Chapter 1

I transferred to this high school as a sports recruit.

I wore a cheap tracksuit and signed up for the 100-meter dash at the school track meet.

The rich kids on the varsity team mocked me openly for my thrift-store clothes.

They claimed I only got in by pulling strings.

The whole class joined in the ridicule.

Only Lennox Hunt, the top student in our grade, stepped in to shut them down.

Nobody knew I was actually a professional racer and a two-time national junior champion.

My pit crew was already waiting for me right outside the stadium gates.

1

The tracksuit cost me forty-five dollars at a night market clearance.

The top was oversized and the pants were too short.

I looked like I was wearing borrowed clothes.

The moment I stepped onto the track, the varsity guys started laughing.

“Hey, rookie―what kind of gear is that?”

The leader was Jaxson Reed, a wealthy prick on the track team.

He wore limited-edition spikes that cost twenty times my entire outfit.

“You really think you can run a hundred meters in that garbage?”

“Do you think this is a neighborhood fun run for kids?”

His buddies erupted in laughter.

Even the students in the bleachers started whispering and pointing.

I ignored them and tightened my laces.

My shoes were old and the soles were worn flat, but they fit perfectly.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Jaxson stepped closer, eyeing me with pure disgust.

“I heard you’re a recruit. What’s your specialty? Bribing the administration?”

“I’ve seen your type before―no money, no brains, just looking for a free ride.”

“You can’t even afford a decent pair of spikes.”

His friends laughed even harder.

The sound echoed across the empty field, drawing more eyes.

A girl nearby even pulled out her phone to record the scene.

“Step aside.”

The voice came from the bleachers.

Lennox Hunt walked down the stairs.

He was wearing his signature black hoodie, holding a physics competition workbook.

He was the top of our class and the Student Council President.

His voice wasn’t loud, but the entire track went dead silent.

“Jaxson, what was your time for the hundred meters last year?”

The smirk on Jaxson’s face froze.

“Twelve point one―why?”

“You’re mocking someone with a twelve-point-one?”

Lennox walked up to me, his eyes glancing at Jaxson’s expensive spikes.

“You wear shoes that expensive and still can’t break twelve seconds.”

“What exactly are you bragging about?”

Someone in the crowd let out a snicker.

Jaxson’s face turned a deep, angry shade of purple.

Lennox didn't give him another look.

He looked at my shoes for a split second.

He didn't ask any questions.

“The heats start in half an hour,” he said.

“The third lane has a tailwind. Use it.”

I muttered a thanks and headed toward the starting blocks.

After a few steps, a wave of unease hit me.

As a racer, I have a habit of walking on the balls of my feet with a very stable, fast rhythm.

That isn’t how a normal sprinter walks.

I glanced back.

Lennox was still standing there, his gaze fixed on my feet.

It wasn't curiosity in his eyes.

It was recognition.

The afternoon sun hit the track, turning it a dark, dusty red.

I stood at the starting line and took a deep breath.

This race wouldn't even be a warm-up for what I was used to.