Chapter 7 - The Apex Rally
The starting line of the Apex Rally was located on a closed-off, winding mountain pass outside the city limits. It was a playground for the obscenely wealthy. Porsches, McLarens, and Lamborghinis idled, their owners sipping champagne while models draped themselves over the hoods.
Damian Cross sat behind the wheel of his midnight-blue Bugatti, revving the engine to the applause of his wealthy friends. He felt invincible.
Suddenly, a raw, deafening mechanical scream echoed up the mountain.
The crowd parted as Marcus’s matte-black, widened import rolled onto the starting grid. It looked like a street-brawler walking into a black-tie gala. The contrast was staggering—raw, unfiltered grit against polished, multi-million-dollar arrogance.
Damian rolled down his window, laughing in disbelief. "Holt? Are you out of your mind? You brought a junkyard toy to a hypercar race?"
Marcus didn't look at him. He just gripped the steering wheel, his weathered hands steady. He wore a simple black fire-suit. No sponsors. No crew. Just him and the machine.
A local organizer walked between the cars, holding a briefcase of cash. "Title for title!" Damian yelled over the engines, completely consumed by his ego. "When I win, I'm crushing that piece of junk into a cube!"
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Marcus finally turned to look at Damian. "And when I win," Marcus said over the radio, "I want the Cross Automotive patents from 1994."
Damian’s face went pale as he realized exactly who the old man in the faded uniform really was. But before he could back out, the flare shot into the sky.
