Page 155 of Knot So Lucky

Pushing my body to its limits, proving I can keep up with the Alphas despite biological differences in muscle mass and endurance.

I settle into the simulator cockpit—a fully enclosed unit that replicates actual race conditions with disturbing accuracy. The seat molds around me, the steering wheel sits perfectly in my grip, and when the system boots up, I'm suddenly on a track that looks and feels real despite being entirely digital.

"Alright, Rory," Richard's voice comes through the comm system. "Three laps for baseline data. Push it, but don't be reckless. We need clean telemetry."

"Copy," I respond, hands tightening on the wheel.

The virtual lights go green, and I'm off.

The simulator is good—reallygood. Good enough that my brain forgets this isn't real after the first corner, muscle memory and instinct taking over as I navigate the track at speeds that would be terrifying if I had time to think about them.

Turn one:late apex, carry momentum through.

Turn two:hard braking, rotation on throttle application.

Turn three:the infamous chicane that's claimed more drivers than I can count.

I'm completely focused, lost in the zone where nothing exists except the track and the car and the endless pursuit of that perfect lap.

Two laps completed when something feels... off.

The steering response is just slightly delayed. Maybe a tenth of a second, but in racing that's an eternity. The telemetry readout in my peripheral vision flickers—numbers changing too rapidly to track consciously, but my pattern-recognition brain flags aswrong.

"Did anyone else catch that?" Elias's voice comes through the comm, sharp with concern. "System anomaly on Rory's unit. Timestamp 14:23:07."

I complete the third lap and bring the car to a controlled stop, heart still racing from the simulated speed.

"What kind of anomaly?" I ask, climbing out of the simulator on shaky legs.

Elias is already at the diagnostic station, scrolling through data with furrowed concentration.

"Unexplained system reset. Just a brief one…maybe thirty milliseconds…but it caused a calibration drift in the steering response algorithms."

Adrian leans over his shoulder, adding his own analysis.

"And here—the telemetry data shows inconsistent latency. It's logging data points out of sequence, which should be impossible with our error-checking protocols."

The technical discussion draws the others closer, the entire pack congregating around the diagnostic screens.

"Run it back," Luca commands, his earlier antagonism with Cale apparently forgotten in the face of technical problems. "Show me the error signature."

Elias pulls up the data visualization, and I watch numbers cascade across the screen in patterns that should make sense but somehow don't quite line up.

"This," Elias says quietly, pointing to a specific sequence, "mirrors the data corruption patterns from before Aurora's kidnapping."

Everyone goes still, the implications sinking in with uncomfortable weight.

"You're saying this isn't a coincidental malfunction," Cale says slowly, voice flat with barely controlled anger. "You're saying someone is actively tampering with our systems."

"Not just tampering." Elias's expression is grim behind his spectacles. "This level of access requires deep integration with the FIA tech network. Whoever's doing this has legitimate credentials and detailed knowledge of our system architecture."

"Someone close to the racing commission," Adrian adds, his usual warmth replaced by cold calculation. "Someone with the authority to access protected systems without raising alarms."

Luca's scent spikes with aggressive Alpha pheromones—dark chocolate and gunpowder mixing with something sharper, more dangerous. "They're trying to sabotage us. Force us out of the competition before we can prove ourselves."

"Multiple forces want us out of the picture," I say, piecing together the broader pattern. "We're getting unprecedented attention this season. Sponsors, media coverage, the whole narrative about an Omega in professional racing breaking barriers."

"Which makes us a threat," Cale continues the thought. "To established teams who don't want competition. To people who've invested in maintaining the status quo. To anyone who profits from keeping Omegas marginalized."