CHAPTER 17: THE THRILL HAD ENDED

Mira’s jaw dropped. "Are you insane?" she blurted out, her voice climbing an octave.

Roxy’s grin was all teeth. "Yes. You’re trying to recruit me, remember? You shouldn’t expect anything less."

"How do you expect two complete novices to get in that car with you for a race in this... this death trap?" Mira argued, gesturing wildly at the pothole-ridden alley. "It’s a death wish!"

"That’s the condition," Roxy said, her arms crossing over her chest. Her expression was utterly immovable. "Take it or leave it."

I stood frozen between them, their argument buzzing around me like angry hornets. My heart was doing a frantic tap dance against my ribs. This was madness. Absolute, certifiable madness. But a tiny, reckless part of me, the part that had just punched a man unconscious, was stirring.

Was this the universe’s idea of a opportunity? A chance to finally feel what it was like to truly live on the edge, instead of just carefully existing near it

I didn’t know I was going to speak until the words were already out of my mouth, soft but clear. "We can give it a try."

The arguing stopped. Mira turned to look at me, her eyes wide with utter disbelief, as if she was seeing a stranger who had borrowed my skin. Roxy let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Well, I’ll be damned. The quiet one’s got more balls than you do, Corporate."

Mira grabbed my arm, pulling me a few steps away from Roxy. "Eleanor, what are you doing? Do you have any idea what you’re saying? This isn’t a joyride!"

"I know," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Then why?" she pressed, her eyes searching mine, desperate for logic.

I hesitated. I couldn’t tell her the truth—that a part of me was screaming for this, that after a lifetime of playing it safe, the danger felt magnetic. So I grasped for the most professional, reasonable justification I could find on the fly.

"We... we can use this," I said, the idea forming even as I spoke. "To understand. To really know what it’s like for the racers we want to recruit. The danger, the adrenaline, the skill it takes. If we know firsthand how terrifying it is, how a car can suddenly go haywire... we can compensate them better. We can make sure the company’s contracts are fair. They won’t feel like... like disposable assets. They’ll know we get it."

I watched the argument die in Mira’s eyes, replaced by slow-dawning consideration. She was a businesswoman at her core, and this appealed to that ruthless practicality. "That... actually makes a lot of sense," she admitted slowly. "A unique perspective for negotiations." She studied my face, her concern returning. "But are you sure you can handle this?"

I took a deep, shaky breath. The thought of getting into that car made me want to vomit. But the thought of backing down now, of going back to being the person who flinched at everything, felt worse. "I have to," I whispered.

Mira sighed, a sound of pure resignation. She nodded once, then turned back to Roxy, her professional mask sliding back into place. "Alright. We agree."

Roxy’s eyebrows shot up, genuinely surprised we’d called her bluff.

"On one condition," Mira added, holding up a finger. "We wear all the safety gear you have. Helmets, harnesses, the works. This isn’t a suicide pact."

Roxy’s surprised look melted back into that wicked grin. "Deal. Now quit your yapping and get in the car. The light’s about to turn green." She jerked her head toward her vehicle, a predator inviting us into its den.

I looked at Roxy’s car. Up close, it was even more menacing. It was a low-slung predator, almost hugging the asphalt. its body was a mosaic of repaired sections and matte black panels, all shaped around a form that was all slanted angles and scooped vents. The low, guttural purr of its engine wasn’t a growl; it was a continuous, whispered threat, a promise of impossible speed. It looked less like a car and more like a blade on wheels.

After we’d clumsily fastened ourselves into the stiff racing harnesses and pulled on the heavy helmets that smelled of sweat and gasoline, Roxy yanked the doors open. "Your chariot awaits, princesses," she said with a mocking flourish. "Try not to puke on the upholstery. It’s a bitch to clean."

Just as I was squeezing into the back seat, a man with a worried frown hurried over to Roxy’s window. He leaned in, speaking in a low, urgent tone I couldn’t make out over the engine’s rumble.

I saw Roxy listen, her expression bored, before she waved a dismissive hand. The man’s face tightened with hesitation, but he finally just shrugged and stepped back. As he turned away, his eyes met mine through the helmet visor. His expression wasn’t just worry; it was a deep, unmistakable pity, like he was looking at a lamb being led to slaughter. A cold trickle of dread traced my spine. Why did that feel so... final?

