“Is your championship tainted?”
“Will you leave Obsidian?”
I didn’t stop walking.
The gravel crunched under my shoes. Cameras flashed. One man practically shoved his mic into my chest.
“No comment.”
Another reporter stepped into my path. I dodged her without breaking stride.
“No comment.”
I didn’t look at any of them. Didn’t flinch. Just kept walking until the sliding doors opened and I stepped inside.
Silence hit like a wall.
The atrium was hollow—no laughter, no racing banter, no techies moving fast with coffee and tablets. I passed through it into the open office behind. Half the desks were empty. The other half were occupied by people pretending not to look up.
The place was spooked.
I moved deeper into the building, footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Through the glass walls, I saw engineers huddledaround the cars, working with the obsessive care of men who knew the FIA might knock at any moment.
Callum stood off to the side, not doing much of anything. Hands on hips, brow furrowed, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged.
He looked up as I passed, then strode out through the glass door to meet me in the corridor.
“You all right?” he asked, voice low.
I paused. His concern wasn’t false. But it didn’t mean much now.
“You might want to brace,” I said instead. “If Ross starts swinging, you’ll be in the blast radius too.”
Callum blinked. “You think I knew?”
“I think Ross will say you did.”
I left him with that.
Ross’s voice carried from his office before I even reached it—sharp, furious, slicing through the walls. Someone was getting torn apart on the other end of a call. I didn’t slow. I wasn’t ready for that confrontation.
Not yet.
I turned instead, heading for the quieter wing. The one reserved for driver debriefs and long-haul simulation sessions. Fewer windows. Fewer people. That’s where I found Mac.
He was sitting in one of the side rooms, lights dimmed, door half-closed, elbows on the table, cap beside him. Just sitting. Like a man waiting for sentence to be passed.
He looked up when I entered, and something flickered across his face—relief, maybe. Guilt, definitely.
“Aleks,” he said, standing slowly.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked, folding my arms.
“I didn’t think you’d show.”
“You sent me a dozen messages. What do you want?”
He looked away for a second. Then back at me. “To tell you the truth.”
