Chapter Five – Melbourne to Singapore
Elena Archer – Melbourne, Four Days After the Race
The coffee shop was one of those places that thought exposed brick and Edison bulbs could make up for weak espresso.
The scent of coffee and steamed milk clung to the surfaces as well as the air.
I’d chosen it because it was crowded, loud enough to bury a conversation but not so loud that we’d have to raise our voices.
The man across from me looked like he’d rolled straight out of a server room and into yesterday’s hoodie. His laptop was covered in stickers—half of them open-source projects, the other half racing logos.
He stirred his coffee absent-mindedly and turned the USB drive over in his fingers. “You said you got this from an Obsidian engineer?”
“I didn’t say that,” I replied, keeping my voice even.
He gave me a look over the rim of his glasses that said ‘right, and I’m the tooth fairy’. Then he slid the drive into his laptop.
The screen filled with code, lines of it streaming faster than I could blink. He scrolled, muttering under his breath.
“Jesus. This isn’t just telemetry. This is their full engine management environment.” He glanced up at me. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’d be in if anyone knew you had this?”
“Less than they’ll be in if it’s what I think it is.”
He smirked. “I like your optimism.”
He clicked and scrolled again, the glow of the code reflecting in his glasses.
“Alright. So, here’s what we’ve got. Two directories—identical on the surface.
Same version number, same metadata, same checksums. That’s clever.
They’re mirrored, but one of them…” He tapped the screen. “One of them isn’t what it says it is.”
My pulse quickened. “How can you tell?”
“Because this one,” he turned the laptop so I could see the screen and pointed to a set of highlighted lines, “has an extra mapping layer buried about two hundred lines down. A conditional subroutine. See this?”
I leaned closer. To me, it was just symbols and strings. But his tone said everything.
He highlighted another section. “This code changes how the fuel flow and ignition timing behave under certain load conditions. Theoretically, it would let them pull more power without exceeding FIA sensor limits. The software self-corrects telemetry output so it looks legal.”
“In English?”
“It cheats, but smartly.” He sat back, rubbing his temples. “Whoever wrote this knew exactly where the FIA’s blind spots are. It’s not a rookie job.”
A chill ran through me. “Can you prove when it’s being used?”
He turned the screen back to face him and leaned close, scrolling for a minute, tutting and shaking his head.
“That’s the problem,” he said at last. “The data here doesn’t include activation logs. All I can tell you is that both versions exist in the same system, but one’s hidden behind a switch.”
“Could they toggle it between qualifying and race day?”
He hesitated. “In theory. But they’d need a hardline, and in parc fermé the only connection is via a sealed FIA-approved laptop under scrutineer supervision. The difference in the engine note you described fits. But there’s nothing here that shows when it happens. No smoking gun.”
I pressed my fingers to my temple. “So I have proof they’ve got two different programs, but not that they’re using both?”
“Exactly. It’s enough to raise eyebrows, but not enough to survive an FIA inquiry. They’d bury it under jargon and NDAs before it reached daylight. If you can get a fuel log for race day, my money’s on them starting the race light.”
“Not a full tank? How would that help?”
“The mapping runs the engine extra lean, so they need less fuel. Less fuel equals a lighter car. Hence the speed that guy gets. His team mate doesn’t get the same results, right?”
“No.” I shook my head.
“So their cars might not be running the same software.” He paused, closing the laptop. “You shouldn’t have had this conversation in a café.”
“Relax,” I said, though my stomach was tight. “No one here cares.”
He gave a low laugh. “That’s the problem with people like you—you think the truth keeps you safe. It doesn’t. It just makes you visible.”
“Maybe visibility’s what they need.”
He studied me for a long moment, then slid the USB back across the table. “You want a real story? You’ll need to catch them switching the code. Otherwise it’s just conjecture.”
“Then I’ll catch them.”
He smiled, not unkindly, but like someone who’d seen too many people go up against giants. “You’ve got your father’s reputation. Try not to get his ending.”
That one landed square in my chest. “Thanks for the warning.”
He shrugged and gathered his things. “You didn’t hear this from me. And I was never here.”
