Three days had passed before Ray noticed a door in the house.
The door was at the back of Diego's office. It was a room next to the workshop.
Ray had walked past it many times. Each time, Diego would shift his body to hide that part of the wall from Ray.
The lock made it obvious. It was a heavy, strong lock.
Ray's thirty-year-old brain noticed it immediately.
Whatever was behind that door mattered.
On the fourth day, Diego announced he was going to the city market. "I need to hunt for parts," he said, jingling his van keys. "The Suzuki alternator. Maybe find it cheap."
Sabrina was washing clothes with her hand because the washing machine had stopped working three months ago hadn't been fixed since.
Ray was in the workshop alone.
He stood in the office doorway, staring at that locked door.
Don't, the smart part of his brain said. This is clearly private.
But what if it helps? the desperate part answered. What if there's something in there that explains how to fix this mess?
The system icon flashed.
Ray made up his mind.
Finding the key was actually the easy part. Diego wasn't very good at hiding things. Ray's adult brain knew the basics. People hid things close to what they were protecting. Somewhere accessible but not obvious. Somewhere they could grab it quickly if needed.
The office had three shelves. Ray started with the top one, dragging over Diego's rolling stool to reach. Oil cans lined up like soldiers. Castrol. Motul. Repsol. Most of them were half-empty or completely dry.
The fourth can from the left felt wrong. It felt too light.
Ray shook it. He didn't hear any liquid moving inside. He tried to turn the top. It was stuck at first, then suddenly loosened all at once. It wasn't screwed on. It was just pushed down.
The key dropped into his hand.
Ray's hands were sweating as he got down from the stool. He looked at the window. Sabrina was still washing clothes. He couldn't hear Diego's van anymore.
He went to the door and put the key into the padlock.
Click.
The lock opened.
He turned the handle.
He went inside and closed the door. He didn't close it completely so he could hear if anyone came back.
The room was small. There were no windows, just a lightbulb hanging down from the ceiling. Ray pulled the string, and the light covered the room.
A racing suit hung on the wall. The leather had faded from black to dark gray. Patches from sponsors covered the chest and shoulders. Brands Ray recognized from old races he had watched in his past life. Repsol. Michelin. A cigarette company logo that would never be allowed now.
On the back of the suit, the name D. CRUZ was written in cracked letters. Below that was the number 44.
The suit wasn't in good shape. It had scratch marks on the elbows and knees, which likely came from sliding on the road at high speed. Patches were sewn over the torn parts.
There was a shelf under the suit that held trophies. Ray stepped closer and read the plaques. Second in Jerez (1995), Third in Valencia (1996), and Second in the Spanish Championship (1997).
Always second. Always third. Never first.
But it was the helmet that really scared him.
It was on the top shelf. It was a full-face helmet that used to be white but had turned yellow with age. Sponsor stickers were still on it. And running from the crown all the way down to the chin bar was a huge crack. The kind that split the shell in two.
Ray reached up without thinking. He traced the crack with his fingers. The plastic was rough. Many tiny cracks spread out in all directions from the main one.
The system notification appeared.
[ITEM FOUND: RACING HELMET (DESTROYED)]
[ANALYZING...]
[RECORD RETRIEVED: CRASH REPORT, VALENCIA CIRCUIT, MAY 1998]
[RIDER: DIEGO CRUZ, #44]
[INCIDENT: HIGH-SIDE CRASH, TURN 8]
[IMPACT SPEED: ~87 KM/H]
The text stayed in his vision and made him feel guilty. He removed his hand from the helmet.
Diego Cruz wasn't just a mechanic with a limp. He was a rider. A racer. He followed the same dream that Ray was starting to feel. He was talented enough to race at the national level and earn those sponsors.
And the sport had destroyed him.
Ray looked at the suit again. At the number 44 and at the marks that told stories of other crashes. Diego had kept getting back on. Kept racing. Until the one time he couldn't.
The trophies made sense now. Second place. Third place. Diego had been climbing. Getting better. Maybe he would have made it to first. Maybe he would have moved up to the international circuits. Maybe he would have been someone.
Now, he was just a man who walked with a limp in his workshop. He fixed other people's machines while struggling with huge debts.
Ray touched his own leg. This leg would let him ride a bike one day if he wanted to. That is, if he was brave enough to try.
The sound of an engine broke through his thoughts. It was distant but getting closer.
Ray's heart started beating fast. The van. Diego was back already. How long had he been in here? It felt like minutes but could have been an hour.
He moved fast. He pulled the light string, and the room went dark. He stepped out, closed the door, and locked the padlock.
The key.
He had to return the key.
The engine sound was closer now.
He took the stool, moved it to the shelf and got on it. His hands were shaking so much that he nearly dropped the key. The Castrol can. Fourth from the left. He shoved the key inside and pressed the top back on.
Ray jumped down just as he heard the van door slam outside.
GBAM
He came out of the office pretending to be looking around. He picked a random wrench from Diego's workbench and acted like he was checking it out.
Diego limped through the door seconds later. He wasn't holding anything, and he looked mad. "Nothing. The bastards wanted thirty euros for a used alternator. Thirty! Like I'm made of money."
Ray made a sympathetic noise.
Diego noticed him and he looked more annoyed than before. "What are you doing with that? That's a seventeen millimeter. You will hurt yourself."
"Just looking," Ray said.
Diego took the wrench and put it back in its spot. "Looking is fine. Touching is how you lose fingers."
He moved past Ray toward the office. Ray's entire body tensed. If Diego checked the oil can, if he noticed it was crooked...
But Diego just took a clipboard from the desk and came back out. He was focused on a list of parts he didn't have the money to buy.
That night, while lying in bed, Ray imagined the helmet. He thought about the crack. The destroyed shell that had saved Diego's life while ending his dream.
The system notification appeared, unprompted.
[NEW INFO ADDED]
[STORY UNLOCKED: DIEGO CRUZ]
[FORMER OCCUPATION: PROFESSIONAL MOTORCYCLE RACER]
[CATEGORY: CEV MOTO2 (SPANISH NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP)]
[CAREER SPAN: 1992-1998]
[HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENT: 2ND PLACE, NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP 1997]
[CAREER ENDING EVENT: CRASH, VALENCIA CIRCUIT, MAY 3, 1998]
[POST-CRASH STATUS: PERMANENT DISABILITY, UNABLE TO RACE]
Ray dismissed the notification. He didn't need the system to tell him what he already knows.
Diego wasn't just a mechanic. He was a warning. A living example of what happened when racing took everything and gave back nothing but pain.
And Ray wanted to race. He had been thinking about it ever since he heard the scooters driving through the streets. The feeling got stronger after he felt that strange bond with the blue scooter in the Graveyard. The system had told him his objective was to become a MotoGP legend.
But legends had to survive first.
And Diego had almost died.
He couldn't get the image of the helmet out of his head. It felt like a big question he needed to answer. It was a choice he hadn't made yet but knew he would have to make soon.
He could follow his dream or stay safe. He could become a legend or stay alive.
Diego had chosen both and ended up with neither.
Ray closed his eyes. It was hard for him to sleep. But when sleep came, he dreamed of broken helmets and legs and a number 44 that never got to cross the finish line first.