Second floor, break room.
Zane Jennings was lying flat on the sofa, hands crossed behind his head, eyes closed. His posture was casual, and his expression was overwhelmingly lazy.
The curtains in the room were drawn, with only a thin sliver of light squeezing through the gap. On the table sat a liquor bottle, cigarettes, and a phone.
The phone on the table began to vibrate.
Zane Jennings shot up. Seeing it was just a system notification, he casually tossed the phone back onto the sofa, leaned his head back, and let out a heavy sigh.
The wound on his wrist had healed, leaving only a scar. He raised his wrist, examining it for a few moments in the dim light.
He had her number saved in his phone, but every time he called, it went unanswered.
'So heartless. Even more ruthless than me.'
After a long moment, he just gave a slight smile, pulled down his cuff, and sat up. He drained the glass of liquor, pulled a cigarette from the pack, and leaned back on the sofa to smoke.
The smoke wasn't thick, but it was enough to obscure the emotion in his eyes.
CLICK.
The door was pushed open from the outside.
Sadie Yates strode in. "Zane, I—"
When Zane Jennings saw who it was, his brow furrowed unconsciously. "I'm smoking. Don't come in."
She paused, deliberately ignoring his meaning. "Zane, I knew you probably hadn't eaten yet. I brought you some pork rib soup."
"I'm going out to eat later." He got up from the sofa, his refusal blunt. "Go get Cian Sinclair."
Sadie Yates lowered her voice. She knew Zane Jennings detested affected women, so she didn't overdo it, keeping her tone just right. "Zane, just keep the soup, okay?"
"No need. I'm not used to eating takeout."
It was as if her previous words meant nothing. A little hurt, she said, "This isn't takeout. I made it myself."
Zane Jennings set down his glass, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he went to open the curtains. The weariness between his brows was thick. "Is there a difference?"
Sadie Yates: "..."
Sadie Yates had always cultivated a persona of a graceful, magnanimous, and noble lady in front of Zane Jennings. Even though she was furious, she didn't let a hint of it show.
"Get Cian Sinclair."
Sadie Yates, who hadn't even managed to get one foot inside the break room, replied, "Oh."
Carrying it back downstairs now would be a total loss of face. So, in a huff, she threw it into a second-floor trash can.
Sadie Yates, wearing eight-centimeter heels, took out her anger on the stairs. By the time she reached the bottom, she was smiling. "Cian Sinclair, Zane is looking for you."
Cian Sinclair acknowledged her and tossed a tool to Mason Quincy. "Pick up the pace. The client's coming to get the car in the next day or two."
"You got it."
With that, he headed for the second floor.
Just then, two men walked in, lit cigarettes held between their fingers. They scanned the room, their conversation full of sneering remarks.
Cian Sinclair turned back, but it was Mason Quincy who couldn't hold back, snapping irritably, "What are you doing here?"
The one in front had decent features and was cleanly dressed—a wolf in sheep's clothing. He flicked some ash onto the floor. "What do you think I'd be doing in a dump like this? Getting my car fixed, obviously."
His face was a mask of smug satisfaction.
The man's name was Julian Donovan. He had been a backup driver on Zane Jennings's old racing team. After several years as a backup, he'd reaped the benefits when Zane was banned, securing a position as a primary driver.
Having profited from another's misfortune to become a "winner in life," he'd been suppressed for so long that now, having made his big leap, he wouldn't miss a single chance to show off.
"We don't service cars belonging to animals or dogs here."
Cian Sinclair had the temperament of a staid veteran; he rarely argued with people and wasn't one to lash out. But when it came to Julian Donovan, he was as vicious as he could be.
Regarding what happened four years ago, even though Zane Jennings had confessed, everyone on their team knew the truth better than anyone. They had all been together before the race; where would Zane have found the time to tamper with anything?
Julian Donovan had colluded with a rival to report him and had also fabricated evidence. His objective couldn't have been more obvious.
Mason Quincy laughed out loud. "So, Julian Donovan, are you an animal or a dog?"
At that, the shop's employees all started laughing. Sadie Yates shot the two men at the door a disdainful look before heading up to the second floor.
Julian Donovan's face changed on the spot, turning ashen. But he was, after all, a lackey who had weathered many storms, and his tolerance was high.
He threw his cigarette butt on the ground and spat. "A bunch of has-beens. Can't cut it on the racetrack, so you hide in here like cowards."
Cian Sinclair's face grew cold. He turned and leaned against the railing. "And you? Can you 'cut it' on the stage?"
It was common knowledge that in the four years since Julian Donovan became a primary driver, he hadn't won a single major award. The number of minor awards he'd won could be counted on one hand—with fingers to spare.
If this kept up, no team would be able to afford him.
Struck a nerve. Julian Donovan narrowed his eyes, digging his nails into his palm as he forced a smile. "Well, at least my hands are clean. I don't have people cursing me behind my back."
Feeling a bit better after that veiled jab, he let his gaze roam around the shop.
The mention of this sent Mason Quincy into a rage. He grabbed a wrench and stormed forward, cursing as he went. "You better watch your goddamn mouth! Believe it or not, I'll crack your head open today."
"Mason Quincy!"
Cian Sinclair leaped down the last few steps of the staircase to grab Mason Quincy.
"Cian, don't hold me back! Today, I'm gonna—"
Just then, a voice drifted down from the second floor. It was unhurried and level, but with a clear, underlying displeasure.
"Mason Quincy, get back to fixing cars."
Everyone downstairs looked up and fell silent.
Zane Jennings walked out of the break room, a black jacket draped over his shoulders. He casually ran a hand through his hair. The incandescent light overhead fell upon him, illuminating a pair of eyes filled with malice.
"Julian Donovan." He crossed his arms and leaned them on the railing, his voice laced with menace. "Coming here to my place to act wild... Aren't you afraid I'll have you carried out horizontally?"
Julian Donovan maintained his righteous tone. "In broad daylight? With the law on my side? Would you dare?"
Zane Jennings pulled out a cigarette and held it in his fingers, the picture of a detached observer. "You're right. If I didn't follow the law, you wouldn't be standing here in one piece."
The words startled Julian. And it was true—if Zane Jennings had no regard for the law, he wouldn't have yielded to fabricated evidence four years ago.
Zane feared nothing and preferred to solve problems with violence. Four years ago was the sole exception.
Julian Donovan's fist subtly relaxed. He looked up, taunting the second floor with a hint of renewed smugness. "I see this repair shop of yours is doing alright. Keep up the good work, and I'll bring my buddies over to give you some business." He narrowed his eyes. "What do you say... cousin?"
Julian Donovan had come today with a purpose. He'd heard from someone that Zane Jennings had gone to Brindleton to watch a race. The four-year ban was up, and he was afraid Zane would return to the circuit. His goal was to demoralize him and stop him from competing again.
"Oh, wait, that's not right. Auntie disowned you. Can I still call you cousin?"
It was no secret that Zane Jennings was Julian Donovan's first cousin, but to bring it up now was pure provocation.
In fact, Julian Donovan had only gotten onto the team in the first place because Zane Jennings had pulled some strings for him. On his own merits, it would have been very difficult for him to become a primary driver.
He'd lent him a helping hand, never expecting to be nurturing an ungrateful wolf by his side—a wolf that now wanted to turn around and bite him.
That remark infuriated Zane Jennings.
Zane Jennings leaned over the second-floor railing, clamping the cigarette between his teeth. He unstrapped his watch, gauged the angle, and suddenly flung it downward.