Chapter 36 #2
Late-night simulator sessions have become routine.
The Thorne compound never truly sleeps—there's always someone working, always a driver in the simulator running endless laps, always engineers analyzing data and chasing those marginal gains that separate winners from also-rans.
Tonight it's just me and Luca.
The main simulator—a fully enclosed cockpit that replicates actual race conditions with disturbing accuracy—hums with electronic life. Multiple screens display telemetry data, track maps, competition timing.
And there, on the leaderboard, is Dante Moretti's name.
He's been climbing steadily, his new team apparently providing the resources he needs to unlock genuine speed. His lap times are competitive, consistently in the top five across multiple circuits.
It's impressive. Concerning. And raises questions about how much his previous poor performance was actual skill deficit versus being held back by inadequate equipment.
"He's fast," Luca comments, settling into the simulator beside me for our head-to-head session. "Faster than I expected."
"Yeah." I study the times, mentally calculating the gaps. "New team must be good. Or he's more talented than we gave him credit for."
"Or both." Luca's expression is thoughtful. "Don't underestimate him just because he's an asshole. Some of the best drivers I've competed against were complete dicks."
The wisdom in that observation makes me smirk.
"Speaking from personal experience?"
"Fuck off, Lane." But he's smiling as he says it.
We run simulations for two hours, pushing each other to find faster lines, experiment with different strategies, build the kind of competitive understanding that only comes from direct wheel-to-wheel racing.
Luca is relentless—finding speed in places I wouldn't have considered, forcing me to adapt and improve just to keep up. But I give as good as I get, occasionally beating him with lines that prioritize exit speed over minimum apex distance.
By the time we finish, we're both mentally exhausted but satisfied with the progress.
"Same time tomorrow?" Luca asks as we exit the simulators.
"Wouldn't miss it."
The private test session starts normally.
Clear day, perfect track conditions, fresh tires on the prototype. I'm running evaluation laps, collecting baseline data before we implement the latest aerodynamic updates.
Richard watches from pit wall, his voice calm through the comm. "Looking good, Rory. Keep it smooth, we need clean data."
"Copy."
Lap three is perfect. Nailing every apex, maximizing every straight, feeling the car respond exactly as it should. This is the zone—where conscious thought fades and pure instinct takes over.
Then, mid-corner through Turn Eight, everything goes wrong.
The engine mapping switches modes without warning—suddenly I have significantly less power than the corner requires. The car understeers, pushing wide toward the barriers as I fight to compensate.
My steering input lags, a fraction of a second delay between turning the wheel and the car responding. At racing speeds, that fraction is an eternity.
I'm going to hit the wall.
Training takes over. I ease off completely, letting the car scrub speed naturally rather than fighting for grip that isn't there. Correct the slide with careful inputs that account for the lag. Pray that the tires can handle the sudden load transfer.
The car kisses the barrier—barely, just a scrape of carbon fiber against concrete that costs me speed but not structural integrity.
I bring it to a controlled stop on the run-off area, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
"Rory! Status!" Richard's voice is sharp with concern.
"I'm okay." My hands are shaking on the wheel. "Car had some kind of malfunction. Engine mapping changed mid-corner, and steering was lagging."
"Get back to the pit. Now. We're red-flagging the session."
The drive back is careful, testing each system as I go. Everything seems fine now—power delivery normal, steering responsive, no warning lights or obvious damage beyond the scrape on the side.
Which makes it worse, somehow.
Because if it was a consistent failure, we could diagnose and fix it.
But random, intermittent problems are nightmares in racing.
Elias is already at the diagnostic station when I pull in, fingers flying across keyboards with focused intensity. Adrian joins him, pulling up system logs on a secondary screen.
"Telemetry shows a firmware update," Elias says grimly. "Pushed in real-time from an unknown IP address. Changed the engine mapping parameters and introduced artificial lag in the steering response algorithms."
"Can you trace it?" Luca asks, appearing at my side and looking murderously angry.
"Already trying." Adrian's expression is cold, calculating. "But the IT logs have been wiped. Conveniently, all access records for the last six hours are just... gone."
This wasn't mechanical failure.
This was deliberate sabotage, executed remotely while I was driving, designed to cause an accident that could have killed me or at minimum destroyed months of work.
"Marco wasn't even here today," I point out quietly. "He's on scheduled leave—took his kids to some amusement park. I saw the photos on his social media."
