The garage was a temple of steel and shadows, lit only by the amber glow of a single heat lamp near the back. I slipped through the side door, my movements as silent as the "Ghost" moniker I'd earned on the track. The air here was thick with the scent of synthetic oil and cold metal, a familiar comfort that usually steadied my nerves. But tonight, my pulse was a frantic mess, thrumming in my throat as I watched the man standing over my bike.
Dax Steele looked different in the solitude of the workshop. The cold, Vice President mask he'd worn upstairs had crumbled, leaving behind a man who looked raw and dangerously exhausted. He was leaning over my Ducati, his large, grease-stained hands resting on the fuel tank with a strange kind of reverence. He looked like he was praying to a machine.