When he was gone, I sat there for a while, staring at the drive between my fingers. The lines of code scrolled as an after-image across my mind.
Two maps. One legal. One not.
The truth was right there, buried beneath layers of precision and polish.
I slipped the drive into my bag, finished my cool coffee, and stepped out into the Melbourne sunlight.
Obsidian had built their empire on perfection. But perfection was a lie, and I was going to prove it.
Elena Archer – Singapore Media Day
The Singapore air felt like it had weight.
Even before sunrise, the heat pressed against my skin—wet, heavy, unrelenting.
The paddock at Marina Bay pulsed with motion: forklifts humming, crates rolling, camera crews staking out positions for the evening’s driver interviews.
Every team was fighting the same enemy—humidity—and losing.
Media day was always theatre. Smiles, sound bites, corporate platitudes. Everyone pretending not to sweat through their uniforms. But this time, I wasn’t here for small talk about tyre compounds or driver confidence. I was here to find someone—anyone—who would go on the record about fuel.
The data on the USB haunted me. Two versions of the same software: one clean, one dirty. But it was just code until someone inside Obsidian confirmed it—and people in that garage didn’t talk.
Obsidian’s setup gleamed at the far end of the paddock, all black and chrome, their team logo polished to a mirror shine.
Mechanics moved in eerie synchronicity, every gesture neat, efficient, silent.
Even their pit gantry looked intimidating—minimalist lines, matte black finish, the words ‘Precision. Power. Perfection.’ etched across the side.
I lingered at the edge of the crowd of journalists gathering for the media pen, pretending to scroll through notes on my phone. Truth was, I was scanning faces. A mechanic. A data engineer. Someone low enough on the chain to be overlooked but close enough to know how that engine ran.
A PR assistant in a silver lanyard drifted by, chattering to another journalist. “They’ve upgraded the hospitality suites this year—top floor of the paddock club. Best view of the garages. Decent coffee, too.”
Coffee and air conditioning? Sold.
The paddock club overlooked the pit lane, separated by glass walls and the low hum of money. I took the lift up, badge swinging at my chest, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the voice memo app just in case opportunity struck.
The room buzzed with quiet networking: journalists clustering near catering tables, team personnel hovering near the balcony. The FIA press conference was scheduled for later, but drivers were already making their rounds—casual enough to seem approachable, distant enough to remind us they weren’t.
And then, like gravity had shifted, the atmosphere changed.
Obsidian walked in as a unit. At their centre, Aleksandr Volkov.
Of course.
He wore black—team polo, jeans, sunglasses hooked at the collar. Even out of the car, he carried the same cold precision as on track. Every movement controlled. Every glance calculated. He stopped to greet Ross, said something that made the man laugh, and then—like instinct—looked directly at me.
Our eyes met across the suite.
My stomach dropped.
I looked away fast, pretending to check my messages, though my screen was nothing but notes I already knew by heart.
Focus, Archer. You’re here to chase the truth, not a jawline.
A trio of Obsidian engineers stood by the coffee station. I made my way over, casual smile ready.
“Morning,” I said, offering a nod. “Elena Archer from IMR. You survived Melbourne, then?”
They exchanged a look. One laughed politely. “Barely.”
“Singapore’s worse. The heat, you know?” another said.
“Tell me about it.” I stirred sugar into my coffee. “Hey, quick question—I’m putting together a background piece about the FIA’s new fuel monitoring regs. How’s everyone adapting? Hard to balance efficiency with performance, right?”
They went still.
The shortest one cleared his throat. “You’d have to talk to the technical director about that.”
“Off the record?” I lowered my voice. “I’m not quoting anyone. Just curious how teams handle the limits.”
The tallest of them gave a tight smile. “Sorry, can’t help you.”
“Not even general trends?”
“Sorry.”
Their body language shifted from cautious to closed. One of them shot a nervous glance toward the balcony—Ross stood there, flanked by sponsors and a camera crew.
I tried again. “Look, I’m not here to burn anyone. I just want to understand why one car runs lighter and no one seems to notice.”
That froze them completely.
The tall one muttered something to his colleague, and they all backed away with murmured excuses. Gone.
