Luka Jovic’s arrival was less an entrance and more a kinetic detonation. He moved with the frenetic energy of a twin-turbo manifold, his gaze sweeping over the dumbfounded Volkov crew before settling on Zariya with a triumphant gleam. “See? Knew you couldn’t keep a good mechanic down!”
Zariya, still vibrating with the aftershocks of her defiant run, felt a strange mix of relief and dread. Luka, her oldest friend and a master of chaos, was exactly what she needed, and exactly what Dante would use against her. She managed a thin smile. “Sparky. What are you doing here?”
“Sparky?” Marko Solin’s voice, a low rumble of disdain, cut through the tension. He stepped forward, his eyes narrowed on Luka. “This is Volkov Dynamics. You just barged past security. Who authorized this?”
Luka merely blinked, then clapped Marko on the shoulder with a grease-stained hand. “Marko, my man! Good to see you. Bit stiff, aren’t we? My authorization comes straight from the top. Deep-cover mission, you know. High priority. Technical oversight. Driver stability. The works.” He winked conspiratorially, then leaned in as if sharing a secret. “Volkov senior’s orders, you know. From way back. Legacy stuff. Gotta keep the old traditions alive.”
Marko’s expression flickered, a momentary confusion before it hardened into suspicion. “Volkov senior is dead. And you’re not authorized for anything in this facility.”
“Details, details.” Luka waved a dismissive hand. “The point is, I’m here. And this heap of aluminum alloy and carbon fiber,” he patted Zariya’s car with reverence, “needs my touch. You can’t expect a thorough diagnostic with just… what’s his name? The guy who looks like a disappointed owl?” He gestured vaguely at one of the crew members, who bristled visibly. “No offense, buddy. Just saying. Some cars, they just *speak* to me.”
Before Marko could launch a proper protest, Dante Volkov’s voice, amplified and sharp, echoed from the control tower’s speakers. “Solin. Let him be. But every byte of his access, every breath he takes in this facility, reports directly to me. One misplaced screw, one unauthorized access, and he’s out. Understood?”
Luka beamed, pulling a wrench from seemingly nowhere. “Understood, Boss-man! Consider me Volkov’s newest, most enthusiastic data-miner and engine whisperer! Now, Zariya, show me what you’ve been doing to this poor beast. She’s got the shivers.”
Over the next few days, Luka proved to be both a whirlwind and a godsend. He charmed, bluffed, and occasionally outright ignored security protocols, transforming his assigned corner of the pit into a chaotic but strangely efficient workshop. He had an uncanny knack for making complex diagnostics look like a child playing with toys, all while peppering Zariya with questions about the car's nuanced responses.
“The way she chattered on the third chicane… it’s a protest, Zara, a deep-seated grievance,” he’d declare, head buried in the intake bay, his voice muffled. “Like she’s holding onto something… a memory, maybe.”
One afternoon, Zariya found him hunched over an ancient terminal in the Volkov archives, a dusty, almost forgotten section of the compound's sprawling data center. He wasn't working on her current vehicle. Instead, screens glowed with schematics of the legendary Mk-III chassis, the very prototype Dante’s father had driven five years ago. He had managed to bypass layers of digital lockouts, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a surgeon’s precision.
“Sparky? What are you doing in here?” Zariya asked, her voice low. A cold unease prickled at her skin. This was dangerous territory.
He startled, then spun around, a triumphant, almost manic grin on his face. “Zara! Just running some… *expanded* diagnostics. See, this old bird, she’s a classic. But classic cars have classic stories, right? And I heard a whisper in her old black box. A corrupted file. Been trying to patch it up.”
He gestured to a secondary screen, where a waveform flickered erratically. “This is from the pre-impact comms log. Yours. It’s mostly static, but there’s a spike, a burst of pure audio right before… well, you know.” He tapped a key, and a garbled, fractured sound filled the sterile archive room. It was Zariya’s voice, younger, raw with terror, but undeniably hers. Only two words were clear, ripped from the digital static, a desperate, warning cry: “*Incoming! Tra…*” Then, nothing, punctuated by a metallic shriek that quickly faded into a distorted roar.
Zariya felt the air leave her lungs in a sharp gasp. The sound was a ghost from her worst nightmare. She remembered screaming, remembered the sickening lurch, the smell of burning oil, the world dissolving into a violent blur. But the words… “Incoming! Tra…” What was the rest? Who was she warning? A burning question, a shard of lost memory, pierced her resolve. Luka looked at her, his usual chaotic energy subdued by a rare seriousness. “What were you trying to say, Zara? What was ‘incoming’?”
“I… I don’t know,” she whispered, her throat tight. The memory was a shattered mirror, reflecting only fragmented horror.
Later that day, the pressure of the corrupted file gnawing at her, Zariya realized Miro was nowhere to be found. He’d been playing with his collection of model race cars in their apartment, but the door was ajar. Ice crept through her veins. She called his name, her voice tight with panic, searching every room, every corner of their sparse quarters. Not there.
Blood rushed in her ears as she sprinted through the deserted corridors of the Volkov compound. Miro was a curious child, prone to quiet wanderings. She tried to think where a four-year-old might gravitate. The gleaming trophy hall? The simulator room? Then a thought, cold and unsettling, settled in her mind: Dante’s private office. He had mentioned it once, a fleeting comment about keeping him away from ‘valuable data’.
She found the door to his office, a sleek panel of darkened glass, slightly ajar. Pushing it open just enough, she peered inside. The room was vast, minimalist, dominated by a large desk of polished obsidian and a panoramic view of the main track. And there, on the plush emerald rug in the center, sat Miro. He was oblivious, utterly absorbed, pushing a miniature die-cast racer around, making soft revving noises with his lips.
Relief warred with a fresh surge of dread. “Miro!” she hissed, stepping inside, her voice sharp with fear. He looked up, his bright eyes wide. “Mama! Look! Pretty car!”
Before Zariya could snatch him up, before she could even formulate an apology, the door clicked open further. Dante Volkov stood there, framed by the gleaming chrome of the hallway, his posture rigid. His gaze swept from Zariya, cold hostility sharpening his dark stare, to Miro, whose small hands still gripped the toy. For a split second, the cold fury that usually masked Dante’s features faltered. A flicker, quick as a spark, passed through his eyes—a nameless emotion, something akin to surprise, or perhaps… recognition. He paused mid-step, his focus locked on the boy, on the way Miro clutched the die-cast racer. Then, the moment passed, replaced by a chilling composure.
He walked slowly into the room, his eyes never leaving Miro. He knelt, bringing himself to the boy’s level, his voice dropping to a low, almost gentle register that sent a tremor through Zariya. “Hello, little pilot,” Dante said, his gaze piercing into Miro’s innocent, curious eyes. “Who’s your father?”