The paddock was already pulsing when I arrived. The air shimmered with heat and the sound of engines idling—throaty, impatient beasts straining against the red line. The tang of fuel, rubber, and hot metal hung heavy, clinging to my throat.
Obsidian’s garage gleamed like a surgical theatre: black, chrome, and sharp angles. Every surface caught the light, every reflection precise enough to shave with.
Precision. Power. Perfection.
It was everywhere—the motto, the expectation, the weight. Even the hum of the lights seemed timed to a metronome.
Terri intercepted me before I reached the engineers. Tablet in hand, headset around her neck, she looked more anxious than usual.
“A quick word?”
I stopped, folding my arms. “What did you find?”
She swallowed. “There was no talk—none—about our engine before yesterday’s press conference. Whatever’s circulating now, it started with that question from Archer.”
My jaw tightened. “So she wasn’t echoing rumours.”
Terri hesitated. “No. She created them.”
A pulse of heat rippled through my chest. “Find out who’s feeding her. I doubt she came up with it out of nowhere.”
“I’ve asked around. But no one knows what she’s talking about.”
I exhaled hard through my nose. “All right.”
I spotted my race engineer, Marcus McKenna leaning against the garage wall, headset slung around his neck, watching the chaos with the patience of a man who’d seen it all before. I crossed the floor toward him, the hum of generators and the staccato of impact guns echoing around us.
“Mac.”
He looked up from his tablet, squinting. “Mornin’, champ. You look like someone nicked yer breakfast.”
“Why would a reporter start asking about our engine?” I asked. “You heard her question yesterday. Yes?”
He shrugged, all calm and gravel. “Because it makes headlines. ‘Machine breaks rules’ sells better than ‘machine wins races.’ Ignore it.”
“That is easier said than done,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Folk always have their theories ’bout the Obsidian rocket ship. Let ’em chatter. You start lookin’ sideways now, you’ll miss the lights when they go out.”
His tone was steady, deliberate. The way he spoke when he wanted me to let something drop. I recognised the rhythm—like tightening a bolt just shy of snapping.
“You’re saying don’t worry about it.”
“I’m sayin’ worry ’bout the track, not some journo with a rumour.” He looked up finally, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Get yer head in the car. That’s where you win.”
I nodded once. The words didn’t settle.
The garage burst into motion. Mechanics rolling tyre trolleys, laptops snapping shut, cameras flashing as PR staff herded the media away from the action. My race suit fit like a glove—black with a razor-thin silver piping that caught the light like a blade. The Obsidian Performance logo gleamed across the chest in chrome embroidery; beneath it, the words that had been branded into my brain since my rookie year:Precision. Power. Perfection.
Terri appeared again with my gloves and balaclava. “Five minutes to the grid.”
I pulled the zip of my race suit all the way up. I slipped on the balaclava and finally my helmet. The world outside dimmed, narrowed to the ritual. I pressed a gloved hand against the car’s flank, tracing the smooth, cold metal. My world shrank to this machine: three hundred kilometres an hour of carbon fibre and fury.
The air was heavy with the low drone of engines from the other garages, the whine of drills, the slap of rubber on tarmac. Every sound vibrated in my ribs. The chrome on the nose cone caught the afternoon light, throwing knives of silver across the garage floor, the smell of fuel thick enough to taste.
The heat hit harder outside. I could feel it pooling inside my suit, running down my spine. I climbed into the cockpit, sliding into the custom-moulded seat. The belts snapped across my shoulders, tightening like a heartbeat.
Mac’s voice crackled in my ear. “Alright, Aleks. Let’s keep it simple. Lights out, clean start. Ye know the drill.”
