Ten months. Three hundred days of surgical steel, agonizing physical therapy, and the slow, painstaking process of recalibrating a life. In the sterile quiet of a Swiss clinic, Elara Rossi had died. In the grease-and-metal symphony of a failing race team’s garage in Oxfordshire, Lia Voss was born.
The name was a fiction, the past a firewall. The only truths I carried with me were the fifty million francs in a numbered account and the intricate network of scars that spiderwebbed across my hands, hidden beneath custom-made black nomex and leather gloves. They were a masterpiece of medical engineering, with integrated micro-servos to assist my grip, but they were also a cage. I could no longer feel the cool, satisfying texture of milled aluminum or the delicate click of a wiring harness lock
