The following day. The racetrack, 10:00 AM.
The exit was swarmed with reporters.
Nash Quinn got out of his car. His eyes swept across the area, and after a few double takes, he called out uncertainly, "Zane Jennings?"
Zane Jennings stood perfectly straight to one side of the exit, dressed in a dark jacket. His black hair was clean and neat, giving him a youthful air. He had shed his usual wild arrogance, looking more like a respectable gentleman.
He answered with a lazy grunt, his gaze continuing to sweep left and right.
Nash Quinn laughed, his expression more surprised than anything. "Fuck, it really is you." He made a gesture, looking up at the sky. "Let me just check which way the sun came up this morning."
Zane Jennings shot him a look as if he were an idiot. "Moron."
A few days ago, Nash had forced a ticket on him, which Zane had promptly thrown away right in his face. He'd then shoved two more at him. Nash hadn't actually expected him to come—his main goal was just to piss him off. He was shocked he actually showed up.
It was also a little unexpected. After that whole mess four years ago, Zane Jennings had been banned and then voluntarily retired from the racing world. Four years had passed, and this was his first time setting foot on a racetrack again.
Nash Quinn looked a little smug, a bit full of himself. "See? What did I tell you? We were bunkmates, after all. Of course he'd show me some respect."
Nash was blocking his view, and Zane got annoyed. He grabbed Nash's collar and yanked him back. "You're in my way."
"What are you looking at?" Nash Quinn straightened the collar Zane had yanked out of shape. He looked around but saw nothing. "You're staring like you're waiting for your long-lost wife to come home."
Zane Jennings lifted his wrist to check his watch, his tone sharp. "None of your damn business. Get inside and prepare."
"Fine. You just watch how I'm going to smash your record today."
Without even glancing at him, Zane kept his eyes fixed on the distance. "You're not good enough."
His tone was pure arrogance.
Nash Quinn: "..."
There was no time to waste. Nash Quinn left him with a parting shot, "Just you wait. You'll be kneeling before me, singing my praises."
Zane Jennings: "..."
Nash Quinn was a year younger than Zane Jennings and always acted tougher than he was. From middle school through high school, college, and into their careers, he had always been outshone by Zane in every way.
He didn't have any grand ambitions. He just wanted to beat Zane fair and square for once and regain a little dignity.
At 11:20 AM, the wind began to blow in Brindleton. The exit was now deserted and empty.
Zane Jennings leaned against a wall. He had no idea how long he'd been standing there. His legs were numb, and his patience was completely frayed. He raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose, then pulled the carefully preserved ticket from his pocket. After a single glance, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in a perfect arc into a nearby trash can.
He waited until noon, then hailed a car on the street and went to his hotel.
Hotel security was tight. The receptionist smiled and said in English, "I'm sorry, sir, but we are unable to disclose guest information."
Outside the hotel, Zane Jennings found a spot to lean against a wall and lit a cigarette. The wind whistled past his ears, shredding the thin wisp of smoke he exhaled.
Once the cigarette burned down, he stubbed it out. He didn't leave right away, merely glancing back over his shoulder with a self-deprecating smile on his lips.
**
「One month later. North Kaelen, October.」
A cool autumn wind blew. The fallen leaves were coated in frost, carpeting the ground.
CM-4S Auto.
A single sign hung over the entrance. The shop's exterior was minimalist, but the inside was luxurious. It wasn't ostentatious, but the one thing that drew a second glance was the handful of new-model supercars parked out front—a rare sight in the country.
Despite its simple exterior, a single glance made it obvious this was no place for ordinary cars.
The six or seven employees in the shop were all busy with their own tasks.
"Cian, what's been up with Zane lately?" The one who spoke was Mason Quincy, an employee at the auto shop. He wasn't old; he'd dropped out of high school because of his poor grades.
Both of them used to run with Zane Jennings on his racing team. After Zane was banned, they couldn't stand the sight of the new lead driver, so they quit too.
They might not have fame or fortune, but at least they had a clear conscience.
Cian Sinclair slid out from under a car, dusting himself off. "Who the hell knows. Guess it's his time of the month."
"He goes on one trip abroad and comes back like he lost his soul. It's been three days since he's even come downstairs."
"He's recuperating. Just ignore him." Cian Sinclair grabbed a tool and slid back under the car. "Now, get back to work."
Mason Quincy grunted, squatting down to remove a tire. "There was that race in Brindleton a while back. Think the place brought back bad memories for Zane?"
"Hand me the wrench," Cian Sinclair said from under the car. "You're overthinking it. Zane can take a fucking lot."
At least, Zane Jennings was the only person he'd ever seen who, after being framed and then banned, didn't even try to clear his name and could still calmly admit his guilt.
If it had been an ordinary charge, it would've been one thing. But he pleaded guilty to something that would drag him from his divine pedestal straight down to hell.
He admitted it so casually, as if a piece of candy had gone missing from a table and he'd just said, 'I took it.'
Mason Quincy nodded, fully agreeing with that assessment.
Someone entered the shop. Mason Quincy, drenched in sweat, glanced toward the cashier's counter. "Where's Sadie Yates?"
Sadie Yates was the cashier and receptionist, hired half a year ago. She did nothing all day and had no real skills—a classic case of holding a position but doing none of the work. She claimed she was here for a job, but in reality, she was using it as a front to try and seduce someone.
To put it in a single phrase: her ambition far outweighed her looks.
"She's not here yet, I guess."
"Look at the time," Mason Quincy muttered a curse, dropping his tools to greet the customer. "Hi, are you here for repairs or maintenance?"
The customer had no sooner left than Sadie Yates came strutting in, carrying a bag. She wore eight-centimeter heels, walking with a conceited swagger, looking incredibly pleased with herself.
"Do you have any idea what time it is? Come in any later and you might as well just clock out for the day." Mason Quincy couldn't stand her, and his tone was biting.
Sadie Yates set down her bag and began touching up her makeup in a mirror. Her red miniskirt was strikingly provocative. "I was making lunch for Zane, that's why I'm late."
Mason Quincy shot her a look, hooked a single, disgusted finger under the bag she brought, and tutted. "So you're handling the takeout orders now, are you?" he said sarcastically. He dropped the bag and dusted his hands off. "How about you quit and go deliver food for a living? I might even throw some business your way."
Mason Quincy had never gotten along with her. He was fine with everyone else, but he never held back when it came to her.
Sadie Yates wasn't ugly, and she'd gotten along well enough with her coworkers at first. But as they got closer, she couldn't hold her tongue and repeatedly stabbed them in the back. She single-handedly destroyed any goodwill she had built.
Sadie Yates ignored him. Once her makeup was fixed, the corner of her mouth twitched into a sneer. "Filthy people shouldn't talk to me."
Cian Sinclair found her comment particularly jarring. Annoyed, he shot back while still working on the car, "If it weren't for us 'filthy people,' you'd be out on the street with nothing to eat."
But Cian was one of Zane's right-hand men, so Sadie Yates was wary of him. Swallowing her anger, she announced, "I'm going upstairs."
With that, she tossed her wavy hair, put on a facade of gentle elegance, and clacked up the stairs in her high heels, bag in hand.
Mason Quincy made a face at Cian, then walked over and whispered, "She's really asking for it."
Cian Sinclair just shook his head with a wry smile. 'Zane's not an idiot. He knows what's going on. He just hasn't called her out on it because she's a girl. As long as she doesn't go too far, it's best to just put up with it.'
「Second floor. The lounge.」
Zane Jennings was lying flat on the sofa, his hands clasped behind his head. His eyes were closed, his posture casual, and his expression was one of utter languor.