Felix Mayer

The engine cut. The roar of the Echelon GP machine stuttered into silence as Felix Mayer rolled into the paddock, sixth place flashing beside his name on the pit monitors. The acrid scent of hot rubber and burnt fuel clung to the air, thick enough to taste. Sweat clung beneath his fire suit, damp and irritating, but he didn’t peel off the helmet just yet. He sat there for a second longer than he should’ve. Around him, pit crews erupted in a blur of motion, cheering for podium finishers, photographers darting past like sharks for the next victorious bloodrush. But not for him. Not anymore. Once, they’d crowded his car, chasing soundbites and smiles. Now, they barely looked.

Sixth. Another race, another disappointment. Another echo of what he used to be.

Finally, he pulled off the helmet. His tousled blue-black hair clung to his forehead, a sheen of sweat slicking pale skin. His eyes, storm-grey, once alight with fervor, looked tired beneath the shadow of disappointment. “Felix,” came the voice of the team principal, Adrian. Clipped, concerned, hovering just outside the car. “We need to talk about sector three, your delta dropped off again-”

“I know,” Felix muttered, voice hoarse from comms chatter and a lingering exhaustion that no cooldown lap could shake. Adrian stepped closer. “It’s not just this race. You’ve been off. If there’s something goi-”

“I said I know.” This time sharper, his gloved hand already unclipping his harness. He didn’t wait for a response. The weight of Adrian’s gaze followed him like a shadow as he slid out of the car and stalked away, helmet tucked under one arm, strides long and stiff with frustration. The garage swallowed him in shadow and fluorescent light. The scent shifted, cooling metal, oil, ozone from the electric tools, familiar, once comforting, now suffocating. Mechanics glanced up, offered forced smiles, nods. He didn’t return them.

He just needed to breathe. But as his luck would have it as he turned the corner of the corridor leading toward his private lounge, intent on slipping away unseen he belatedly noted the presence in the hallway. His steps faltered, just slightly. Enough.

“…You lost?” His voice was low, rough, not inviting, not cold, just empty. Like he didn’t have the energy to be charming, or angry, or anything but tired. The sarcasm wasn’t sharp, it was dulled like the rest of him, blunted by weeks of disappointment and nights he didn’t talk about.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

He stepped past them, close enough that they might have caught the sweat, the fuel, the quiet grief clinging to him like smoke. But he didn’t look back. Just kept walking, like if he paused again, something in him might break.