Chapter 3

3

The preliminaries were held on Friday afternoon.

The sky was overcast, and the track was slightly damp.

It was the perfect weather for a personal best.

Jaxson was in the second heat, and I was in the third.

After his run, he strutted over to my lane.

“Watch and learn, rookie,” he shouted to his teammates.

“Twelve point one―easy money.”

I didn't look at him.

I noticed someone else near the starting line: Lennox.

He wasn't in the coaching area.

He was standing on the grass inside the track, right by the start.

His hands were in his pockets, and his eyes were locked on lane three.

The starter pistol went off.

The moment I pushed off, I knew I had the perfect start.

Jaxson was in the lane next to me, straining every muscle in his body.

By the thirty-meter mark, we reached top speed.

His breathing rhythm hitched by a fraction of a second.

I kept my pace steady, my breathing like a tuned engine.

I was a machine delivering constant power.

In the final twenty meters, I pulled ahead by a full body length.

The timer flashed as I crossed the line: 11.32 seconds.

The entire stadium went silent for five whole seconds.

Then, a single clap started, turning into a roar like a rainstorm.

Jaxson stood past the finish line, staring at the scoreboard in disbelief.

His expensive spikes looked like a joke now.

Lennox walked over and handed me a bottle of water.

The cap was already unscrewed.

He didn't say “congrats.”

“Don’t wear those old shoes for the finals,” he said.

“The soles are flat. You’re losing 1.5 seconds on the launch.”

I took a sip of water and looked him in the eye.

“How do you know that?”

He paused and looked toward the horizon.

A tiny, almost invisible smile touched his lips.

“I looked you up.”

“The international registration page has your mechanical data from last season.”

“A 0.1-second delay in your start means losing two spots on the grid.”

I nearly dropped the water bottle.

He hadn't checked the school records.

He had hacked into the professional racing association’s database.

That data was restricted to internal technical staff only.

“When did you find out?” I whispered.

“The day you transferred.”

He sounded like he was explaining a physics problem.

“Your gait gave you away. Sprinters and racers don't walk the same.”

“You were either a hidden athlete or a pro driver under cover.”

“Then I overheard your phone call with your manager.”

“I sit right behind you in class.”

“So you went and checked the national championship records?”

“It was just a quick search.”

I stared at him for a long time.

A “quick search” didn't get you into a Tier-4 encrypted database.

He had high-level authorization.

“Who are you, really?”

He seemed to expect the question and brushed it off.

“Just win the finals,” he said.

“I’ll give you an answer then.”

He walked away, leaving me in the cooling air.

People were screaming my name now―the same people who had mocked me.

The distant roar of an engine echoed from outside the school gates.