By the time I was done, the garage had fallen completely quiet again.
I sat on the edge of the cot for a moment, then lowered myself down, wincing as my back protested against the thin mattress. The canvas dipped beneath me, familiar and unforgiving.
My eyes drifted to the ceiling again, and my mind… It didn’t stop.
His car. Every flaw I’d noticed in the split-second I’d seen it. The weight distribution. The tuning. The way the engine sounded when it pulled away.
Adjustments. Upgrades. Better ways to build it flooded my mind. The thoughts lined themselves up automatically, one after another, solutions forming faster than I could stop them.
Eventually, my eyes grew heavy. The ceiling faded.
Just before sleep took me, something warm, wet, slipped down the side of my face, trailing into my hair.
I didn’t wipe it away.
Just this once, I would let the tears run, but after tonight, never again.
7
RACK
“Sir, we need Mr. Winstale’s final signature before we can move forward.”
The voice crackled through the car speakers, too sharp, too eager. I could practically see him on the other end, leaning forward over a desk, papers spread out in front of him, one hand pressed flat against them as if that would somehow push the process along faster.
“It’s cleared T&D, passed the human government’s approval, and marketing is already lined up. The factory is prepped—everything’s ready to go on this revolutionary product Mr. Winstale created. We just need?—”
I kept my eyes on the road, fingers tapping once against the steering wheel.
“His signature in order to start production,” he repeated, his tone shifting to something more desperate, more pleading.
Revolutionary. The word hung there, hollow.
I let out a quiet breath through my nose, holding back the scoff that wanted to follow. He didn’t see the full scheme. To him, it was just another launch of a product he needed to keep within the timeframe he was given.
To us, it was leverage. A market that we were testing the waters in.
“I’m heading to him now,” I said, my voice cutting through his ramble. “I’ll remind him.”
There was a brief pause on the other end, papers shuffling faintly.
“Please do, Mr. Marlo,” he said quickly. “Timing is?—”
My thumb pressed against the control on the wheel, cutting him off mid-sentence. I didn't need to hear the rest. It was just going to take up more of my time that I needed for other things.
Silence filled the car, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of tires against the pavement. I exhaled slowly, leaning back into the seat.
Six months.
Six months of development, approvals, revisions, negotiations. And now it sat waiting on his desk, waiting for a single signature.
For us, the world had shifted in those six months.
The Winged Palace had been attacked and almost blown up. Whispers still circled about how it was a close call. How this was a sign that the Syndicate wasn't so impenetrable. Then came the underground experiments, surfacing like fucking daisies, each one worse than the last. And now that damn blade.
My back tightened as my fingers squeezed the steering wheel.
A weapon that could kill a supe with hardly any effort didn’t belong anywhere near the open market, or anywhere at all in my opinion. Too dangerous for everyone around.
