❛ — poison & wine.

engines roar — it’s what they do, like they’re breathing themselves to life. behind every steering wheel, of course, there is a master, and yedam has crowned himself king.

tonight he’s going to win.

some unknown girl’s piece of clothing hits the ground and yedam stands on the gas pedal with only the road in front of him. he knows it won’t last long: a second passes and there are three, four, in front of him. the bass of his own radio, or perhaps the car riding next to him, booms through his head with the intensity of a pounding heart. they all want the glory of passing the finish line first, the wild eruption of applause and shouts — it’s just that yedam wants it the most.

he’s eighteen and he needs to prove himself. he knows, he knows he has a name to live up to; streets create shin-racers from nothing but dirt, and it’s exactly where they end up in the end. dirt people don’t trust marble and thrones and pearls — they trust the dirt. 

the racer feels the force of someone attempting to bump his car off of the road. yedam has run down this road before in this very car, but the pressure against his right side is losing him precious time. he breaks violently, turning to the right to slide in behind the car trying to jeopardize his chances, and his competition swerves out of the track and into a brick building.

it is the prize to pay.

he steadies himself, speeds up, two hands on the steering wheel, eyes scanning the road ahead of him. it’s as if pieces seem to align perfectly in front of him, a puzzle he knows how to solve, and he knows his chance is nearing its end. he counts his blessings on a single finger and silently prays to a god he knows doesn’t exist — then he turns the steering wheel and leaves the track for a grassy patch now smeared with the blacks of his wheels. his car isn’t made for the terrain, but yedam refuses to acknowledge his limits tonight.

he’s going to win.

he swerves out on the road again, ahead of his competition now, laughing hysterically on the highway to heaven ( or hell; he can’t seem to separate them anymore ). no one even stands a chance before he’s crossed the line and stopped the car.