Chapter Text
The air was thick with the scent of burning rubber and gasoline, a symphony of mechanical growls and frenzied voices echoing through the paddock. The pit lane buzzed with energy—technicians barking last-minute adjustments, engineers glued to telemetry screens, and reporters lurking for a soundbite.
She strode past it all, her gait steady, her presence an unshaken force cutting through the chaos. Cameras flashed in rapid succession, but her focus remained ahead. She neither slowed nor acknowledged the journalists murmuring her name, her reputation preceding her.
Behind her dark visor, her gaze flicked to the cars lined up on the grid. Her car—sleek, black, a predator waiting to be unleashed—stood among them. The tension in the air was palpable, a storm about to break.
A voice crackled through her earpiece. “Sixty seconds, Grim Reaper. Ready?”
As she slid into the cockpit, memories of her childhood flooded back—her own stern voice echoing in her mind, “You must always be the best, Wednesday. Anything less is unacceptable.”
The pressure had always been there, but she thrived on it. The moment the lights would go out, the world would shrink down to just her, the machine, and the track.
Racing was her escape, her rebellion against the expectations that had shaped her life.
She exhaled, fingers flexing over the wheel. A hush swept through the stands, only the whine of engines filling the void.
Five red lights blinked to life.
And then—
Lights out.
The roar of the engine was deafening.
Wednesday Addams didn’t flinch. She never did. Seated in her sleek black F1 car, hands wrapped around the steering wheel with a grip of iron, she was the embodiment of precision. No wasted movements, no erratic turns. Just cold, calculated speed.
The Italian Grand Prix was hers to dominate.
The lights above the track flickered in their countdown—red, red, red, red—green.
She launched forward like a bullet from a gun.
The first turn was tight, but she cut through it effortlessly, her tires skimming the edge of the curb. Behind her, the pack of cars fought for position, engines screaming as they tried—and failed—to match her speed. She could feel them in her mirrors, desperate, aggressive. But Wednesday was merciless. She knew the track like a well-rehearsed symphony, and she played it to perfection.
Her engineer’s voice crackled through the radio. “P1, clear air ahead. Maintain pace.”
“Understood.” Her voice was devoid of emotion.
Lap after lap, she widened the gap, each corner taken with surgical precision. She wasn’t reckless, like some of the hot-headed drivers in the field. She was methodical, her strategy as sharp as a blade. Every apex kissed, every breaking point nailed. It was almost too easy.
Then, in the final laps, the rain came.
The track turned into a treacherous battlefield, but Wednesday didn’t waver. Other cars spun out, skidded into barriers, lost control. She adjusted without hesitation, switching to wet tires during a perfect pit stop, her crew moving like clockwork.
When she crossed the finish line, she didn’t celebrate.
Her team erupted in cheers, mechanics throwing their arms around each other, the pit wall shaking with excitement. But Wednesday? She simply removed her gloves, unbuckled her harness, and climbed out of the car with the same deadpan expression she always wore.
A victory was inevitable. It was never a question of if—only when.
The sun-drenched streets of Italy pulsed with the energy of race day. Fans crowded the balconies of luxury yachts, the air thick with the scent of salt and champagne. The city, known for its opulence, had transformed into a coliseum, and at its center, the warriors of speed battled for supremacy.
The infamous Wednesday Addams had already claimed hers.
The press conference room buzzed with reporters, cameras flashing in relentless bursts. The podium held the top three finishers, but only one commanded all the attention. Wednesday sat in the middle, her race suit unzipped at the collar, exposing the black fireproofs beneath. She looked as unbothered as ever, her gaze sharp beneath the shadow of her dark visor cap.
A journalist leaned forward. "Wednesday, your victory in Italy puts you in the lead for the championship. How do you feel?"
Wednesday’s fingers tapped against the microphone. "Predictable."
A ripple of uneasy chuckles spread through the room. Another reporter tried. "With the rain in the final laps, many struggled to keep control. Yet you seemed unaffected. What was your strategy?"
"Don’t crash.”
Across the world, in a silent training hall, a blade met its mark.
Enid Sinclair’s opponent staggered back, her chest heaving beneath her fencing jacket. The electronic scoreboard blinked red—another point for Enid.
A voice rang out. “Final bout. Reset.”
Enid barely felt the exhaustion in her limbs. She rolled her shoulders, her grip on the foil unwavering. Her opponent was good—fast, technical—but Enid was better.
The referee gave the signal.
Lunging forward, Enid moved like lightning. Her blade was a silver blur, feinting left before striking right. The opposing fencer barely had time to react before the tip of Enid’s foil pressed against her chest.
Match over. Gold secured.
As the crowd in the training hall applauded, Enid removed her mask, her blonde hair spilling out in waves. She grinned, her face flushed with the thrill of victory. Another championship under her belt. Another step closer to Olympic history.
But the moment was fleeting.
The scent of sweat and resin lingered in the air, a familiar reminder of battles fought and won. Enid barely noticed it as she stepped off the piste, adrenaline still thrumming beneath her skin. Victory was second nature to her now, but the thrill never dulled. The weight of the gold medal against her chest was satisfying, but fleeting.
She wiped the sweat from her brow, her breathing evening out as her coach approached. The envelope he held out was thick, the paper crisp, and expensive. Enid took it, turning it over in her hands.
“What is this?” The blonde asked.
“For Monaco. And Spain. You’re a guest at the Grand Prix.”
“Monaco? And Spain?” she repeated, her tone skeptical.
Her coach crossed his arms, amused. “A personal invitation. VIP treatment, full access to the paddock.”
Enid frowned. “I don’t follow racing.”
“I know,” he said. “But someone wants you there.”
That made her pause. She tore the envelope open, scanning the sleek black-and-gold card inside. The official letterhead of a top F1 team caught her attention, but the signature at the bottom made her blink.
Larissa Weems.
Enid’s grip tightened slightly. She had met Weems only once, at a sports gala where their paths briefly crossed. The woman was powerful, influential, always three steps ahead of everyone in the room.
Weems didn’t waste time on meaningless gestures.
“Why would an F1 team care about me?” Enid asked.
Her coach shrugged. “Maybe they see something in you. Maybe they want you to meet someone.” His smirk deepened. “Or maybe it’s just fate.”
Enid snorted. “I don’t believe in fate.”
“No?” He tilted his head. “Then call it an opportunity. You’ve dominated every opponent you’ve faced. Maybe it’s time to meet someone who won’t be so easy to figure out.”
Enid exhaled sharply, folding the invitation and shoving it into her bag. The idea of rubbing shoulders with race car drivers held little appeal. She preferred battles fought on even footing, with steel in hand and an opponent she could read in an instant.
But Monaco—and Spain wasn’t just about the race. It was about power, prestige—chess pieces moving behind the scenes.
She could ignore the engines and the egos.
But the game? That, she might enjoy.
Enid sighed, stuffing the envelope into her bag. She didn’t care for fast cars or reckless drivers. Racing seemed like a sport for adrenaline junkies with no patience. But a trip to Monaco? That she could tolerate.
“Fine,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll go.”
She turned toward the exit, but her coach’s voice followed her.
“Keep an open mind, Sinclair,” he called out. “You might just meet someone who plays by the same rules as you.”
Enid didn’t look back.
She didn’t believe in fate.
But something told her this wasn’t just another invitation.
Little did she know, she was about to meet someone who would test her patience more than anyone ever had.