The Mask Between UsPOV: Luna
1157 Words
The garage smelled like fuel, burnt rubber, and ambition. A perfect mix for danger.
I wiped the sweat off my neck with the back of my hand, glancing up at the mirror wall where his reflection lingered again — Adrian Cross, the man whose name had become a rumor among racers long before I ever met him. Polished. Untouchable. Every bit the kind of man who could buy your silence with a glance and your loyalty with a signature.
And yet, there he was — leaning against the rail above the tuning bay, his sleeves rolled up, wristwatch gleaming like an accusation. Watching. Always watching.
“Cross, if you stare any harder, this car’s gonna combust out of discomfort,” I muttered, not looking up from the exposed engine block of the prototype I’d been working on.
He chuckled — low, expensive, and annoyingly calm. “I’m just making sure my investment doesn’t blow up before the season starts.”
I shot him a look. “Your investment can handle herself.”
“That, Luna,” he said, walking down the steel stairs until his polished shoes touched the oil-stained floor, “is exactly what I’m counting on.”
His cologne hit first — subtle, dark, too composed for someone who should’ve been allergic to this kind of place. The way he moved — steady, deliberate — made my pulse trip over itself. I’d met sponsors before. They wanted wins, endorsements, clean results. Adrian wanted something else. I couldn’t name it, but it thrummed under every word.
He crouched beside the hood, his eyes scanning the car like it was alive. Then he touched the engine — not with the curiosity of a businessman, but with the precision of someone who knew. His fingertips lingered near the throttle housing. A faint smudge of carbon blackened his knuckles.
“This setup,” he murmured, “wasn’t in the original spec.”
I frowned. “You read the blueprints?”
“Of course.” His tone was casual, but his jaw tightened. “This valve system… it’s identical to one from a prototype that was—”
He stopped himself. Too quickly.
I tilted my head. “That was what?”
His lips curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. “That was discontinued. Dangerous.”
I smirked, standing and wiping my hands on my coverall. “Dangerous usually means fun.”
His eyes — sharp, unblinking — met mine. “It also means fatal.”
There it was again. That flicker behind his restraint. Something personal. Something buried. I didn’t know what, but it wasn’t corporate. It was human.
I leaned closer, curiosity overpowering caution. “You talk like someone who’s lost before.”
The air between us thinned. For a moment, his mask — the CEO, the strategist, the controlled perfection — cracked just slightly. His eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw guilt.
“I talk like someone who doesn’t plan to lose again,” he said finally.
---
Later that afternoon, the crew cleared out for lunch, leaving the bay quiet except for the hum of the car’s diagnostics. I stayed behind, partly to finish the calibration — mostly to breathe without him around.
But when I turned back toward the prototype engine on the side platform, something stopped me cold.
The markings on the cylinder head — I’d seen them before. Sharp, symmetrical etchings that didn’t belong to any manufacturer. They matched the same pattern I’d seen on Rogue’s car the night he vanished into the flames at the Skyway Circuit.
No way.
I touched the engraving, the cold metal vibrating faintly, like it recognized me.
“How did this even—”
“You shouldn’t be touching that.”
I froze.
Adrian’s voice came from behind, calm but threaded with warning. I turned, hand still resting on the engine.
“Relax,” I said, forcing a grin. “Didn’t know your toys were off-limits.”
His expression didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened. He walked closer, his presence almost predatory now — not the polite businessman, but someone with an edge carved out of secrets.
“That engine is proprietary,” he said softly. “It’s not meant for public knowledge yet.”
“Then why does it look exactly like the one Rogue used?”
He stopped. Just a step away. His silence was louder than denial.
I crossed my arms. “You flinched.”
He exhaled — one of those slow, calculated breaths men take when they’re deciding between lying or telling the truth.
“Rogue’s technology was… unregulated,” he said. “Someone had to clean the mess he left behind.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And that someone was you?”
“Let’s just say,” he replied, voice smooth but cold, “I make sure things that shouldn’t exist don’t destroy what does.”
I didn’t believe him. Not entirely. There was something personal in the way he said Rogue — too familiar, too heavy.
“Seems like you know him,” I said quietly.
His gaze held mine for a long moment before he said, “Know him? I made him.”
The words sank in like a punch to the chest.
Before I could respond, the sound of an incoming message beeped through his phone. He glanced at it, expression unreadable, then tucked the device away.
“You should focus on your next race,” he said finally, tone switching back to professional. “Leave the engineering to the people who don’t bleed on the track.”
I stepped closer, not backing down. “And you? What do you bleed for, Mr. Cross?”
His lips twitched, but his answer was a whisper. “Control.”
Then he turned and left, the click of his shoes echoing through the bay.
---
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The shadows of the track played in my mind — Rogue’s voice, his mask, his impossible speed. And now Adrian, with his too-clean answers and too-familiar engine.
My gut screamed they weren’t strangers.
I tossed the wrench onto my workbench and opened the tablet’s feed logs from the last tuning session. There — a hidden data string coded into the prototype’s telemetry. I decrypted the first few lines, and my heart stuttered.
“PROJECT: VELOCITY. DIRECTOR: A. CROSS. TEST SUBJECT: ROGUE.”
No. No way.
The realization hit like a skid.
Adrian wasn’t just my sponsor. He was part of the reason Rogue existed.
And if that was true… then the man funding my rise was also the ghost behind my fall.
I stared at the dark reflection of my face in the car’s polished hood and whispered the thought I shouldn’t have:
“You don’t just watch engines, Cross. You study people like blueprints.”
And somewhere above the silent garage, the security light flickered once — like an unblinking eye watching back.
- Writer
