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The helmet stayed on, even in the garage.
Jett Dawson sat on the hood of his car, boot tapping against the fender, visor tilted toward the fluorescents buzzing overhead. His racing suit clung to him like a second skin, heat sealed into every inch. He hadn’t bothered unzipping it.
Not yet.
The silence was thick— only broken by the soft creak of metal as the engine cooled, and the faint thump of bass leaking in from the street outside. Another win. Another night of cheers, flashing lights, camera phones held high. Another performance.
He should’ve been proud.
Instead, he just sat there. Still. Breathing like he’d run a marathon, even though the race had ended hours ago.
His fingers twitched.
“JETT!!! Over here— Jett, one pic for the fans?”
He spun toward the camera, helmet still on, and struck a ridiculous pose— one foot up on a tire, both hands pointing finger guns at the sky like he was announcing a world tour. The crowd laughed, warm and easy.
“Come on, man, you ever gonna show us what you actually look like?” a reporter teased, shoving a mic toward him.
“Why ruin the mystery?” Jett’s voice was filtered through the modulator in his helmet, casual and cool. “Besides, I’m way too handsome. If I take this off, the sun might file a jealousy lawsuit.”
Laughter again. Friendly. Familiar.
Another reporter grinned. “So we’re going with husky now, yeah? That what’s under the hood?”
Jett gave a dramatic shrug. “Could be. Could be a toaster under here. Guess you’ll never know.”
They loved that. Loved him. The idea of him, at least.
As the cameras flashed, someone handed him a victory flag. He draped it over his shoulders like a cape and jogged up the track, arms outstretched like a kid playing hero. The crowd roared.
He pulled off the helmet at last.
Steam hissed off his skin. His fur was matted along the sides of his face, twisted by pressure and heat.
Burn scars peeked from beneath the edge of his collar, thin and silvery and spidering down his neck like lightning bolts. His cheeks were fuller than they used to be before the crash.
He didn’t like mirrors anymore.
Not that he had many. Not that he ever looked too long.
They weren’t kind.
They never had been.
The world thought he was a husky hybrid. It was easier that way. Easier to be something people liked; something sleek, strong, photogenic. Dogs were dependable. Loyal. Safe.
Jett didn't believe he was any of those things.
He was a coyote hybrid. Wild. Unpredictable. Everything people were taught to be wary of. He knew what the word “coyote” stirred in people. Trickster. Scavenger. Dangerous. Something to lock your doors against.
Would they still laugh with him if they knew?
Would they cheer, if they saw the snout that was just a little too sharp, the ears too long and wild, the tail too unkempt to belong to any polished breed?
Or would they turn?
He stripped off the last layer of the suit, tossing it over the chair in the corner. Sat back down, bare paws hitting the cold cement of the garage floor. The scars along his side ached from the friction. His tail twitched behind him, thick and uneven in the way no domesticated hybrid’s ever was.
He breathed in. Out.
The air smelled like oil and rubber and old fear.
Once, he’d believed he could be seen and still be accepted. Then the press. Then the world learning how easy it was to twist someone into a cautionary tale.
So he stopped giving them pieces.
Now, they only got what he let them see.
Jett Dawson was fast. Fearless. Funny.
Jett Dawson was a husky hybrid.
That’s what they believed.
And if there were nights he cried in the dark, body shaking from pain and the weight of being no one at all— that was no one’s business but his.
He pressed the helmet back down over his head, hiding the face beneath the fur, the burns, the truth.
It was easier this way.
Safer.
He revved the engine once, loud enough to drown out the silence.
Then he drove.