Roxy slid into the driver’s seat with the ease of someone slipping into a favorite jacket. She adjusted her rearview mirror, her eyes—sharp and focused—glinting in the reflection. "Alright, ladies. Last chance to bail. You ready back there?"

Mira, in the passenger seat, turned to look at me. Her face was pale but set. The question was in her eyes. Was I sure?

My mouth was desert-dry. I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the confines of the helmet. This was it. "Yes," I croaked.

Roxy’s answer was a wider grin in the mirror. My eyes were glued to the scene ahead. A man stood at the mouth of the alley, holding a checkered flag. The world seemed to narrow to that single point. The roaring of the other engines faded into a dull buzz in my ears.

The flag went up.

Time seemed to suspend for a heartbea—

And then it dropped.

The world exploded into a violent, crushing forward motion. The force slammed me back into my seat, the air punched from my lungs. The alley walls became a terrifying, blurring tunnel of brick and graffiti. This wasn’t driving. This was being shot from a cannon.

We shot out of the alley and onto a wider, but no less dilapidated, industrial road. Two other cars, just as modified and snarling as Roxy’s, were immediately on us, their headlights glaring in the side mirrors like predatory eyes. The race was a tight, violent ballet of metal and horsepower.

One of them, a matte black car with a cracked spoiler, pulled up beside us, its driver a dark silhouette. He inched closer, his intention clear. My breath hitched as his fender kissed ours with a jarring SCRUNCH

of metal. The car shuddered, but Roxy didn’t even flinch. Her hands were steady on the wheel, her jaw set. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible turn into him, holding her line with an unshakable force. The black car wobbled, and for a terrifying second, I thought we’d both spin out, but he fell back, his aggression momentarily checked.

"Asshole," Roxy muttered, her voice calm amidst the chaos.

A sharp curve loomed ahead, a tight turn onto a narrow bridge. The other racers braked, their tires screeching. Roxy did the opposite. She downshifted, the engine screaming in protest, and then yanked the handbrake.

The world spun.

Or rather, we did. The back of the car swung out in a controlled, breathtaking arc. I was thrown against my harness, the straps digging into my shoulders as we slid sideways, mere inches from the concrete barrier of the bridge.

It was terrifying and beautiful all at once, a perfect, violent drift that carried us through the curve and shot us out onto the straightaway on the other side, now in the lead.

In the passenger seat, Mira let out a strangled gasp she’d clearly been holding. "That was a close call!" she breathed, her knuckles white where she gripped the ’oh shit’ handle.

Roxy’s laugh was short, sharp, and utterly confident. "Relax, Corporate. I know what I’m doing."

The adrenaline was still screaming through my veins, a wild counterpoint to the engine’s roar. But something felt... off. I chanced a look back, my neck straining against the helmet.

The headlights of the other cars were falling back. Not just falling back—they were slowing down intentionally, their aggressive pursuit melting away into a cautious, almost deliberate distance.

A cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach, colder than the fear of the speed. "Roxy," I said, my voice tinny and small inside the helmet. "They’re slowing down. All of them. That’s... odd."

Roxy’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, her confident smirk faltering for a fraction of a second. Her grip on the wheel tightened. "Yeah. That is strange." She pumped the brake pedal once, then twice. Nothing happened. Her face went utterly still.

"Shit," she breathed, the word flat and final.

Mira, who had been slowly unclenching her hands, froze. "Please tell me that’s a good ’shit’. Like, ’shit, we’re winning by a mile’ shit."

"Brakes are gone," Roxy said, her voice eerily calm now, all the earlier bravado stripped away. She slammed her fist against the steering wheel. "These fragile-ego, piss-ant men! They’ve done it again!"

"Done it again?!" Mira shrieked, her professional composure shattering. "What do you mean ’again’? And why would you bring us in here if this is a common occurrence for you?!"

"Because I’ve dealt with it before!" Roxy snapped, her focus entirely on the road ahead, her hands making minute, lightning-fast adjustments to the wheel. "But it never fucking sticks in their skulls that they can’t get rid of me this way!"

The fear that had been a cold knot in my stomach turned into a block of ice. We were in a low, speeding bullet with no way to stop, and the men who had caused it were just watching from a safe distance.