#hayyan71

Hayyan’s Golden Return (Part 2)

Gravity reclaimed him. The impact jarred his arms, but he landed smooth, controlled, balanced.

“Still got it,” he muttered, grinning beneath his visor.

He circled back toward camp, the engine growling low as the adrenaline began to fade. The smell of fuel mixed with the salt of his sweat. His gloves were slick, his muscles burning. He parked the bike and stood in the middle of the training ground, letting the wind whip around him.

The silence hit different when he wasn’t riding. Out here, the world felt endless but empty. No cameras. No crowd. Just him and the Gold.

He dropped to the ground and started push-ups in the sand—slow, deliberate, counting every rep under his breath. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. By seventy-one, his arms trembled, his chest glistened. The number wasn’t just his tag—it was a promise.

He sat back on his heels, breathing hard, watching the sun climb higher. The light caught his suit and turned it molten, as if his body itself was becoming gold. He thought of the upcoming Invitational—forty racers, only the best would qualify. Some of the bros were already posting their prep stories, racking up points, pushing their limits.

Hayyan smiled faintly. He didn’t need the noise. His story was happening right here, one rep, one turn, one lap at a time.

He walked to the small tent where he kept his gear. The walls were lined with weights, resistance bands, and a mirror cracked down the center. He stared into it for a long moment. Half his reflection looked clear, half fractured. It felt fitting.

“Time to fix that,” he said quietly.

He started another set—deadlifts, squats, burpees—each movement hitting harder than the last. He trained until the sweat pooled at his feet, until every muscle screamed. When he finally dropped the barbell, his arms were shaking and his breath came in sharp bursts.

But he felt alive again. Whole again.

He sat on the edge of the tent’s platform, staring out toward the dunes. The wind carried faint echoes of engines from the distant training grounds where other Golden Bros were testing their bikes. He smiled, thinking of them— all out there grinding, each one chasing the same golden purpose.

He wasn’t alone after all. The brotherhood didn’t need to be beside him to be present. It lived in every breath, every push, every throttle twist.

As the day burned hotter, Hayyan packed his gear and rolled the bike back to its rack. Before leaving, he knelt, running his gloved fingers through the sand.

“This is where it starts,” he whispered. “Every victory begins in the dust.”

He stood, the light flashing across the golden number on his back. For a moment, he looked like a statue—bronzed and unbreakable, forged by the desert itself. Then he turned toward the horizon and walked away, helmet under one arm, the reflection of the rising sun blazing across his visor.

Three more weeks to the Invitational. Three more weeks to sharpen, to sweat, to evolve.

And when the starting gate dropped, every second of solitude would pay off. Because the bros who train in silence are the ones who roar the loudest when the lights turn green.

Hayyan’s Golden Return (Part 1)

The sun hadn’t even cleared the dunes when Hayyan hit the ignition. The engine of his bike coughed once, then roared awake, echoing across the empty desert. He was alone out here—no crowd, no bros cheering him on, no golden banners snapping in the wind. Just the endless horizon of the Golden Gulch and the steady drum of his heart.

He wore the same gear he’d trained in for months—tight, gleaming golden leather that hugged his body like a second skin. Sweat already glistened beneath it, even in the morning chill. Across his back, the bold numbers 71 shimmered faintly as the rising sun began to touch the earth.

He twisted the throttle once and closed his eyes.

Focus. Ride clean. Ride golden.

The bike shot forward.

Sand exploded beneath the tires as he tore across the training dunes. Every dip and rise tested his balance. Every turn threatened to throw him off. He leaned hard, shoulders tight, eyes locked on the path ahead. The sound of the engine filled the silence, a perfect rhythm between man and machine.

He was chasing more than speed. He was chasing redemption.

Earlier that season, the crash had taken everything out of him—confidence, rhythm, even the connection he felt to his brothers and his own body.

He was lost and felt disconnected, until he remembered the words he had heard so often, but never fully understood till that moment:

Every bro who wears gold gets knocked down eventually. What matters is if you get back up still shining.

The words hit him again now, echoing with every bump in the track. He tightened his grip and accelerated.

The desert blurred around him, streaks of gold and white flying past. The bike’s suspension slammed against the uneven ground, rattling his bones, but he refused to ease up. He welcomed the pain—it was proof that he was still alive, still fighting, still hungry for the gold.

At the far end of the trail, he hit a sharp ridge and launched upward. Flashes of his crash were spinning before his eyes. Would he make it?

For a second, everything went quiet. The bike hung mid-air, golden light spilling across the polished leather of his suit. He could see the horizon stretching out forever—a sea of fire and dust.