The night was cool and silent, the kind of silence that clung to the skin and sharpened every sound. The streets of Nottingham were barely lit, painted with shadows from flickering lamps. Sukhman zipped his jacket as he followed Siddharth down a narrow alley behind a row of garages. Siddharth's footsteps were determined, almost impatient.
"You sure this guy is trustworthy?" Sukhman asked, his voice low.
Siddharth nodded. "Ron used to work security for the IRC before he got into... well, freelance work. He's connected. And he's got access to footage no one else does."
They reached a rusted metal door with peeling paint. Siddharth knocked three times in a rhythmic pattern. A moment later, the door creaked open to reveal a lanky man in his late thirties, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes were alert, sharp.
"Siddharth," the man greeted. "You're late."
"We're here now," Siddharth replied. "Let us in."
Ron stepped aside, allowing them into a small, dimly lit room filled with monitors, wires, and what looked like custom surveillance equipment. A laptop sat on the desk, already playing a loop of security footage.
"You said you needed the Nottingham garage cam feed from race day, right?" Ron asked, tapping a few keys. "I isolated the timestamp you mentioned. From 12:30a.m. to 4:00a.m."
Sukhman stepped forward, his eyes glued to the screen. The footage was grainy but clear enough to recognize the layout of the garages. A figure appeared on screen, entering the garage quietly, a bundle of wires in hand.
"There," Ron pointed. "That's the moment they came in."
The figure moved with purpose, heading straight to Vaayu GP's garage. The way they walked, confident, familiar—it was no accident. They knelt beside Sukhman's car.
Siddharth leaned closer. "That's when they swapped the brake wires. You can see them working under the chassis."
Sukhman watched, heart pounding. The saboteur's face was covered by a hood, but the hand movements were deliberate. Whoever it was, they knew exactly what they were doing.
"Yeah," Sukhman murmured. "I can see that. But... the offender's face is covered. How are we supposed to identify them?"
Siddharth sighed. "Not now. Let's leave."
Sukhman pulled out his phone, transferring the agreed-upon amount to Ron's account.
"If you find anything else," he said, "you call me first."
Ron nodded, taking a drag of his cigarette. "You'll be the first."
---
The next morning, the airport buzzed with travelers, team members, and the smell of overpriced coffee. Sukhman walked with the Vaayu GP team toward the boarding gates, his mind still on the video. He had barely slept.
As they passed security and headed toward the plane, Sukhman noticed something. Charlotte, walking a few feet ahead, was adjusting her jacket. Her right hand was wrapped in medical tape—an injury? He hadn't seen that before.
His eyes narrowed.
The night before the race, when she confronted him—he clearly remembered—her hands were bare.
He said nothing for now.
The plane took off into the skies, leaving behind the foggy fields of England. Destination: Italy.
---
The Italian air was warm and dry, a stark contrast to the moist chill of Nottingham. Golden sunlight poured down over the terracotta rooftops, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. The Vaayu GP team had arrived in the late afternoon, and while most of the crew were already occupied with preparations and room check-ins, Sukhman's thoughts had long drifted away from logistics.
There was something unresolved. Something gnawing at him.
After a brief rest in his room, a hot shower, and a moment to calm his stormy thoughts, he headed up to the hotel's rooftop lounge. The sun was beginning its descent over the horizon, bathing the terrace in a warm, amber hue. Jazz played softly through overhead speakers. Laughter from other guests echoed faintly, but none of it reached Sukhman's ears. His eyes found her immediately.
Charlotte.
She was seated alone by the edge of the terrace, a half-empty glass of something amber and strong in her hand. Her gaze was fixed on the distant hills, and the fading sunlight traced the sharp lines of her face—fierce and elegant, just like the way she drove.
He approached slowly, footsteps soft on the tiled floor.
"Charlotte," he called.
She turned, slowly. Her expression was unreadable—neither hostile nor inviting. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her body language cautious.
