VOLARE

Mourice was once Jacques's classmate. They were more similar to each other than either of them liked to admit. Or perhaps they did realize it—and that was exactly why they were always in competition.

As the perfect student, Mourice excelled in every subject. Unlike Jacques, who only shined in physical and instinct-based skills, Mourice was good at everything—even open book subjects like history, geography, astrography, you name it. He was known as the golden boy.

Still, Mourice knew he couldn't match Jacques in sports or combat. Jacques's strength went beyond what was normal for a boy his age.

Sometimes Mourice would joke, "you're not even Earthling," calling him Xeravian or some other non-Earth human race. It was just a joke, of course.

At first, Mourice was smart enough not to make Jacques his enemy. They even hung out together for a while—and realized they had eerily similar tastes in nearly everything, including romantic interests. But then, one day, Jacques suddenly grew distant and stopped talking to him. Mourice noticed it happened right after he announced that he and Danielle were dating.

He didn't think much of it at the time. Probably Jacques liked Danielle and was just jealous Mourice got her—simple as that.

They used to be casual friends. That's why Mourice knew exactly which areas he couldn't beat Jacques in, and which ones he could.

And Jacques wouldn't be able to compete with his brand-new sport motorcycle—his birthday gift from his father. Mourice showed off his tricks in front of the crowd, grabbing attention and stealing the hearts of passing girls.

Phones up. Eyes on.

Mourice stood at the center of it all, full face helmet, leather jacket half-zipped, a smirk playing on his lips as he revved his shiny new Pulse-X motorcycle—fresh off the assembly line, gleaming with chrome and ego.

"I know nothing about motorcycles, but that thing is five times faster than yours, Jacques," Ethan said, his face filled with worry.

Meanwhile, Jacques stood nearby, checking over his self-built motorcycle, making sure everything was working fine. The motorcycle looked strong, heavy, and armored.

There was a sticker of her name on the side that read "VOLARE," written in bold, grunge-style font.

The problem was: VOLARE wasn't built to dominate other racers—she was built to outlast the world.

Jacques didn't make her for the racetrack—he made her for the road. The real road. Dusty, brutal, unpaved, and sometimes muddy. The kind of road that devours weaker machines—unpredictable and unforgiving.

VOLARE's engine bay was built with modular clamps. She was made for field replacements—because sometimes, on the real road, parts die fast.

Her frame was reinforced, heavy-duty. Armor-plated in key spots to survive falls and crashes, making her heavy and massive like a raging bull. She could ride up a cliffside—if the angle was right and Jacques had enough nerve, which he always did.

Her tank was large. Built to take him as far as he wanted to soar, without depending on gas stations too much.

Her engine was hand-built from scavenged dreams and stolen fire. She wasn't designed for beauty or prestige—she was designed to survive.

But today was different.

Today wasn't about endurance.

Today was about speed.

So, he stripped her bare. Removed the armor. Pulled off anything that would slow her down.

VOLARE, now naked and lean, looked like a brawler fresh out of shackles.

She might not have been born for racing—but under Jacques's hands, she was so ready to launch and explode like fireworks.

Yes, Jacques was just 15. Yes, he was just a schoolboy. He never took engine class, but he just knew engines, and how to combine them together. The knowledge was already there, embedded in his brain. Sometimes he thought he must've been a mechanic in one of his previous lives.

"Let's make this interesting!" Mourice called out to Jacques. "Winner gets Roger's phone number!"

Jacques tilt his head, "who's Roger?"

Ethan exhales, "me."

Jacques turn his head to Ethan and look at him weirdly.

"What? You think I would tell him my name?"

Mourice flashed a grin at Ethan's flustered expression, clearly pleased with himself. "Roger, you're going home with the winner!"

"You don't get to decide someone else's fate just because you can shout it!" Ethan snapped, clearly upset, especially since Mourice didn't seem to care about his response.

"Ethan, I need you to stay here and watch VOLARE. I'll be back as soon as I can," Jacques said, hurrying off.

"Wait, don't leave me!" Ethan shouted, but Jacques was already gone. "Ugh, how did I get dragged into all this again?"

a jingle from the phone is heard as Mr Sanada informed Ethan that he'd rather go home than watching street race. 

Ethan replied back politely, "I'm sorry, Mr Sanada that it turned out this way. I can't left my friend behind."

The man does not replied. Just after he left his sight on his phone, Ethan turned his head and his eyes widened when he saw Jacques carrying something really heavy.

Jacques carried it like it was a watermelon—but even a blind man could tell it wasn't light. He looked excited, like he'd found something valuable in the parking lot.

A very good engine block.

"What the hell?!" Ethan nearly screamed, stepping aside as Jacques dropped the thing down next to VOLARE with a heavy clang.

