It was a humid Tuesday night when the Hummingbird Crew gathered at the base of the steep Han River bridge. The air was thick with tension. Their rivals, the Sabbath Crew, had been taunting them for weeks, and tonight, words were no longer enough.

The race began not with a bang, but with the sudden, rhythmic clicking of gears. Jay felt the familiar rush—the moment where the world narrowed down to the white line on the road and the heartbeat in his ears.

As they crested the hill, a gust of wind slammed into them. Most riders slowed, fearing a skid on the narrow path. But Jay leaned forward, tucking his body into a tight aerodynamic shell. He wasn't fighting the wind; he was cutting through it.

When Jay crossed the invisible finish line under the neon lights of the convenience store, he didn't celebrate. He simply braked, wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, and looked at his stopwatch.