Chapter Text
The air in the VIP lounge tasted like expensive champagne and cheap ambition. It was a familiar, cloying flavor, one Jeff had grown unwillingly accustomed to ever since X-Hunter had taken the definitive lead in the season standings. The team was now flourishing under the massive glittering financial umbrella of the Beyond Group, and with that money came obligations.
Tonight’s obligation involved standing in a room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, pretending to enjoy the company of people who only cared about lap times and return on investment. The ambient noise was a steady hum of clinking crystal glasses and muted jazz from a live band in the corner. Occasionally the forced, overly loud laughter of corporate sponsors pierced the mood.
"Smile, kid," Alan murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble right beside Jeff’s ear. "You look like you're actively plotting a murder."
Jeff blinked, pulling his gaze away from the extravagant seafood buffet line where a group of executives were practically shouting over each other. He adjusted the starched cuffs of his suit jacket, forcing the rigid tension out of his shoulders. He hated this suit. He hated the way the fabric pulled across his back. Most of all, he hated how his hands felt. Usually stained with a permanent shadow of motor grease and confident only when wrapped around a heavy wrench, his hands currently felt entirely awkward and useless hanging empty at his sides.
"I'm not plotting anything," Jeff muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on a tray of passing hors d'oeuvres. "I'm just thinking."
"Then think happier thoughts," Alan corrected gently. He stepped just a fraction closer, his hand ghosting over the small of Jeff’s back. It was a brief, grounding touch. Warm, solid, and immensely reassuring. "We are here to shake hands and convince the board members that their millions of baht are resting in incredibly safe, capable hands."
"The cars are safe," Jeff replied instantly, his defensive instinct flaring to life. He turned to look at Alan, his jaw setting. "I checked the suspension calibration on Babe’s car myself three separate times this morning. I rebuilt the transmission on the backup vehicle yesterday. Nothing is going to crash. They don't need to worry about their investments."
"I know," Alan agreed, his dark eyes softening with a quiet affection. "You are the absolute best there is. We all know it. But these guys in the suits do not understand gear ratios or telemetry data. They need to see the face behind the engines. They need to see that you are calm, collected, and brilliant."
Jeff sighed, conceding the point, and took a slow sip of his sparkling water. The bubbles felt sharp against his throat. He let his eyes wander over the crowd again, taking a deep, conscious breath.
He actually felt good tonight. Better than good, if he were being entirely honest with himself.
For the first time in what felt like months, the relentless static in his head was perfectly quiet. The flashes, those disjointed, violent images of the future that usually plagued him at the worst possible moments, had been wonderfully dormant. There was no buzzing at the base of his skull. No sudden, sickening drops in his stomach warning him of impending disaster. He had almost convinced himself he finally had a handle on the ability. He wanted to believe that with the racing team finally stable, with Babe looking genuinely happy, and with Charlie safe from the ghosts of their past, the universe had simply run out of brutal warnings to send him.
He thought he was finally allowed to just be a mechanic.
"Mr. Alan! And the young genius behind the horsepower himself."
The voice was oily, sliding through the ambient noise of the crowded party like a thick, dark sludge. Jeff stiffened instantly. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was, but protocol demanded he face the threat.
Police Chief Pong approached them, parting the crowd of minor sponsors effortlessly. The man was wearing a bespoke suit that likely cost more than the lease on Jeff’s first garage, but all the expensive tailoring in the world could not hide the way he carried himself. He moved with the heavy, deliberate grace of a predator pretending, just for the evening, to be a house cat.
Alan’s polite smile did not falter for a single second, though Jeff distinctly felt the subtle, protective tightening of Alan’s muscles right next to him.
"Chief Pong," Alan greeted, bowing his head slightly. "An honor to see you tonight, as always."
"The honor is entirely mine," Pong said, beaming a smile that did not reach his eyes. He held a heavy crystal glass of dark whiskey, the large cube of ice clinking softly against the rim. He wore his police title like a physical shield, a constant reminder to everyone in the room that he wasn't just a wealthy man; he was the law itself. "The investors are absolutely thrilled with the vehicle specs this season. You boys are making the department look very, very good for publicly backing you."
"We appreciate the continuous support," Alan said diplomatically, his tone perfectly measured to give nothing away.
Pong took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze sliding away from Alan and locking directly onto Jeff. His eyes were dark, completely unreadable, and utterly devoid of the artificial warmth he was projecting to the rest of the room.
"And you, Jeff," Pong purred. "You are very quiet tonight. Saving all that intense focus for the garage, I assume?"
"Something like that," Jeff said, fighting the urge to take a step back. He kept his voice perfectly even, betraying none of his discomfort. He did not like being this close to Pong. He never had. There was a raw, consuming hunger hiding just beneath the man's polished surface that deeply unsettled Jeff’s instincts.
"Well," Pong stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He extended his right hand. "Let us hope for a clean, successful race this weekend. We have a lot riding on your engineering."
Social protocol dictated Jeff take the hand. To refuse a direct handshake would be a massive public insult to the Chief of Police, a man who held considerable sway over the city's permits and the team's security. Alan was watching from the corner of his eye. The surrounding sponsors were watching.
Jeff took a breath, forced a polite smile, and reached out.
