The back brake pedal went soft under my foot, resistance vanishing. A surge of adrenaline flooded my system as muscle memory kicked in. I shifted my weight forward, compensating for the sudden instability. The frame groaned.
"No." The word came out through gritted teeth as I tested the front brake. Still responsive, thank God. But at forty miles per hour, one working brake wouldn't mean shit if something else gave way.
The back wheel started to drift, searching for traction it couldn't find. Physics took over—momentum and gravity conspiring against my efforts to control the bike. My training screamed at me to bail, to minimize the damage, but deeper instincts knew better. At this speed, hitting the pavement meant more than a DNF. It meant a long hospital stay if I were lucky.
Gravel sprayed while I fought the bike's death wobble, my triceps burning with the effort of keeping the front wheel steady. The shoulder of the road rushed up too fast. A mix of sand and loose stone waited to shred skin and tear through my race suit.
My back tire fishtailed, the rubber skidding across the asphalt with a sound like tearing fabric. The smell of burning rubber filled my nose as I leaned into the front brake, easing the pressure in tiny increments. Too much would send me over the handlebars. Too little meant losing what control I had left.
A tree line loomed ahead. If I couldn't stop in time—
I wrenched the handlebars, forcing the bike into a controlled slide. Pain shot through my hip as I unclipped from the pedals, letting momentum carry me through a nearly endless skid.
When the bike finally shuddered to a stop, my legs nearly buckled. The taste of copper filled my mouth. I'd bitten my tongue without realizing it.
My next thought wasn't about sabotage or even survival. It was James—how his hands had trembled when he'd said, "Don't dietoday," like he was forcing out words that meant something else entirely. Something we'd both been dancing around since that rain-soaked kiss against my truck.
For several heartbeats, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. My pulse roared in my ears like a freight train, drowning out everything except the voice in my head screaming that this was no accident.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking as I dropped to one knee beside the bike. The frame lay twisted in the gravel.
The rear brake assembly told the story. Someone had loosened the mounting bolts, leaving them barely tight enough to hold until vibrations worked them free. The work was precise and surgical. It wasn't random mechanical failure. It was an attempt at calculated destruction.
"Damn bastard." I ran my fingers along the frame, finding stress points that shouldn't exist. Small cracks spiderwebbed through the carbon fiber—deliberate weak spots created by someone who understood material fatigue. The patterns were too perfect to be coincidence. At the right moment, it would function like the unraveling of a sweater once someone pulled the right thread.
Rage surged in my chest—cold and sharp. It was the kind of anger that cleared your head instead of clouding it. My hands steadied as I inspected the damage.
A slight movement caught my eye—my race number fluttering in the breeze. The white background had been marked, not hastily but with deliberate care. Someone drew a pentagram in bearing grease, the lines precise enough to suggest the use of a stencil. Pyreborn Covenant. James had mentioned their calling card.
"Marking your territory?" I spoke to the empty air, knowing he was out there somewhere, watching. "It's getting old, Elliot."
The bike was done. Even if I could jerry-rig the brakes, the compromised frame meant riding it would be suicide. Was that what he wanted? Me broken on the pavement, and his masterpiece of destruction complete.
A car passed, slowing briefly. The driver called out, asking if I needed help. I waved them on without looking up. My situation wasn't something a Good Samaritan could fix. It was a battle between me and the ghost of my father's legacy, twisted through Elliot's warped vision.
Another realization hit harder than the near-crash. I couldn't keep pretending this only affected me. Every time I pushed forward alone, I watched James pull back behind his analytical walls, trying to protect himself from what losing someone else would do to him.
I couldn't bear it anymore and couldn't keep ignoring how essential he'd become. The truth rose up, undeniable: I loved him. Not only his brilliant mind and steady presence, but everything—his fears, his scars, and how he faced water one shaky step at a time because I'd asked him to trust me.
My fingers traced the pentagram one last time, feeling the waxy residue of the grease. Every message and every calculated act of destruction led here—this empty stretch of road where he thought he'd finally break me.
I stripped my water bottle from its cage, studying what remained of my bike. I spotted three different ways Elliot had ensured it would fail—the brake assembly, compromised frame, and stress points carefully placed where maximum torque would tear them open. It was the work of someone who understood both engineering and anatomy. Who knew exactly how to break things—and people.
The transition zone waited less than half a mile ahead. Close enough to run, even on legs already burning from fifty miles ofpushing the cycling pace. My time didn't matter anymore. The official race had stopped being important long ago.
"Alright, Elliot." I wiped grime from my face with the back of my hand. "Let's play this your way."
Unclipping my helmet, I tossed it beside the ruined bike. The morning chill hit my sweat-soaked hair, carrying the sharp scent of pine.
My quads protested as I started to jog, the sudden shift from cycling to running sending jolts through muscles already pushed to their limits. Fortunately, pain was familiar territory. I'd trained through worse and pushed harder. Each footfall struck the pavement with deliberate force.
Another car slowed, this one a race official in a marked vehicle. I waved them past before they could stop. They wouldn't understand, and I didn't have time to explain. My shadow stretched ahead of me on the asphalt, elongated by the morning sun.
The tree line blurred past as I settled into a rhythm. My heart rate steadied, finding that space between effort and exhaustion where nothing existed except forward motion. The weight of everything—James's fear, Michael's anger, and my father's ghost—burned away with each step.
I knew he was watching. He probably had a perfect view of his sabotage playing out, but I wasn't giving him the ending he wanted. No broken body on the pavement. No twisted metal memorial to his artistic vision.
The transition zone appeared ahead, pop-up tents visible through the trees. My legs trembled with fatigue, but something else drove me now. Not only stubborn survival. It wasn't merely about finishing anymore.
