Eleanor's POV
I saw myself in a void, seeing images of a warzone bathed in eerie light, soldiers in armor that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie, weapons humming with energy I could almost feel.
It felt so real. Like I was there. Like I was one of them.
"Eleanor..." I hear a voice calling my name before I jolted awake, my heart hammering against my ribs.
It was just a dream. Again.
I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest and resting my forehead on them. The sheets were tangled around my legs, damp with cold sweat.
These dreams… they started after that accident. The one that should have killed me. Every night, they get a little clearer, a little more intense. Maybe I really do need to see a doctor. Maybe there's something wrong with my head, not just my life.
I dragged myself out of bed. Two days since Mr. Keith's announcement about recruiting racers.
The thought sends a little thrill through me, quickly smothered by doubt. I've always loved race tracks. I've spent countless hours designing them, losing myself in the curves and calculations.
Sometimes, in my quietest moments, I imagine myself behind the wheel, flying down a straightaway, the world blurring into nothing but speed and freedom.
But it's just a fantasy. A silly, impossible dream. It's a bad idea, the voice in my head whispers, the same one that tells me to stay small, to not make waves. You're not a racer. You're a designer who hides in her office.
A sudden, pounding bass ripped through my apartment walls, shaking the framed picture on my nightstand. My neighbor's music. It's usually my unwanted alarm clock, blasting through the wall at some ungodly hour. But today it's late. Maybe he didn't wake up early to start another round with his NSA (no string attached) women.
I wrapped my arms around myself, the dream's chill still clinging to me. The music felt abrasive, jarring. But in a strange way, it was also a relief. It anchored me back in this world, away from the haunting visions of a war I've never fought.
I did my morning routine on autopilot, the thumping bass from next door a relentless soundtrack to brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face. The dream was still a cold knot in my stomach as I was staring into the depths of my closet, searching for an outfit that said 'casual but put-together', when my phone rang.
The sound was unusually clear, cutting through the music without any muffling. That was odd. My phone was buried under the avalanche of clothes I'd tried on and discarded on my bed. Frowning, I fetched it and saw Mira's name flashing on the screen.
"Hey," I said, tucking the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I resumed my closet excavation.
"I'm literally idling outside your building," she announced, her voice a familiar blend of amusement and impatience. "Please don't tell me you're still performing that sacred ritual of trying to find an outfit that people who add absolutely nothing to your life won't judge you for."
I couldn't help but smile. She knew me too well. My eyes landed on a loose, soft navy-blue shirt and a pair of dark, fitted jeans. "Please give me five minutes."
"Fine. Five," she sighed dramatically. Then her tone shifted. "And wow, is the music always that loud in there? I can hear it so clearly through the phone."
"It's my neighbor. Again," I said, pulling on the jeans and buttoning the shirt. I caught my reflection in the mirror, the jeans hugging my hips. A ghost of a memory, a younger me being mocked for having a big butt among them.
I shoved the memory aside.
"Wait, haven't you complained to him before?" Mira pressed, her voice sharpening with protective concern. "What kind of man is he, anyway?"
"The kind you don't need to worry about," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. It was then I registered that she'd said she could hear it very through the phone. I am not the only one that noticed that it was odd.
But I had to get going.
"I'm heading down now," I said, grabbing my bag and keys.
"Alright, hurry up. I'm double-parked."
I locked my apartment door, the heavy bassline following me down the hall like an angry heartbeat. Stepping into the elevator was a brief respite, the muted silence a stark contrast. When the doors slid open in the lobby, I saw it immediately: Mira's little silver car, illegally parked right out front.
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, she laid on the horn—a short, sharp blast that was entirely unnecessary.
I slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of Mira's vanilla air freshener wrapping around me. She gave me a once-over as she pulled away from the curb.
"See? You look amazing. You always do. All that fretting for nothing," she said, shaking her head with a fond smile.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting," I said automatically, buckling my seatbelt.
Mira shot me a look. "Stop. I was outside for, like, ninety seconds. You have got to break this habit of apologizing for existing, Elle. It's a terrible look on you."
I opened my mouth, the words 'Sorry about that' already on my tongue. I caught myself and snapped my jaw shut. Mira raised a triumphant eyebrow. I took a breath and diverted. "Okay. Where are we heading?"
"Greyfall Alley," she said, her focus on the road.
I stiffened. "Greyfall Alley? Mira, that's… isn't that a dangerous part of the city?"
"That's where we'll find the racers we need to recruit," she explained. "It's their hangout. Where they… congregate and race."
"Illegally," I pointed out, my stomach tightening.
"Which is why it's a good thing we're here to offer them a chance to do it legally, under Vexxon's banner. With actual safety regulations and paychecks."
She glanced over at me again, her expression softening. "Seriously, though. Your skin is glowing. What is that? A new cream?"
I touched my cheek absently. I'd noticed it too this morning. It was another strange thing to add to the list.
"No, same stuff."
Another anomaly, right alongside the fact that after two solid days of drinking my feelings about Dickson's strong-arm tactics with that contract, I hadn't even managed to get a decent buzz. The alcohol had no effect on me.
I didn't mention it. Some things were too weird to say out loud.
After a while, the cityscape began to change. The clean glass and steel buildings gave way to crumbling brick and graffiti-tagged houses. The light seemed to dim, the tall, narrow buildings casting the streets into a perpetual, creepy twilight. We had reached Greyfall Alley.
Mira navigated the potholed streets with practiced ease before pulling into a shadowy alcove next to a boarded-up storefront and killing the engine. A profound silence descended, broken only by the distant drip of water and the skittering of something in the darkness.
A cold chill, entirely separate from the temperature, traced a path down my spine. "Mira, the car… it's going to get stolen here."
She held up her phone, the screen glowing with a complex app interface. "It's fine. I've got a motion sensor and a tilt alarm on it. I'll get an alert the second anyone looks at it funny." She gave me a confident grin. "Trust me."
It put my mind at ease, but only just.
As we stepped out of the car, the heavy, damp air felt oppressive, and the shadows in the alley seemed to watch us back.
I stuck close to Mira's heels as we ventured deeper into the alley, my shoulders hunched slightly as if trying to make myself a smaller target.
Mira, by contrast, walked with a purposeful stride, her head on a swivel, taking in every rusted fire escape and dark doorway.
She moved like she knows the place, or at least had paid a visit to memorize it. A small, grateful part of my brain latched onto that; at least one of us knew what they were doing.
The eerie quiet began to be punctuated by other sounds—the low murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter that sounded too sharp in the confined space, and beneath it all, a growing, guttural roar that vibrated up through the soles of my shoes. Engines.
We turned a final corner, and the scene opened up. A makeshift track had been formed, lined with a crowd that seemed to be all different outfits, crossed arms, and assessing glares.
And then the cars themselves—low-slung, snarling beasts of modified metal and raw horsepower.
Just as I processed it all, two of them shot past on the improvised straightaway. The sound was a physical force, a wall of noise that punched the air from my lungs. But it was the sheer, terrifying speed, the feeling that the lead car was close enough to kiss me, that made me jolt backward with an undignified little yelp, my arms flailing for a half-second before I clamped them to my sides.
Mira shot me a look. I quickly scanned the faces nearby. The people gave me a slow, unimpressed once-over. Wonderful. I had just announced my presence as the jumpy, out-of-place novice. A walking, flinching embarrassment.
I stared hard at a greasy puddle near my feet, fervently wishing it would turn into a sinkhole. Just a small, personal one.
Big enough for me, but not so big as to inconvenience anyone else or cause a scene. That would be just my luck—to be swallowed by the earth and still somehow bother people with the resulting pavement damage.