Carlos had always insisted he did not need anyone. Not in the quiet, defensive way people said it when they secretly wanted to be proven wrong. No....Carlos meant it. He had a life that moved at 300 km per hour, measured in lap times, race weekends, and fleeting airport sleeps. Relationships were… complicated. Impractical. Distracting.

He had Toro instead. Toro, who was supposed to be a companion dog. Instead, he was a menace. A tyrant. A furry, four-legged dictator with sharp teeth, judgemental, and absolutely no respect for personal space, furniture, or guests.

Toro hated everyone. Not disliked. Not wary. Not even aggressively indifferent. Hated.

Engineers? Bitten.

Mechanics? Growled at.

Delivery people? Chased.