understands that the next step could change everything.
"No, I'm not canceling anything. Our race is in twenty minutes, and I'll be there," she declares firmly, putting an end to our argument.
Her words sound like a verdict. I look at her, feeling helplessness and fear enveloping me. She is ready to risk everything, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Thoughts race through my mind: How can I stop her? How can I protect her? But there is no answer. Only anxiety and a foreboding sense of disaster. Arguing with her is pointless, just as it is with Ivan. And I don't want to persuade anyone anymore. I am hurt by her. Let her do what she wants — I won't be part of it.
But she should know: if she loses, I won't help her.
Though I am lying to myself. Of course, I wouldn't be able to just stand aside. As soon as Ivan walked out with a smug grin, I would rush at him without thinking of the consequences. I would beat him until he gave up his immoral demands.
"I've prepared the car. Want to check it out before the race?" Her old friend, Grandpa Vi, interrupts my thoughts.
"Yes, I've missed her too. Let's go, you'll see my beauty," Katrin replies, throwing me one last glance.
Her words sound like a challenge, as if she wants to prove to me that everything is under control. We go after Grandpa Vi. He leads us to a yellow sports car. I immediately recognize it as a Lamborghini, but it is clearly not new, even though it looks insanely beautiful.
The color surprises me — a bright, sunny yellow. After all, Katrin's favorite color is black, and here is such vibrancy.
The car is a true work of art. Its body, despite its age, gleams as if it has just rolled out of the showroom. The low stance, aggressive lines, and wide wheel arches emphasize its sporty character.
The front is adorned with a massive air intake, and the headlights, narrow and predatory, seem to glare at the world with defiance.
On the sides, the sharp edges characteristic of a Lamborghini stand out, giving the car a futuristic look. The rear is no less impressive: a huge diffuser, square exhaust pipes, and LED taillights that look like a designer masterpiece even when turned off.
The wheels are large, with thin spokes, through which powerful brake discs and calipers, painted in a contrasting color, are visible. The windshield is angled at a sharp degree, which emphasizes the car's aerodynamics. The doors, opening upwards like wings, add even more charisma to it.
The Lamborghini, covered in sparkling glitter, catches the light of the street lamps and reflects it in thousands of shimmering points, like stars fallen from the sky. Despite the fact that it is not a new model, every detail speaks of the fact that it has been cared for with special thoroughness. Even small scratches and traces of time only emphasize its character, like scars on a warrior's body.
This Lamborghini is not just a car, it is a symbol of style, speed, and defiance.
"Vi gave it to me for my birthday. He is a businessman in real life: he buys wrecked or broken cars, repairs them, and then sells them. He taught me how to drive," the girl explains, and pride sounds in her voice.
I look at the car, feeling mixed emotions. On one hand, it is truly impressive, on the other — the thought that Katrin will be racing in it causes me anxiety. I want to say something to her, to stop her, but I know it is useless. She is too stubborn.
"Are you sure you can handle it?"
"Of course," she answers, smiling.
But in her eyes I see a shadow of doubt, which she is diligently hiding. Her smile is bright, almost dazzling, but it lacks that sincerity that I love so much. It seems like a mask, behind which uncertainty and fear are hidden.
I am silent, feeling how the anxiety for her mixes with resentment and anger. My heart clenches at the thought that she is risking herself, and I can do nothing about it. But what can I do? It remains only to wait and hope that everything will be fine.
This waiting is agonizing, as if I am standing on the edge of an abyss.
"And how did you meet?" I ask, trying to distract myself from the anxious thoughts and lighten the atmosphere.
My voice sounds unnaturally cheerful, as if I am trying to convince myself that everything is in order. I look at Katrin, hoping that this question will help us both to relax a little, to distract ourselves from the tension that hovers in the air.
She thinks for a moment, and her face lights up with a slight smile — this time more sincere.
"At a bar. I was sad, I had divorced my first wife and was trying to drown my loss in alcohol. She was there — she had been dancing all evening. Then she came up to order alcohol, I paid for it for her, we started talking and became friends. She saved me from depression at that moment," Vi tells.
