Page 93 of Knot So Lucky

My hands move on instinct, downshifting with precision timing while my foot modulates the brake pedal with the kind of finesse that comes from years of understanding exactly how cars respond under pressure. The prototype rotates beautifully through the apex, rear tires sliding just enough to help turn the nose while maintaining forward momentum.

Then I see Cale's car skid past on my right, his superior racing line and experience allowing him to carry more speed through the corner. His bright red prototype gains tractionsimultaneously with mine as we both gear up for the final straight.

We're neck and neck.

Two cars screaming toward the finish line with everything on the line.

I have no idea what place we're in overall. Lost track somewhere around lap seven when the adrenaline hit full force and the only thing that existed was the next corner, the next braking zone, the next opportunity to extract another tenth of a second from machinery that's already giving everything it has.

The logical part of my brain suggests I should slow down.

Let Cale lead, let him take the glory while I secure a respectable second place that still guarantees our team's advancement.

He's the experienced driver. The one with championship titles. The one who's supposed to be here.

I'm just the pit tech playing dress-up in my brother's racing suit.

But before I can ease off the throttle, Cale's voice cuts through the comm channel—sharp and commanding in a way that bypasses every conscious thought and speaks directly to some fundamental part of my hindbrain that responds to Alpha dominance.

"Accelera!"

Italian.

He's speaking Italian.

The language of my mother's family, the one I default to when emotions run too high for English to contain.

And it's the only thing that gets through the adrenaline-fueled tunnel vision because my foot is slamming the accelerator to the floor before my brain catches up to the command.

The prototype launches forward with acceleration that presses me back into the seat hard enough to make my bruised ribs scream in protest. The engine note climbs to a banshee wail, tachometer needle buried in the red zone as I extract every last ounce of power.

I shoot forward, knowing without looking that Cale has my six. That he's right behind me, close enough that anyone watching will see two cars from the same team working in perfect coordination rather than individual glory-seeking.

The finish line approaches.

White line painted across asphalt, cameras positioned to capture the exact microsecond when cars cross from racing to completion.

Time seems to slow and speed up simultaneously—the peculiar distortion that happens in high-stress moments when your brain processes everything at hyperspeed while the external world crawls.

Then I'm across.

The realization hits with the force of a physical blow, adrenaline and disbelief combining into something that makes my hands shake on the steering wheel.

The tech team loses their collective minds through the comm channel.

"HOLY SHIT?—"

"RORAN JUST GOT FIRST?—"

"WE DID IT, WE FUCKING DID IT?—"

"TOP TWENTY, WE'RE IN THE TOP TWENTY?—"

Their voices overlap in a symphony of elation and disbelief, and I blink rapidly behind my visor, trying to process two simultaneous realizations that make my world tilt on its axis.

First: They still think I'm Roran. Despite my voice on the comm, despite the last-minute substitution, despite everything—they genuinely believe my twin just won this race.

Second: I just secured first place in an actual competitive race.