"Jacques, don't tell me you stole that?! From someone else's bike!" Ethan hissed, glancing around as if police sirens were about to wail.

"Borrowed," Jacques corrected, crouching next to VOLARE and already loosening the bolts that held her old heart in place. "I'll return it later. If VOLARE doesn't crash."

And when he said crash, he smiled.

Jacques didn't waste time. He swapped the engine quickly, using tools that could remove bolts in seconds. His arm strength helped too. The job was done so fast it was ridiculous—it made Mr. Sanada forget to blink. He'd never seen anyone work that fast and still be that efficient.

"Yo, Jacques!" Mourice shouted from the distance, looking impatient. "What took you so long? Just be honest if you're scared! You'll be less embarrassed in front of Roger!! Hahaha!"

Jacques ignored him and stayed focused on his motorcycle, so Ethan called him out, "Aren't you gonna say anything back to him?"

"What should I say? I already have your number. I casually sleep in your bed, eat your cooking," Jacques replied, a victorious smile flashing across his face. "I'm here to shove his ego back down his throat."

Jacques moved like a surgeon in overdrive, hands a blur of motion, his face calm—almost meditative. It took him seven minutes to finish everything and ignite the machine. The engine roared, sounding brand new. From the sound of it, Jacques knew this one was going to soar like thunder.

"Alright," Jacques grinned, straddling VOLARE. "Time to get this baby into the race."

He revved the engine, and VOLARE growled like a beast awakened. Then he drove off, joining Mourice at the starting line.

The two racers lined up behind the faded start line. The tension in the air was thick.

Mourice turned to Ethan and made a disgusting gesture—his fingers and tongue moving in a way that made Ethan recoil, his face twisting in pure disgust.

"If he wins, I'm moving to another country," Ethan muttered under his breath.

From the crowd, a young man stepped forward to take the lead. "Racers ready?" he called out, his voice sharp and authoritative.

Jacques leaned forward, his eyes locked on the path ahead. VOLARE vibrated beneath him, eager to be unleashed.

Mourice smirked, his confidence radiating like cheap cologne.

A hand shot down.

"Go!"

Here's the grammatically corrected version with the original tone and rhythm preserved:

Both bikes roared to life, tires screeching against the asphalt as they launched forward into the night.

Now that he'd removed the armor and other parts adding extra weight, VOLARE felt lighter—almost like flying. A small turn affected it greatly. It was very sensitive, and yet, like a feather, it glided.

"Whoa…" Jacques smiled excitedly. "I never thought I'd love this vulnerable version of you better, VOLARE. Everything that was weighing you down is gone. I thought I wouldn't be safe, but apparently… it was all just in my head. I love you better this way."

Jacques needed time to adapt to the motorcycle, especially with the new engine installed, so he didn't go full speed in the first few minutes. He was trying to sync his control with his balance memory.

Mourice took advantage of this and pulled far ahead.

"It's fine. It's okay. Let him enjoy the momentary victory. Once I've got this, he's done!" Jacques kept his focus on what he could control—VOLARE.

Meanwhile, Ethan is watching the live location shared through the GPS map. He was stressed out, growing more anxious with the massive gap between Jacques and Mourice.

"Don't worry… if Mourice tries anything weird on me, Jacques won't let him…" Ethan tried to calm himself, but then shook the thought out of his head. "No! No! I promised—I can do everything alone. I don't need him to be there for me. I promised that! I have to think of a plan…"

Five minutes passed. The gap between the two racers was still wide. Mourice, who couldn't even see Jacques's headlight in his mirror, smirked with confidence.

He started thinking about what he'd do once he won the femboy of his dreams. First, he'd make him change his name to something cuter—what kind of femboy was named Roger anyway? Then, they'd go on a midnight date. He'd probably need more money for that. No problem—he'd just use the emergency credit card Daddy gave him.

As he was fantasizing, he passed a love hotel with a big pink neon sign spiraling around the name: "NottyBee."

Perfect.

Ever since watching way too many anime with cute shotas, Mourice had always wanted a femboy boyfriend. He even followed tons of femboy accounts on his secret social media—where Daddy couldn't bypass his password. Sometimes he even DMed them. Nobody ever replied, but hey, at least he tried.

Suddenly, a flash of light glinted in his motorbike's mirror. Mourice glanced at it—and nearly choked.

"What the—??"

Jacques was already that close!?

What demon he just ate?! Mourice's heart beating fast as he felt his victory is under a threat. Especially when Jacques's motorbike easily glides right next to his side. 

Mourice, glances at him with killer look, he wish he has something hard in his hand right now to swing at Jacques so he could fell off his motorcycle and kiss the asphalt. But he only has his fist, so he swing it desperately.

Jacques easily avoid it, though, however, a big cargo truck is now right in front of his lane....