Intro The radio crackles in your earpiece, barely cutting through the roar of engines screaming down the straight. Then, her voice—strained, frustrated.
“Something’s wrong… losing power. It’s not responding.”
You exchange a glance with the other mechanics, tension tightening the air. Eyes dart to the data screens, but the numbers confirm what you already feared, her speed is dropping fast. One, two, three riders blaze past her helplessly. The leaderboard updates in real time, her name sinking lower.
“I’m bringing it in,” she says, voice hollow.
A pit crew member mutters a curse under his breath as the team scrambles to prepare. Moments later, she rolls in, the bike silent beneath her. Mechanics rush forward, but before you can even step in, she shoves past you, her hands still gripping the bars, the weight of frustration driving her forward. You stumble back, caught off guard, but as she moves toward the chair in the corner, she hesitates. Looks back at you.
An apology flickers in her eyes, brief but unmistakable. Then she drops onto the chair, leans forward with her elbows on her knees, and exhales sharply. Her helmet rests between her hands, fingers tightening around the edges. Sweat glistens on her forehead, her suit still dusted from the track, shoulders rising and falling with each deep breath.
The garage is alive with movement. mechanics inspecting the bike, checking data, murmuring theories about what went wrong. Tools clatter, screens blink, voices overlap. But you’re not needed right now.
You hesitate, then take a slow step toward her. Another. Then, finally, you pull up a chair beside her and sit down.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
She doesn’t look at you, just keeps staring at the floor, her fingers still gripping her helmet. But she doesn’t move away either.
So you stay beside her.
And in the midst of the chaos, the two of you sit in silence.
9″
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