I can’t move.
Black spots bleed into my vision, and there is ringing in my ears, drowning out the shouts and frantic pounding of footsteps.I try to make out who’s running toward me, but all I can see is my bike.
Lying off to the side in two irreparably broken pieces.
That’s not right.
Did Isaac fucking sabotage me?
I try to suck in a breath, but nothing comes. My lungs seize, locked tight, useless.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t?—
I can’t do this.
My breath comes fast, and my chest feels tight as I press a palm against my ribs, just over the biggest scar left behind by my multiple surgeries, willing my lungs to cooperate, but it’s useless. It’s been this way for seven years, ever since the crash, ever since my body decided that sometimes, for no damn reason at all, it would relive the feeling of a branch spearing through my lung and forget how to breathe.
I squeeze my eyes shut, grounding myself in the ache.
Focus, Crews.
Forcing my gaze up to the mirror, I find a stranger looking back, with brown eyes, full lips, and a braid that falls too neatly over one shoulder. Long, dark hair, the one thing I kept for myself all these years, the only softness I allowed. The one piece that still feels likeme.
And now I’m about to cut it all off.
This isn’t just a haircut. It’s adeath. A final, brutal goodbye to the girl in the mirror. Alaina Crews, the girl who flew too high and fell too far.
The scissors dig into my palm as if they know what I’m about to take from myself, and my fingers shake, making the black wildflower tattoos inked across my arms catch my eye. Two full sleeves of them creep over my skin.
Those flowers aren’t delicate or soft, they’re resilient, harsh, the kind that grows back after they’ve been stepped on. The kind that pushes through cracks in concrete, refusing to die. Wildflowers survive the worst.
Just like me.
I swallow hard and shift my focus back to my reflection, which is already halfway to someone else. The chest binder under my loose shirt flattens my curves. My body, built with years of training, has been reshaped. It’s the perfect disguise, the perfect plan, and everything is ready.
Everything except this.
Because once I cut it,she’s gone. The girl who raced for the love of it, for the rush, and for the way the wind caught in her braid.
I shake my head and scoff at myself.She’s already gone.She died seven years ago, somewhere between the impact and the scream that never made it out. This life I’m barely living right now? It’s just the echo.
What’s left of me is only bones, speed, and a name I borrowed to survive. I’m a ghost in someone else’s skin,riding toward something that won’t ever feel like living again. After this, there’s onlywar.
I tighten my grip on the braid, scissors poised just below my ear. It’s just hair, just another sacrifice.So why the hell can’t I do it?
Fuck.
The old school bus creaks as someone steps inside. It smells like chain grease, old wood, and the faintest trace of sweat in here, our home for the past couple of months. It used to be standard yellow before Dane and I gutted and rebuilt it. Now it’s blue, the same shade as my bike, withCREWSpainted in bold white across the side. We’re a ghost of the team we used to have, but our name still belongs here, even if it’s just the two of us now.
The back is crammed with my gear, spare parts, toolboxes, and my bike. Past that are two narrow bunks next to each other, just wide enough for sleep but close enough that I can kick Dane when he snores. Our bags are shoved into overhead bins, and whatever doesn’t fit there is crammed under the beds. There’s a toilet, a shower that works only half the time, and a tiny kitchen setup in the middle with a refrigerator. The table next to it doubles as a workspace and a place to crash. It’s cramped and a mess on most days.
But it’s ours.
“You good?”
Dane moves closer until he’s standing behind me, and his reflection appears in the mirror, arms crossed over his chest, brown eyes finding mine. He looks exhausted. Older. At thirty-four, he’s not as lean as he was when we were both racing, but he doesn’t have to be anymore. He’s my manager now, not my competition. His job is to handle logistics, strategy, and keep me in one piece. His job was to get me here, and he did.
