“Maybe visibility’s what they need.”
He studied me for a long moment, then slid the USB back across the table. “You want a real story? You’ll need to catch them switching the code. Otherwise it’s just conjecture.”
“Then I’ll catch them.”
He smiled, not unkindly, but like someone who’d seen too many people go up against giants. “You’ve got your father’s reputation. Try not to get his ending.”
That one landed square in my chest. “Thanks for the warning.”
He shrugged and gathered his things. “You didn’t hear this from me. And I was never here.”
When he was gone, I sat there for a while, staring at the drive between my fingers. The lines of code scrolled as an after-image across my mind.
Two maps. One legal. One not.
The truth was right there, buried beneath layers of precision and polish.
I slipped the drive into my bag, finished my cool coffee, and stepped out into the Melbourne sunlight.
Obsidian had built their empire on perfection. But perfection was a lie, and I was going to prove it.
Elena Archer – Singapore Media Day
The Singapore air felt like it had weight. Even before sunrise, the heat pressed against my skin—wet, heavy, unrelenting. The paddock at Marina Bay pulsed with motion: forklifts humming,crates rolling, camera crews staking out positions for the evening’s driver interviews. Every team was fighting the same enemy—humidity—and losing.
Media day was always theatre. Smiles, sound bites, corporate platitudes. Everyone pretending not to sweat through their uniforms. But this time, I wasn’t here for small talk about tyre compounds or driver confidence. I was here to find someone—anyone—who would go on the record about fuel.
The data on the USB haunted me. Two versions of the same software: one clean, one dirty. But it was just code until someone inside Obsidian confirmed it—and people in that garage didn’t talk.
Obsidian’s setup gleamed at the far end of the paddock, all black and chrome, their team logo polished to a mirror shine. Mechanics moved in eerie synchronicity, every gesture neat, efficient, silent. Even their pit gantry looked intimidating—minimalist lines, matte black finish, the words ‘Precision. Power. Perfection.’ etched across the side.
I lingered at the edge of the crowd of journalists gathering for the media pen, pretending to scroll through notes on my phone. Truth was, I was scanning faces. A mechanic. A data engineer. Someone low enough on the chain to be overlooked but close enough to know how that engine ran.
A PR assistant in a silver lanyard drifted by, chattering to another journalist. “They’ve upgraded the hospitality suites this year—top floor of the paddock club. Best view of the garages. Decent coffee, too.”
Coffee and air conditioning? Sold.
The paddock club overlooked the pit lane, separated by glass walls and the low hum of money. I took the lift up, badge swinging at my chest, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the voice memo app just in case opportunity struck.
The room buzzed with quiet networking: journalists clustering near catering tables, team personnel hovering near the balcony. The FIA press conference was scheduled for later, but drivers were already making their rounds—casual enough to seem approachable, distant enough to remind us they weren’t.
And then, like gravity had shifted, the atmosphere changed.
Obsidian walked in as a unit. At their centre, Aleksandr Volkov.
Of course.
He wore black—team polo, jeans, sunglasses hooked at the collar. Even out of the car, he carried the same cold precision as on track. Every movement controlled. Every glance calculated. He stopped to greet Ross, said something that made the man laugh, and then—like instinct—looked directly at me.
Our eyes met across the suite.
My stomach dropped.
I looked away fast, pretending to check my messages, though my screen was nothing but notes I already knew by heart.
Focus, Archer. You’re here to chase the truth, not a jawline.
A trio of Obsidian engineers stood by the coffee station. I made my way over, casual smile ready.
