Chapter 133
Chapter 133:
Brinley slipped on her earpiece. The voice changer turned her clear tone into a low, neutral rumble. “All good,” she told Jensen.
As she settled into the driver’s seat, a wave of familiarity washed over her.
The suede steering wheel—smoothed by years of her grip—had been her own choice. The pedals were meticulously adjusted to fit her feet, and the seat was tilted at just the right angle for maximum control.
When the engine roared to life, its deep growl was like a beast awakening, vibrating through the seat with raw power.
𝗬𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖽а𝗂𝘭𝘺 𝗱o𝗌е o𝘧 ո𝗈𝗏𝗲𝗅𝘴 𝗈𝗇
Brinley’s fingers tapped lightly against the wheel as her eyes scanned the dashboard’s flickering numbers, a grin spreading across her face.
“Rosara, do you want a warm-up lap?” Jensen asked from outside the car.
“No need,” Brinley replied, snapping her seatbelt into place. Her relaxed air vanished, replaced by razor-sharp focus. “Let’s hit the track p>
The red race car launched from the pit like a shot, slicing through the air. At the first turn, she cranked the wheel, the car drifting through the corner at its limit, tires screaming.
Wind whipped through the open window, tugging at her hair.
Brinley locked onto the track, every sense sharpened. After two laps, her old rhythm clicked back into place.
On the final corner, she held off braking for an extra 0.3 seconds, letting the car dive into the turn with reckless flair, its tail brushing dangerously close to the barrier.
It was her signature move from years ago—one that always caught rivals off guard at the last second.
“Perfect!” Jensen’s voice crackled through the earpiece, brimming with excitement.
Brinley had just begun to relax when a new roar erupted from the track’s entrance.
The sound was deep and primal, like a predator baring its teeth. The engine note alone made it clear: high displacement, heavily modified, built for speed.
Brinley eased off the gas, her red car slowing on the straight.
In the rearview mirror, a black race car streaked in like a bolt of lightning, carving through corners with surgical precision.
Brinley froze, her eyes locked on the car. Its cornering angles and throttle control were hauntingly familiar, echoing her old rival, Nightblade.
The black car closed in fast, pulling alongside her on the straight.
Her heart skipped a beat, her grip tightening on the wheel.
Both cars rolled to a stop at the pit entrance.
The black car’s door swung open, and a man in a sleek black racing suit stepped out.
As he removed his helmet, sharp features emerged, sweat tracing his jawline and glinting in the sun. Brinley’s breath caught.
Austin? How could he be here? Wasn’t he supposed to be meeting clients overseas? He had lied to her.
Austin’s eyes widened slightly when he spotted Rosara, his gaze catching on the rose emblem on her helmet.
Since Rosara’s legendary days, copycats had swarmed—especially after she vanished. Her rose emblem had become a talisman for some, as if wearing it might borrow her luck.
Austin studied her, clearly trying to decide whether she was the real Rosara or just another pretender.
Leaning against his car, fingers drumming lightly on the roof, Austin asked, “First time here p>
Brinley deepened her voice, letting the voice changer flatten her tone. “Heard this track was open for practice, so I thought I’d have some fun.” She forced an awkward edge into her words, mimicking a nervous rookie.
“Fun, huh?” Austin chuckled, his eyes sweeping over her red car. “Interesting mods. That air intake grille is tuned for low-speed corners, but it compromises straight-line speed. Whoever built this is a tactical driver p>
Brinley’s pulse quickened. Few people—even among top mechanics—would catch details like that so quickly.
She pretended to check the tires, brushing her fingers over the warm rubber. “A friend’s gift. I don’t understand modifications. As long as it drives, it’s fine p>
“Is that so?” Austin stepped closer, stopping by her driver’s side. “Your line says otherwise. Delaying the brake by 0.3 seconds on that last corner—bold move. Skill, or dumb luck p>
Brinley froze, glancing up through her tinted visor to meet his probing stare. “Just messing around,” she said, turning the key to rev the engine. “I don’t know anything about braking points. My foot probably slipped p>
Austin didn’t let her off so easily. He tapped her window lightly. “Your left hand drags the wheel half a turn down when cornering—a classic racer’s technique. Most new drivers just muscle through with their arms. Not many have that kind of finesse p>
A chill ran down Brinley’s spine. That move was a rare trick she’d picked up from an old coach.
“Maybe… it’s just a coincidence,” she muttered, sliding the window shut to cut off the conversation. “I’m going to run a few more laps p>
“Hold on,” Austin said, stopping her with his hand. His eyes flicked to her car’s rear wing. “That angle is too safe. With your speed on that last corner, you’d get better grip by lowering it p>
He paused, then added with a knowing smile, “But to each their own. Maybe you just like it that way p>
Brinley didn’t answer. She slammed the accelerator.
The red car surged forward like a loosed arrow, tearing away from the pit.