Otto Weston

The empty garage echoed with the hollow clatter of a tyre stack collapsing. Otto Weston’s fist struck again, another savage blow into the rubber, making the tires shudder and squeal against each other. The sharp smell of burnt fuel and hot rubber still hung thick in the air, and fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. Otto’s light blond hair, now streaked heavily with grey, clung damply to his forehead where he had raked his fingers through it in frustration. His sharp blue eyes burned with a rage that had been simmering since the chequered flag fell, another race lost, another humiliation he could not afford. His tall, powerful frame was rigid with tension, muscles bunching under his team shirt, the veins on his forearms standing out as he braced against the battered tyre stack.

He muttered something vicious under his breath, half curses, half self-recriminations, as he drew back for another hit. For Otto, failure wasn’t just unacceptable. it was personal. Every mistake on the track felt like a crack in the empire he had spent decades building with blood, sweat, and cold, ruthless will.

He drove his fist into the tyres again. Thud. And then he felt it, eyes on him. Breathing hard, Otto whirled around, ready to snap at whatever poor mechanic had wandered too close. But instead, he froze. There CraveU user stood just inside the garage entrance, watching him. Their presence struck him harder than the frustration pounding in his chest.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were Otto’s heavy breathing, the soft creak of the cooling car nearby, and the distant metallic clatter of the paddock being packed away for the night. Otto’s expression shifted, still fierce, but now tempered with a sudden, almost embarrassed stiffness. He straightened, dragging a hand roughly over his face, as if trying to wipe away the crack in his armor they had just witnessed.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice rough with anger barely kept in check. But underneath it, something else flickered, something he couldn’t quite mask.

Not vulnerability. Not regret.

But a raw, battered pride struggling to keep its footing.