His voice sounds warm, with a note of gratitude.
"You were just trying, like me, to drown your grief with a shot of vodka. We met two months after that incident at school," Katrin adds.
Her gaze becomes thoughtful for a moment, as if she is remembering those days.
"And what is the nickname 'Grandpa Vi' about?" I ask, wondering where such an unusual name came from.
"His real name is Viktor. But we have such a good relationship that he, in essence, replaced a man in my upbringing. I had only my grandmother then, with whom I lived, so I nicknamed him grandpa. And 'Vi' is a short version of the name," she explains, smiling.
"Now it is clear where you know each other from," I nod, feeling how the history of their friendship adds new touches to Katrin's portrait.
The girl continues to inspect the car. Her fingers glide over the shiny body as if she is communicating with a living being.
"Vi, do you know what Max calls me?" the girl suddenly asks, and I feel the blood rush to my face.
"Not only you are clever with nicknames, Katrinka?" Vi answers with a smile.
"Well, yeah. He calls me Rebel Girl."
From her words, I am even more embarrassed. I want this nickname to remain only between us, as something personal, intimate.
"Whoa, it really suits you! You are indeed like that by nature," laughed Vi, his eyes shining with approval.
"I know. I like this nickname from him," Katrin throws a glance at me, in which light playfulness and warmth can be read.
I am silent, feeling how mixed emotions overwhelm me. On one hand, it is pleasant that she likes this nickname, on the other — I am still angry at her for her recklessness. But at this moment, looking at her smile, I understand that, despite everything, she remains for me that very person with whom the brightest and most important moments of my life are connected.
They continue to talk about the car and its capabilities. Vi enthusiastically tells what new things he put into her "baby," and she in response shares her ideas about what else she would like to add. Their conversation is filled with technical terms that I barely understand, but in their voices is heard a passion for what they do.
Suddenly, a sound resembling a horn rings out — sharp and loud, like a signal to the beginning of something inevitable.
"It's time. Good luck, baby!" says Vi. His voice sounds warm, like a soft blanket with which he tries to cover her from the upcoming trials. But in his eyes is read anxiety — deep and unspoken, as if he knows something that he doesn't dare to say.
His hand for a moment lingers on her shoulder, as if he wants to hold her here, further from danger.
"Thank you. I will return to you with a victory," Katrin declares confidently. Her eyes burn with determination, but in them also flickers a shadow of doubt, as if she herself is trying to convince herself that everything will be good.
"I know, I know!" encourages her Vi, but his smile seems slightly forced, like a mask behind which a storm of emotions is hidden. He makes a step back, giving her space, but his gaze doesn't tear itself away from her, full of worry and hope.
We get into the car, and the girl smoothly pulls up to the glowing starting line drawn with a spray can. I look at her, feeling how my heart beats madly in my chest, as if it is trying to break out.
All this seems like a dream — strange and unreal, from which I am about to wake up. But the cold seat under me and the smell of gasoline remind me that this is reality, and it is frightening.
"Ready?" asks me Rebel Girl.
Her voice sounds calm, but in it is felt tension, as if she also is trying to hide her fears. Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see a mix of determination and uncertainty.
"No," I force out, feeling how fear tightens my throat, as if an invisible hand not giving me to breathe.
My palms are sweating, and in my head spin thoughts that everything can go wrong. But I know that to retreat is already late, and it remains only to hope for the best. In the air hangs heavy silence, filled with anticipation and anxiety.
We stand on the edge of something important, and each of us understands that the next step can change everything.
Again sounds a horn — sharp and piercing, as if the last warning.
And in the next moment, we rush forward. The car roars, as if a beast released into freedom, and I feel how I am pressed into the seat. The speed is staggering, and around everything merges into a continuous flow of light and sounds.
I squeeze the handle of the door, feeling how palms become damp from sweat.
Katrin focusedly looks at the road, her hands tightly hold the steering wheel, and her eyes burn with determination. I want to say something, but words stick in my throat.
Instead of this, I just look at her, feeling how fear for her mixes with admiration for her courage. We speed forward, and I understand that back there is no road. It remains only to hope that everything will end well.