-6 months ago-

"Volkov! My office, now!

His boss's voice booms through the office, all heads turning towards Maksim. He ducks his ownhead, frowning.

"Man, what did you do this time?" His deskmate asks.

"You think I know?" Maksim mutters, pushing his chair in. "Wish me luck."

He smooths the front of his collared shirt, wiping out any wrinkles that aren't really there, then strides toward the double doors at the end of the hall, heart kicking up a notch as he reaches them.

He pokes his head inside. "Yes sir?" he clears his throat, taking a step inside.

"Take a seat."

Maksim lowers himself into a plush chair across from the desk. His boss flips through a thin folder. "I looked at your last athlete, and I've got to say, I was impressed...before he got into a bad accident."

"Yes, sir. It's disappointing. He may never walk aga-"

"I'd like to offer you a new athlete."

Maksim pauses, blinking rapidly. "Already?" The question slips out before he can stop it. "I-I mean, isn't it a bit too soon? My guy just got into the hospital and-"

"And like you said, he may never walk again. I'm not having you sponsor someone who will never get back onto the track."

Life is cruel. Maksim exhales. "Who is the new target?"

A folder gets slid in front of him. Maksim grabs it, scanning the profile page.

"His name is-"

“Noir,” Maksim finishes, eyes widening. Of course he’s heard of Noir. Everyone has. The top of the leaderboard—untouchable. “You want me to sponsor him?”

Part of him is honored. Only the boss’s most trusted employees get assigned the best athletes. But he’s also hesitant. Noir is notorious for refusing sponsorships. He’s never had a single brand pinned to his name.

“It’ll be a tricky task,” his boss says, “but I have faith in you.”

“And if he refuses?”

“Then you’re fired.”

Maksim swallows hard and stands. “Understood.” He bows his head. “I’ll get it done.”

A knot twists deep in his gut. Fired—over some brat? He grips the folder tighter as he walks down the hall.

"Of all people...why him?"

-

The track is smaller than expected - maybe a few hundred seats at most. A practice venue, not a show arena.

Maksim wanders through the dim space, paper in his gloved hand, feeling lost. Which garage is the main one? He sighs and checks his watch.

8:30 pm.

It's already dark. "Great." He mutters under his breath, turning to leave when a metallic clang echoes nearby. Quietly, he follows the noise, eventually leading him into a small garage littered with tools and various types of metal.

In the center sits a matte black race car, no shine to it, just mystery, it's hood currently out of sight exposing the exclusive engine underneath. It's simple, but strong - expressing something vicious, something predatory.

"Can I help you?"

The voice startles him. A woman stands there in short shorts and a tank top, grease covering her arms, hair shoved under a cap.

"My apologies." Maksim says, clearing his throat. "I was sent from Red//line energy for a potential sponsorship with Noir. I'm looking for..." he checks the paper. "Reznik? The head mechanic-"

"Not interested." She says instantly, grabbing a wrench and crouching beside the car.

Maksim blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She slides further under the car. "No sponsorships here."

His eyebrow twitches, a bit agitated. "Ma'am. I'm looking for the head mechanic. If you could please direct me to him-"

"You're looking at her."

He pauses, mouth dry and at a loss of words.

"And she says no."

"The head mechanic is... a woman?" He asks before he can stop himself.

She stands, eyes blazing ."Yeah you got a fucking problem with that?" Her tone is harsh, lip curled up in distaste.

"N-No!" Maksim throws his hands up. "Not at all. I just didn't- I've never seen a woman as head mechanic before in F1-"

"Have you ever seen a woman, period?" She snaps. "Go take your designer shoes and trench-coat and get lost."

"Ms. Reznik, if I could just take a moment of your time." Maksim says, walking over to her and holding out a paper. "Mr. Noir is at the top of the leaderboards right now, and my company has sponsored some of the best racers of this century."

"First of all, don't call me Ms. Reznik." She tosses the wrench she was holding onto a nearby workbench. "I'm not your grandmother."

"Then what-"

"Shut up will you?" She snatches the paper from him, reading all the written text lazily. "My name is Laya." She extends her other hand, still reading the paper.

