chapter 3

I went back to the repair shop where I worked，grease still under my nails. the real power doesn’t show on your face, it hides until it’s needed.

The shop was loud, cramped, and smelled like oil, burnt rubber, and cheap coffee, which suited me just fine because this was the kind of place people like me were supposed to stay in.

“Jack,” my boss shouted, “you’re late.”

“I’m early for my future,” I muttered, rolling up my sleeves.

In my last life, this was where I learned how machines really worked—quiet, obedient, honest, unlike people.

This time, it was just a starting point.

“Look,” someone yelled , “we got a headache coming in.”

I looked up.

A black truck rolled to a stop outside.

Not flashy.

Not loud.

Too clean for a normal customer.

The shop went quiet.

Then the car arrived.

A limited-edition supercar, matte silver, engine humming like a restrained beast, the kind of car you only saw in magazines or underground races.

Every mechanic stopped breathing.

“Holy shit,” someone whispered.

“That thing costs more than this shop.”

The door opened.

She stepped out.

Tall.

Calm.

She wore a simple coat, no logos, no flash, but everything about her screamed control.

Alia Flynn.

I didn’t know her name yet, but I knew the type.

Real money.

Old money.

The kind that didn’t need to announce itself.

“My engine cuts at high RPM,” she said evenly.“I want it fixed today.”

My boss hurried over, smiling too hard.

“Yes, yes, of course, Miss—”

“Flynn,” she said.

“Alia Flynn.”

The name landed differently.

Old money.

Quiet money.

My boss nodded rapidly.

“We’ll take a look right away.”

Two senior mechanics opened the hood.

Five minutes later, they frowned.

Ten minutes later, they stepped back.

“It’s not showing any faults,” one said.

“Could be factory issue.”

Alia crossed her arms.

“I’ve heard that four times already.”

My boss glanced around, annoyed.

“Jack,” he barked, “go clean the back.”

I didn’t move.

I stared at the engine.

In my last life, I worked on this exact model twelve years later, after it was recalled for a hidden airflow defect.

I remembered the sound it made when it failed.

I stepped forward.

“Mind if I look,” I said.

Everyone turned.

My boss’s face darkened.

“Don’t embarrass us.”

Alia looked at me.

Not dismissive.

Curious.

“Go ahead,” she said.

I leaned in, listening, touching, feeling the vibration through the frame.

“There,” I said after twenty seconds.

“Secondary intake valve sticks at high pressure.”

The shop laughed.

“That’s impossible,” one mechanic scoffed.

“That part isn’t faulty.”

“It is,” I said calmly.

“Only after twenty minutes of aggressive driving.”

Alia raised an eyebrow.

“Can you fix it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“In twenty minutes.”

My boss glared at me.

“Jack, get back to work.”

Clearly, he was afraid of losing this major client.

Alia lifted a hand.

“Let him.”

I worked fast.

Hands steady.

Every movement precise.

I replaced one tiny component, adjusted the airflow balance manually, and tightened everything back down.

“Start it,” I said.

She got in.

The engine screamed.

No stutter.

No hesitation.

I nodded toward the road.

“Push it.”

She did.

Five minutes later, she stepped out slowly.

“Name,” she said.

“Jack.”

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s all I need,” I replied.

She studied me now, really looked.

“You don’t work like someone who belongs here,” she said.

“I don’t,” I answered.

“That problem’s been haunting me for months,” she said.

“How did you know?”

I wiped my hands.

“I remember things,” I replied.

The shop stared at me like I had just spoken a foreign language.

My boss swallowed.

“You fixed that?”

Alia looked at me longer now.

“How much do you make,” she asked.

“Enough to eat,” I said.

She nodded.

She studied my clothes, my hands, my calm.

“You should work for me,” she said.

“My racing team needs someone like you.”

The shop exploded.

My boss choked.

In my last life, I would have said yes instantly.

Security.

Money.

A leash.

This time, I shook my head.

“No.”

The shop gasped.

Alia smiled slightly.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want a boss,” I said.

“I want a business.”

Silence.

She considered me for three seconds.

“Bold,” she said.

“I’ve been worse,” I replied.

Then she laughed.

A real laugh.

“Good answer,” she said.

“Then I’ll invest.”

She handed me a card.

“Call me when you’re ready.”

She met my gaze, slid her sunglasses on with a knowing smile, then got back into the car.

The engine roared as she drove away.

The shop stared at me like I had grown another head.

“What the hell was that,” someone whispered.

I went back to work like nothing happened.

But inside, the pieces clicked together.

Money.

Talent.

Connections.

That night, I stood alone in the shop, holding the card.

In my last life, I never took chances.

This time, I would.

And far away, the Rossi family still thought I was finished.

They had no idea—

The real game had just started.