Too fast. Too defensive.
Too close to the truth.
I exhaled and turned back toward the balcony, forcing a neutral expression even as adrenaline buzzed under my skin.
Callum Drake sauntered across the room—same shirt as his team mate, different energy.
Younger, looser posture, that trademark easy grin he always flashed for the cameras.
He was the golden boy that everyone assumed wasn’t shining on his own, always half a step behind and in the shadow of the champion.
He caught me watching, and to my surprise, he smiled. Not the PR smile he gave everyone else—something smaller, more human. He veered away from the cluster of microphones and headed straight for me.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, like we were about to share a secret. “You’re Archer, right? From the press room in Melbourne.”
“I am,” I said carefully. “Didn’t expect you to remember.”
He laughed. “You don’t exactly blend in. Causing more trouble this week?”
“Trying not to,” I lied. I hit record on my phone and held it loosely in my hand.
He leaned a hip against the counter beside me, clearly enjoying the novelty of having someone’s attention while Volkov absorbed all the spotlight. “You looking for a quote, or just hiding from the humidity?”
“Both.” Half of my attention was still on Volkov.
“Smart.” He took a sip of water from the bottle in his hand. “Everyone else is circling Aleks like sharks. Must get boring, asking the same questions.”
“Depends on the answers,” I said lightly. Suddenly I realised the potential of who I had right in front of me. “You could give me a better one.”
He smiled wider, shoulders relaxing. “What do you want to know?”
“How’s the car feeling this weekend? Any changes since Melbourne?”
He shrugged. “Feels fast. Always does. I just need to make it faster than his.” He tilted his head toward Volkov, who was surrounded by reporters. “That’s the trick.”
“And fuel strategy?”
That flicker—tiny, defensive. “You’d have to ask the engineers about that. We just drive.”
I smiled, like it was a joke. “Right. You never wonder why his car pulls half a second faster on the straights?”
He shifted, eyes darting toward the Obsidian comms staff across the room. “Careful, you sound like you’re trying to get me in trouble.”
“Not my goal.”
“Good.” He grinned again, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because between you and me, there’s only room for one person in this team to make headlines—and I’m not it.”
He lifted his water bottle in a mock toast. “See you around, Archer.”
And just like that, he was gone—back into the crowd, swallowed up by PR handlers and camera flashes.
For a moment, optimism flickered in my chest. He hadn’t said much, but he’d almost said something. A glimmer, a thread I might pull.
Movement caught my eye—black shirt, silver trim. Volkov.
He was closer now, speaking with a TV reporter, but his eyes kept flicking in my direction, sharp and deliberate.
Scowling. Always scowling.
Why was he looking my way? And why—damn it—was I watching him back?
Every precise movement, the way he adjusted the sunglasses hooked in the neck of his shirt, the faint tension in his shoulders. He looked like control personified, but I could see the strain underneath.
You’re here for a story, not a man, Archer.
I pushed away from the counter, heading for the terrace where a few mechanics were milling in the sun. Maybe one of them would slip, say something useful.
Then a voice—low, rough, unmistakable—cut through the noise behind me.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”
I turned. Volkov stood half a step too close. His eyes were steady, unreadable.
“Occupational hazard,” I said.
“Or personal obsession.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He smiled, faint and humourless. “You’re circling my team again. That’s dangerous, Ms Archer.”
“Funny,” I said, “you said that last time. I’m still here, Champion.”
His gaze dropped to my lanyard, my press pass, my phone in my hand—still recording—then back up, colder.
“Enjoy Singapore,” he said softly. “But stay away from my garage.”
He turned and walked off, leaving the faint trace of his cologne and the sharper sting of frustration.
I stood there, pulse thudding against my ribs.
Damn him. Damn his arrogance. Damn the way he made my brain short-circuit every time he looked at me.
I stopped recording and tucked my phone into my pocket, then stepped out onto the terrace. The air hit like a furnace, the squeal of wheel guns below.
If Obsidian thought intimidation would shut me up, they were wrong.
Let him scowl. Let him brood.
I had a story to break—and I was getting closer.