The very moment his bare skin brushed against Pong’s palm, the entire world violently tilted on its axis.
Jeff found himself floating unseen in a sterile, windowless office. The only light came from the cold, harsh blue glow of a laptop screen on a massive mahogany desk. Pong stood in the center of the room, stripped of all his arrogant bravado. His posture was rigid, his head bowed low in total, terrifying deference.
Sitting in the high-backed leather chair opposite Pong was a man who absolutely should not exist.
A man who should be dead.
Tony.
He looked older, and yet still exactly the same. He was leaning on a silver-headed cane, his eyes cold and calculating as he stared at the laptop screen. He was undeniably, horribly alive.
And he was talking to Chief Pong.
“He is becoming a problem,” Tony said, his voice raspy and thin from smoke damage, yet still carrying that absolute, tyrannical authority. He did not look up from the screen. "He is too smart."
“I understand,” Pong replied, his voice uncharacteristically small. "What do you want me to do?"
Tony tapped his silver cane against the floor. Click. Click.
“Kill him. And make sure it is done properly. I want him silenced before the weekend.”
The office began to spin. The temperature plummeted.
Darkness.
It was not the dim darkness of a poorly lit room, but the suffocating, absolute darkness of a freshly dug grave.
The sensory overload hit him like a physical blow. The sharp, acrid smell of ozone. The choking stench of burning rubber. And then, the terrifying, agonizingly loud metallic screech of a heavy chassis snapping under immense pressure.
He saw a foot slamming down onto a brake pedal. Jeff did not just see the action; he felt the mechanical feedback instantly in his own mind, processing the failure the way only a master mechanic could. The hydraulic pressure in the line was completely gone. There was no resistance. The line had been intentionally severed. The pedal hit the floorboards with a sickening, soft thud. It was entirely useless. It was fatal.
Then came the heat. Intense, blistering heat rising rapidly from the crushed dashboard as flames licked at the crumpled hood.
Jeff gasped loudly, violently ripping his hand away from Pong’s grip as if the man’s skin had turned to molten iron.
He stumbled backward, his polished shoes slipping on the slick marble floor. He crashed hard into a waiter passing behind him. The silver tray of delicate canapés clattered loudly to the floor, the shattering ceramic sounding exactly like a gunshot in the suddenly hushed room.
"Jeff!" Alan was there in a fraction of a second. He gripped Jeff’s upper arms, holding him upright, his voice tight with sudden alarm. "Hey, hey, what is it? Are you okay?"
Jeff could not breathe. His lungs flatly refused to take in air. The terrifying afterimage of Tony’s scarred face was seared into his retinas, blinding him to the brightly lit lounge. The phantom sensation of that severed brake line giving way made his hands shake uncontrollably.
He is alive. Tony is alive, and he is giving orders to the Chief of Police.
Jeff looked up, his chest heaving, his eyes wild and completely unmoored. He found Pong staring directly at him.
Pong had not moved an inch. His right hand was still slightly raised in the air from the aborted handshake. But his expression had entirely shifted. The fake, benevolent smile was gone. His dark eyes were narrowed, calculating, and sharp as surgical scalpels. He looked at Jeff not with the concern of a sponsor, but with the cold, clinical suspicion of a hunter.
Pong saw the violent flinch. He saw the sheer, unadulterated terror draining the color from Jeff's face. And worst of all, as Pong tilted his head just a fraction of an inch, he looked like he knew exactly what had caused it.
"Jeff?" Pong asked. His voice was low now, dropping all the loud, party-friendly pleasantries. It was a dangerous sound. "Is something wrong?"
Jeff swallowed hard, fighting down the sharp taste of bile rising in his throat. The static in his head was back, screaming at him to run. He had to lie. He had to lie perfectly right now, or he was going to get every single person he loved killed before the night was over.
"Static shock," Jeff choked out. He forced a laugh, but it sounded jagged, breathy, and entirely hysterical. He rubbed his offending hand vigorously against his suit pants, desperate to scrub the lingering feeling of Pong’s skin off him. "Carpet. The new shoes. Sorry, Chief Pong. Just a really big shock."
He did not wait for Pong to respond. He turned his head to look at Alan, his eyes silently, frantically pleading for an immediate exit. "I need some air. I think I’m coming down with a fever or something."
"I’ve got him," Alan said firmly. He seamlessly stepped in front of Jeff, turning his broad back to Pong to physically shield Jeff from the Chief's calculating gaze. "My sincere apologies, Chief Pong. The stress of the season is catching up with us. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening."
"Of course," Pong said smoothly from behind them, his tone betraying absolutely nothing. "I hope the young mechanic feels better soon."
As Alan placed a heavy, protective hand on Jeff's shoulder and quickly guided him toward the glass terrace doors, Jeff risked one single, terrifying glance back over his shoulder.
Pong was still standing exactly where they left him, watching them go. He slowly reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket and pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the glowing screen, his dark eyes locked dead onto Jeff’s retreating back.
Jeff shivered violently as the cool night air from the terrace finally hit his face. The deafening static in his mind was louder than it had ever been. And this time, he knew with absolute, terrifying certainty, it was not just a warning.
It was a death sentence.