"Can we talk? Privately?" he asked.
She hesitated. For a moment, Sukhman thought she might walk away or offer some cold excuse. But then, without a word, she stood and followed him to a quieter corner of the terrace, near the glass barrier overlooking the rolling Italian countryside.
He didn't speak at first. Neither did she. The silence between them felt sharp.
"You injured your hand?" he finally asked, nodding toward her bandaged wrist. The white tape was snugly wrapped around her hand, fingers slightly stiff as she held her drink.
"Training accident," she replied curtly, not meeting his eyes.
"Funny. I didn't see any tape on it the night before the race," he said, keeping his tone neutral, almost casual. "When you confronted me… nothing was there."
Her eyes flickered for a moment—just enough.
"I wasn't hurt then," she said quickly. Too quickly.
"Really?" he said softly. "Because we both know the kind of damage that tape is hiding. That's not a sprain. That's bruising. Pressure marks. From tools… or from bending in tight corners under a chassis."
Charlotte looked away, her jaw clenched.
"We saw footage," he continued, his voice low but firm. "Someone entered the Nottingham garage around 2:30 a.m. They had wires in their hands. Went straight for my car. Swapped out the brake wires."
The breeze picked up slightly. Her hair shifted across her cheek, but she didn't move.
"That figure," Sukhman went on. "Their face was covered. But the timing, the body language before they reached the car… it all points to someone who knew what they were doing."
Still, she said nothing.
"I'm not accusing you," he added. "Not yet. But that hand… the timing… it's too much of a coincidence, isn't it Charlotte?"
The silence between them stretched like a wire pulled to its breaking point.
Finally, her breath hitched. Her shoulders trembled once, and she turned away from him, leaning against the glass barrier.
"I was angry," she whispered, her voice so fragile it almost got lost in the wind. "You snatched the qualifying spot from me. I had the best time in practice laps until your final run. I worked for months. Sacrificed sleep. Relationships. I pushed harder than anyone else on the team."
She paused, brushing away a tear that slid down her cheek.
"And then, suddenly… I'm pushed down the grid," she continued. "Again. Like I was invisible."
Sukhman softened. The anger that had been simmering inside him began to melt, replaced by a tangle of sympathy and disappointment. "Charlotte… I get it. This sport is brutal. It chews people up, especially women trying to make their name in a male-dominated field. But this?" He gestured vaguely to the air between them. "This isn't how you fight back."
She turned, eyes brimming but voice still sharp. "You don't understand. In this world, one slip-up and you're forgotten. Do you know how many drivers I've seen disappear? Just… gone. Never to return. Sponsors bail. Teams drop you. No one remembers your name."
He took a step forward. "But sabotaging a car? You could've killed me. I was lucky. A few seconds later and that crash—"
"I didn't mean for it to go that far!" she snapped, her voice trembling. "I just wanted to mess with your nerves. Shake your confidence. I didn't think the wires would fail entirely…"
Her voice cracked at the end. She looked down at her taped hand, shame washing over her features.
"You know this isn't racing," Sukhman said gently. "This is war. And we're supposed to be soldiers with honor."
She looked up, her eyes bloodshot. "Don't lecture me."
"I'm not. I'm saying there's still a way to fix this. Come clean. Talk to the council. Admit what you did. It'll be hard, but maybe—"
"No," she said suddenly, backing away. "You don't get to be the hero here. You already won. You got the spot. The sympathy. The headlines."
"Charlotte—"
"I already made my choice," she said, her voice steely once more. "Whatever happens next, I'll deal with it. But don't try to save me. I don't need it."
She turned on her heel and walked away, disappearing through the rooftop door, her silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the hallway beyond.
Sukhman stood there, heart heavy and breath shallow.
The sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the terrace.
And for the first time since the crash, Sukhman felt the full weight of the sport he loved pressing down on him—its speed, its brilliance… and its darkness.