The applause from the race still rang in his ears as Vignesh wheeled his bike through a narrow alley behind the fish market, the scent of salt and diesel thick in the air. His legs were shaking not just from exhaustion, but from adrenaline refusing to settle. The win felt good, but it came with a weight.
It always did.
He reached the back gate of a rundown building, chained the bike to a pipe, and climbed the dim staircase to a tiny room he rented from an old watchman. His name wasn't even on the lease.
The room had one flickering tube light, a cot with a thin mattress, and a nail in the wall where he hung his helmet like a crown. He collapsed onto the bed without changing, sweat soaking into the fabric.
He stared at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling.
There was no money prize tonight only street respect, a few bets placed in his name, and a city full of whispers. But whispers didn't pay rent.
His phone buzzed.
[1 NEW MESSAGE – RENU]"Bro, Dad is angry. Don't come home tonight. I left some food at the temple gate. Take care."
He swallowed hard. Even now, his sister was looking out for him.
Two Years Ago
It had taken him three tries to sneak his racing kit out of the house without his father finding out. Pushparaj still believed his son was studying engineering in the local college—until a neighbor spotted him cycling near Marina Beach with a backpack full of tools instead of textbooks.
The fight that night was brutal. His father had thrown his medals out the window.
"You are chasing fantasy, boy!" he'd roared. "What good is pedaling like a dog in heat? Cycling! Useless! Disgraceful!"
His mother hadn't intervened. Not then. But when Vignesh walked out, she followed him into the night with a steel tiffin box.
"I can't stop him," she'd told his father quietly. "Because I've never seen his eyes like that before. Not even when he got sick as a child. Let him try. Let him fail, if that's his fate. But don't cage him."
Since then, Vignesh had lived between race buddies' rooms, and old temples.
Now
Vignesh opened the tiffin Renu had left. Lemon rice, still warm. A boiled egg wrapped in a banana leaf. His chest tightened. He made a note to call her tomorrow, to thank her, but he knew he might not. Sometimes gratitude hurt more than silence.
Just as he was about to lie down again, a knock came at the door.
It was Selvam, a middleman from the underground circuit.
"Nice win tonight," Selvam said, leaning against the doorframe. His gold chain gleamed in the light. "Got people talking. You've got legs. Got brains too?"
Vignesh didn't reply.
"There's a sponsor watching you," Selvam continued, lowering his voice. "Real money. Not local crap. Wants you for a ride next weekend. But they want clean riders, discipline, no thugs."
"And?" Vignesh asked.
Selvam grinned. "I told them you're a street dog. But you bite hard."
He handed over a visiting card. Just a logo: "AV CYCLING INITIATIVE". No name.
Vignesh turned it in his fingers.
"You in?" Selvam asked.
Vignesh looked at his cracked wall, his tired limbs, and the fading bruise on his thigh.
"I've been in," he said.
Selvam's grin widened. "Good. Because this next race isn't about winning. It's about being seen."
As he left, the silence returned.
Vignesh sat alone, staring at the visiting card until his vision blurred. Not from tears he didn't allow those but from something deeper.
A feeling.
That maybe, just maybe, the walls around him were beginning to crack.
End of Chapter 2