Where Every Scroll is a New Adventure
The night hung heavy with anticipation as the neon glow of the city's underbelly illuminated the makeshift racetrack. The air crackled with the energy of imminent competition, and the distant hum of engines hinted at the approaching storm.
Amidst the throng of racers, Diana revved the engine of her cherry pink Chevrolet Corvette, the sleek curves of the sports car gleaming under the neon lights. The scent of burning rubber permeated the air as she eyed her opponent, the legendary 'Tyrant' known for his burned orange Toyota Supra MK IV.
Engines roared to life, and the racers edged to the starting line, the anticipation mounting with each passing second. Nick, masked and clad in the shadows of his reputation, revved his Supra's engine, the orange glow of the tail lights casting an eerie aura around the car.
With a signal, the race exploded into motion. Tires screeched as the two vehicles catapulted into the night, streaks of cherry pink and burned orange leaving trails of color in their wake. The city became a blur as they navigated the winding streets, each turn a test of skill and nerve.
Diana's Corvette, agile and daring, hugged the curves with precision. The roar of her engine harmonized with the pulsating beat of the city, creating a symphony of speed. Nick's Supra, a manifestation of controlled power, surged forward like a burning comet, the orange glow illuminating the darkness.
The roar of engines intertwined with the pulsating beat of the city, and amidst the chaos, Nick's Supra and Diana's Corvette danced, each maneuver a carefully calculated step in their high-speed ballet. The neon-lit streets became their canvas, and the race, their masterpiece.
As the racers hurtled through the urban labyrinth, each strategically timed drift and acceleration became a subtle exchange of wits. The neon-lit streets transformed into a high-stakes chessboard, where every move could be the difference between victory and defeat.
The crowd lining the racetrack erupted into cheers, their voices blending with the roar of the engines. In the heart of the race, amidst the adrenaline and rivalry, Diana and Nick pushed their cars to the limit. The finish line loomed, a distant beacon in the chaos.
As the finish line neared, the air crackled with the tension of uncertainty. In a photo finish, the two cars crossed the line simultaneously, leaving the outcome hanging in the balance. The crowd erupted into cheers, and even in the anonymity of their masks, the exchange of glances between Diana and Nick spoke volumes.
The silence that followed was broken by the announcement, "It's a tie!" The racetrack echoed with the revelation, and in that moment, Diana earned her moniker as 'the Empress.' The mysterious 'Tyrant' had found an equal, and the legend of their rivalry had begun.
I loathe Heroine.
I loathed her ever since the first time I saw her. From the very first flashy, dumb grin she flashed at me.
I loathe the littered freckles on her cheeks and the red, long scar that went over her jawline. The dark circles under her eyes and her forever messy curly hair.
I loathe her stubbornness. How she shows up every day. How she manages to get up every time. How convinced she is that her actions truly matter. How she fights for each pathetic person, as if each and every soul was so precious to her.
I loathe the way she pretends. Pretends to be confident. Pretends to be in control. Even when she is hurt and anxious and so obviously tired. How she comforts every victim, when she can barely calm herself. How she smiles softly, even at me. As if I were that easy to fool.
I hate her for rescuing me.
She threw herself into the water. She pulled me up to the shore. She stayed until I sat steadily. Then she left. Not even giving a demand or a price or a reason.
I hate how she laughs at my jokes. As if we were friends. As if I actually make her smile.
I hate her most when it’s just the two of us. Hate how calm she gets. Hate how much she underestimates me. How calmer she gets.
And I was angry when I found her lying in the cold. Angry at her recklessness and bravery and passion, that forced her to never back down. Angry that I had to drag her out of there. That she used me for warmth. That she looked so comfortable.
I get angry when she doubts herself.
Because I know just how harder my life has been ever since she came to it. I know how kind she is in her greatest victories, I know how purposeful she is in her darkest hours, I know her better than everyone.
I was angry at her lover the moment I met her.
Angry at this feeble, laughable, fool who seemed to think she deserves Heroine. I got furious when she approached me. The idiot smiled and offered her hand.
I pushed it right away. I shoved her past me and wanted to walk away, to wait until she realizes just how useless she is to everyone. Wait until she leaves my and Heroine’s life.
But she dared to keep talking. Dared to say she understands me. Dared to say Heroine’s name.
I lashed out at her.
I yelled that she has no right to tell me about Heroine. That she’ll never know Heroine like I do. That she is just lonely and desperate enough for Heroine to pity. That she would never truly love her.
I was pulled to the ground, and saw Heroine above me.
I could barely recognize her face. There was so much loathe and hatred and anger in her stare. I never saw her like this, not when she fought the worst of villains, not in the most stressful situations and not when I was in danger.
She told me to stay away from her lover. That otherwise she will kill me. That she doesn’t want to see me ever again.
She only stopped when my eyes started to water. I couldn't tell anymore what expression she wore, but I saw her leaving. Panic rose through me, and I called her name. Begging her to stay.
She looked back at me, and for the last time, I saw her clearly. There was no malice nor pity in her eyes. Only disgust.
I loathed myself ever since.