The first thing I feel is cold.
Not the sharp, metallic cold of fear.
Not the cold of asphalt under my palms after a crash.
This is different—soft, almost careful. Like someone tried to lower winter onto my skin with gentle hands.
My eyelids flutter open.
At first, everything is blurry—just a wash of dim yellow light and shadows swaying like they’re breathing. It smells like old leather, motor oil, and peppermint air freshener…the kind you only find in rundown garages where holidays exist only on calendars, not in real life.
I’m not home.
I’m not at the track.
I’m not dead.
My heartbeat stutters.
I shift slightly—and that’s when something slides off my chest and lands beside me with a soft thunk.
My breath catches.
The mask.
His mask.
Rogue’s. Adrian’s. Whatever name he think
