“Let her dig. She won’t find anything worth publishing.”
There was something in his tone that didn’t sit right. Too polished. Too easy.
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re certain about that?”
“Of course.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder—firm, confident, claiming control. “Aleksandr, you’re the face of Obsidian. The champion. The embodiment of Precision, Power, Perfection. Leave the conspiracy theories to the internet.” He straightened, his expression light again. “Take a few days off. Rest, reset. The engineers are flying back to Oxfordshire for data analysis, you’ll have simulator prep next week before Singapore. Let the dust settle in the meantime.”
He gave me a smile that was all teeth and diplomacy. “And Aleks—try to play nice with the press next time. Confidence looks good on us, but arrogance? That’s harder to market.”
I didn’t answer. The office door clicked softly behind me as I left, sealing in the scent of cologne and chrome polish.
For the first time in a long while, victory didn’t feel clean.
Chapter Three – Melbourne Post-Race
Elena Archer – Middle Park Beach, Melbourne
The city was still awake behind me, a soft hum of traffic and the city’s lights bleeding into the sky. But down here by the water, Melbourne was all shadow and salt. Waves lapped lazily at the shore, black against the strip of wet sand, and the night air tasted faintly of diesel from the harbour.
He was already there when I arrived. Standing near the promenade railing, hood pulled low, hands jammed in his pockets. A man who wanted to be invisible.
“Archer?” His voice was rough, wary.
I nodded, stopping just short of him. “You’re the one who messaged me?”
“Keep your voice down.” He scanned the walkway like someone might’ve followed me, though the only sound was the wind. “You listened.”
“To the engine? Yeah. I’ve been listening for two days straight. Quali versus race. It’s… different. But I can’t tell how.”
“It’s not about the sound.” He reached into his pocket, hesitated, then pulled out a small USB stick. The chrome casing gleamed under the street light. “It’s about what makes the sound change.”
I frowned. “The power unit?”
He shook his head. “The mapping. They’ve buried a variable mode in the software—one that changes under load but never trips the FIA’s system checks. On paper, the car’s legal. In reality?” He let out a sharp breath. “Let’s just say it’s not playing fair.”
I felt my pulse quicken. “You’re certain?”
“I’ve seen the data. I shouldn’t even know it exists, let alone be talking to you about it.” He pushed the USB into my hand. “You’ll need someone who understands ECU code to read it. Just… be careful who you ask.”
The metal was cold against my palm. “Why tell me?”
He looked out over the water, his voice almost lost to the wind. “Because someone needs to. And because I remember what happened to your father.”
That stopped me cold.
He didn’t meet my eyes. “He was right, by the way. About the telemetry scandal back then. We all know it now. Obsidian just made sure the world forgot before it hit print.”
A gull shrieked overhead, startled by the wind, and he flinched. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Wait—what’s your name?”
But he was already walking away, footsteps crunching on the tin layer of wet sand clinging to the paving, swallowed by the darkness toward the car park.
I looked down at the USB, the street light glinting off its surface like a sliver of truth—or a blade.
Dad’s voice came back to me, low and steady, from a memory I’d spent years trying to bury.
Truth isn’t a headline. It’s a fight. And it never ends clean.