Maksim shakes it firmly. "Laya. It's a pleasure to meet the best mechanic in the pool right now. I'm sincerely sorry if my words offended you. I really was just surprised-"

"So if he accepts the sponsorship, all gear and supplies are covered?"

"Along with transportation and any other required expenses. With the Grand Prix approaching, it wouldn't be a bad idea."

Laya sighs. She goes to take off her cap, letting her hair fall a bit as she does so. "You're no different from the brands who tried before." She tells him, going to lean against the car. "He's going to say n-" she pauses, eyes landing on a specific part of text.

"Mental health additives?" She says slowly, glancing up at Maksim.

"Yes. I take mental health very seriously." He says, walking over, his polished shoes looking out of place against the worn down and stained cement. "An athlete cannot perform to the best of their abilities unless their mental health-"

"Does that cover prescription medication?" She cuts him off, making him hesitate. Her expression seems more serious now.

"It can," He goes to stand beside her, slightly leaning against the car as well. "If that's something that is desired."

It's quiet for a long moment, and Maksim is prepared to accept defeat but suddenly his body is getting shoved, making him stumble into a workbench at the opposite side of the room.

He blinks, confused. "What-?"

"Rule number 1," Laya stands rigid. "Don't touch my car."

"Isn't it... technically Noirs?"

"He may drive it but it's my blood sweat and tears keeping it alive. So no, it's mine." She clicks her tongue. "And I don't like it when people touch things that are mine."

A heat rushes to Maksim's cheek, his throat going just a bit dry. "Uhm- right." He clears his throat.

"Number 2... I like your proposal." She says, handing him back the paper. "But I'm afraid that I have no final say here. He does - and he definitely will say no."

Maksim adjusts his trench coat. "I'm sure you could possibly persuade him?" he tilts his head. "I can add more health benefits to it if necessary. Noir is my only choice right now. I need him."

"But I don't need you."

A deep voice cuts through the garage. "I don't contract with anyone. Get lost."

Maksim bites his tongue. Noir and Laya sure do act alike. "Mr. Noir, if you'd please-" He walks up to the man confidently, extending his hand. "My name is Maksim Volkov, and I'd like to sponsor you. Anything that you want, I can provide."

Noir studies him, gaze unreadable - something flickering beneath it.

"I don't care who you are or what you can offer." Noir's voice is cold, almost sending a frostbite chill down his spine. "All you sponsors are the same. Money. Image. Slapping your brand slop onto athletes as if we're nothing but props." He stares down at him, eyes glowing something vicious.

"Fuck off."

Maksim falters. He knew that Noir would say no, but not like this. "Noir-"

"Now."

He exhales a breath of air that he didn't even know he was holding. "If you'll excuse me.." He adjusts his coat before turning away and leaving the garage, fists clenching.

"Ебать! (Fuck!)" He curses, hand slamming against the wall beside him. "Fucking brat-"

What is he supposed to do now? He can't just show up to his boss empty handed. He'd get fired. And after all he's done to get this job...

He reaches into his pocket to take out his car keys as he approaches his car.

"Wait!" Laya's voice is heard shouting out from behind him, causing him to turn, confused.

"Laya?"

"Ah-" Laya reaches him, slightly out of breath. "H-Here. You left this." She wipes off her brow, holding out the contract he had left. "Why the fuck are you staring at me? I've got terrible cardio, okay?"

"No- sorry." Maksim rubs his neck, slowly grabbing the contract. He left the contract for the purpose of changing Noir's mind but... it seems that it was misinterpreted.

"So. I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Not likely." Maksim says quickly, glazing over the contract before his eyes settle on something that wasn't there before: a messily signed signature.

Noir's signature.

He pauses, then looks it over again. "He- You- how-" He's at a loss of words. Just a few moments ago, Noir was telling him to fuck off.

"I persuaded him." Laya says, rolling back onto her heels. "Don't overthink it."

Heat fills Maksim's chest, giving him warmth in the cold night. Thank god. He almost just lost his job. "May I ask how?" he finally asks, still in awe.

"It's a secret." She leans in close, just enough for him to catch a hint of perfume, then steps back. "See you tomorrow. "

She waves and disappears back into the building.

Maksim stands alone, still stunned.

A low laugh leaves his lips, head tilting back. "Well I'll be damned."