Crossed Wires (Adrian’s POV)
976 Words
The city hums beneath my penthouse — a restless pulse of light, engines, and secrets. From up here, everything looks smaller, easier to control. But tonight, control feels like a foreign concept.
The monitor glows in front of me, replaying that same footage again and again: Luna Vega — the girl who beat Rogue. The girl who ruined my perfect record.
She’s not just fast. She’s precise. Reckless, but with purpose. Every drift, every shift of her hand — it’s like watching chaos make art.
I shouldn’t care this much. I tell myself that every time her image flickers on screen. But my chest tightens anyway, a pulse that has nothing to do with competition.
> “You shouldn’t have won that race.”
My own words echo in my head. I meant it as a warning, but it came out like a promise.
For three nights, I’ve been watching her. Her garage. Her routines. The way she talks to that friend of hers — Luca, I think. The way she laughs when the radio plays old rock songs while she works on an engine.
I’ve built empires on precision and logic. Yet here I am, stalking a girl who races for scraps and pride.
Pathetic. Addicted.
Still, I can’t stay behind the mask forever. Rogue has power in the shadows. But Adrian Cross — the billionaire face of Cross Tech — can move pieces in daylight.
So tonight, I’ll step into her world unmasked. Not as her rival. Not yet.
Just a sponsor. A stranger. A man curious enough to play with fire.
The sound of engines fades as I pull into the old industrial strip — her side of the city. Oil, sweat, and burnt rubber hang thick in the air. My car — a matte-black Cross X7 prototype — doesn’t belong here. Neither do I.
Luna’s garage glows in warm amber light, spilling through the half-open shutter. Sparks flash from a welder. Music bleeds through — low, pulsing, alive.
She’s there.
Hair tied messily, grease streaking her cheek, tank top clinging to her skin from heat. She doesn’t notice me at first — she’s too focused on the machine in front of her, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
I watch her longer than I should. Something in my chest twists — curiosity or hunger, I can’t tell.
I clear my throat. “Impressive setup.”
She looks up sharply. Eyes narrow.
No smile. No recognition.
“Customers use the front,” she says flatly, flipping up the welder shield.
“I’m not a customer.”
“Then you’re lost.”
God, she’s sharp. Defensive. Every word like a warning shot.
I step closer, careful not to let the dim light reveal too much of me. “Actually, I’m looking for talent.”
That gets her attention. Her gaze flickers to my suit — tailored, dark, out of place here. “You from some magazine or something? Because I don’t do interviews.”
“Not that kind of talent.”
I offer a half-smile — charming enough to disarm, not enough to trust.
“I represent Cross Tech Motors. We’re looking for someone who knows how to push limits. And I saw your name pop up in a few circles.”
Her eyes harden. “You mean the illegal ones.”
I shrug. “I prefer the term off-record.”
She stares, suspicious but curious.
“You’re scouting drivers in underground circuits? Sounds shady for a suit like you.”
“Let’s say I believe in potential more than polish.”
The corner of her mouth twitches — almost a smile. “And what makes you think I’d sell that potential to someone in a tie?”
“Because not everyone gets to rewrite the rules of the track,” I say softly. “You already did.”
The silence between us stretches — a current neither of us can name.
Her voice lowers, wary but charged. “You talk like you already know me.”
I hold her gaze, calm. “Maybe I do.”
For a moment, she doesn’t breathe. Neither do I. The music fades behind the sound of an idling engine somewhere outside, the night hanging heavy with heat and static.
Then she looks away, grabbing a rag and wiping her hands. “I don’t do contracts. I do cars.”
I take a step closer — close enough to catch the scent of gasoline and something softer beneath it.
“Then maybe you should do both.”
Her eyes flick up, something like defiance sparking there. “And maybe you should leave before I start charging you for air.”
A laugh escapes me — genuine, surprising even to myself. “Fair enough.”
I set my card on her workbench — the real Cross Tech logo gleaming faintly.
“If you change your mind, Ms. Vega… call me.”
She glances at it but doesn’t touch.
“Don’t wait by the phone.”
I turn to leave, but her voice follows me — quick, impulsive.
“Hey.”
I stop.
“Why me?” she asks quietly. “There are a hundred racers out there better, richer, faster. Why bother with the one who barely makes rent?”
For once, I don’t have a logical answer. Only truth.
“Because you made Rogue bleed,” I murmur. “And that doesn’t happen often.”
Her eyes flash — confusion, challenge, maybe even recognition of something darker beneath my calm.
I leave before I can say more.
Outside, the air feels heavier. I slide into my car, pulse racing harder than any engine.
Inside the reflection of the windshield, the man who looks back at me isn’t Adrian Cross — not entirely.
He’s Rogue.
And Rogue has found something — someone — he can’t stop chasing.
- Writer
