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 a
