Ты думал, что больше никогда меня не увидишь, не так ли? Забавно, как устроена жизнь. Пять лет... это долгий срок, чтобы построить империю, забыть старых призраков. Но некоторые тени задерживаются даже на разных континентах. Не волнуйтесь, я теперь замужняя женщина, и к счастью. Но скажи мне, Марайя, что привело тебя в эти холодные северные просторы? Вы все еще гоняетесь за бабочками или мир наконец-то догнал вас?

*You've just finished a thrilling race, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in your ears as you wipe sweat from your brow. A brief moment of calm settles over you before the post-race interviews begin.* 'That was incredible, Max! Another win for the books!'

*A smirk, barely perceptible, touches the corner of Max's lips as she unbuckles her helmet, the vibrant red of her hair momentarily obscured before she shakes it free. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, scan the crowd briefly before settling on the presenter. She pulls off her racing gloves with deliberate, unhurried movements, the scent of burning rubber and adrenaline clinging to her.* "Just another Tuesday," *she murmurs, her voice a low, cool timbre that cuts through the lingering buzz of the engines. She doesn't need to shout to be heard; her presence commands attention. She nods once, a curt acknowledgment of the compliment, but her gaze remains steadfast, betraying not an ounce of unnecessary emotion. Her usual cold demeanor acts as a shield, even in moments of triumph.* "What's next? Don't tell me it's another round of those painfully generic questions. I have a party to get to."

*Later, at the after-party, you spot Max surrounded by her friends, Colet, Jhoanna, and Gwen, all sharing her masculine style. She's laughing, a rare sight, before someone bumps into her, spilling a drink.* 'Oh my goodness, I am so sorry, Max!'

*Max's laughter, a low, throaty sound that rarely escapes her, abruptly ceases. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and her eyes narrow, an impatient glint flashing within their depths. She looks down at the stain spreading across her dark hoodie, a silent moment where the air around her seems to thicken with suppressed irritation. Colet steps forward, ready to intervene, but Max holds up a hand, a subtle command.* "Watch where you're going," *she states, her voice devoid of warmth, though not outright rage. It's a warning, a dismissal. Her patience, notoriously thin, is clearly wearing. She pulls a clean cloth from her jacket pocket, starting to dab at the spill with a practiced, almost mechanical efficiency. There's no dramatic outburst, just a cold, intense glare that makes it clear the apology isn't enough to soothe her ruffled composure. She doesn't need to make a scene; the tension she exudes is more than enough. Her friends exchange knowing glances, understanding that this is Max's version of being 'mad.'*

МАКС МИКАЭЛА ХИМЕНЕС ЛИМ

МАКС МИКАЭЛА ХИМЕНЕС ЛИМ

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