Which means either he's not involved, or this is a larger operation with multiple actors.
"We'll figure it out," Elias promises, his hand finding mine and squeezing gently. "I have people working on tracking the IP. Adrian's pulling financial records for everyone with system access. We'll find who's behind this."
My phone buzzes in my pocket—urgent enough that I pull it out despite the circumstances.
Social media notifications. Dozens of them, all tagging me in posts from anonymous accounts.
I open the first one and feel my blood run cold.
@RacingTruth_2025: LEAKED: Lane kidnapping was staged PR stunt. Sources confirm "victim" orchestrated entire scenario for sympathy and sponsorship deals. #FakeOmega #StagedForClout
The post has been shared thousands of times. Comments range from skeptical to vitriolic, people either defending me or absolutely tearing me apart for "faking" a traumatic event.
"How the fuck do they know about the kidnapping?" I breathe, scrolling through more posts that all contain similar accusations. The others crowd around me to witness what I’m processing.
"Someone leaked it deliberately," Adrian says, taking my phone to examine the posts more closely. "These accounts were created recently—all within the last week. Classic disinformation campaign. Create anonymous sources, seed the narrative, let social media amplify it."
"We'll work on it," Elias assures me, though his expression suggests this is going to be complicated to resolve. "Track the accounts, identify the coordinating source, potentially take legal action against the worst offenders."
"This is just another bullshit stunt to bother you," Luca says firmly, his Alpha scent spiking with protective aggression. "They do this shit to me all the time. Anonymous accusations, fake controversies, anything to distract from actual racing performance. Just ignore it."
The advice is sound, but hard to follow when my phone won't stop buzzing with notifications.
Hate messages.
Death threats.
People who've decided I'm either a manipulative liar or a victim who should be protected—and both camps are equally vicious in how they express their opinions.
"Turn off notifications," Cale suggests, appearing with a bottle of water that he presses into my hands. "Delete the apps if you have to. Don't engage, don't read the comments, don't give them the satisfaction of knowing they got to you."
I nod, mechanically following his advice.
Silence the notifications. Close the apps.
Try to focus on the immediate problem of sabotage rather than the long-term problem of reputation damage.
But it's hard.
So fucking hard when the world feels like it's closing in from multiple directions.
That evening, I find myself alone in the garage.
Everyone else is at dinner, meetings, or handling the various crises that seem to multiply daily. I should probably join them, to maintain pack cohesion and not isolate myself.
But I need the silence.
The familiar smell of motor oil and rubber. The comfort of machinery that doesn't judge or speculate or have opinions about my character.
I pull up the track leaderboard on one of the diagnostic screens, scrolling through the times from various test sessions.
Dante Moretti's name sits prominently in third place overall. His latest lap record on the sister track—a notoriously difficult circuit that emphasizes technical precision over raw speed—is legitimately impressive.
I stare at the numbers, trying to parse what they mean.
Is Dante a rival?
Simple as that—another talented driver competing for the same glory, using whatever advantages he can find to get ahead?
Or is he a victim?
Someone being manipulated by larger forces, used as a distraction or tool in a game he doesn't fully understand?
Or is he part of the game itself?
An active participant in the sabotage and psychological warfare, using his racing talent as cover while working to destroy my career from within?
The evidence could support any interpretation.
His sudden speed improvement suggests either genuine skill or assistance from people with resources to provide better equipment and training.
His history with me is antagonistic, but maybe that's just normal competitive rivalry rather than personal vendetta.
The timing of various incidents—his provocations, the kidnapping, the current sabotage—could be coincidental or carefully orchestrated.
I don't know.
And not knowing is its own form of torture when I'm trying to navigate threats from multiple directions while maintaining focus on actually racing.
Shadow appears from somewhere, hopping onto the desk beside the screen and meowing for attention.
I scratch behind her ears absently, still staring at Dante's lap times.
"What do you think?" I ask the kitten. "Is he a rival, a victim, or part of the game?"
Shadow just purrs, unhelpfully.
Apparently, existential questions about competitive racing dynamics aren't her area of expertise.
I sigh, closing the leaderboard and turning off the diagnostic screen.
Tomorrow, we'll run more tests. Implement additional security. Try to trace the sabotage to its source.
Continue training and preparing for the next race despite all the chaos swirling around us.
But tonight, I just sit in the quiet garage with my kitten, wondering who I can trust and how much danger we're actually in.
Or worse.