That is All I Ask For: Chapter 19: Before the Flag Falls

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The Zero Eclipse garage was eerily quiet.

No engines roared. No clanging tools. Just the low hum of electricity and the soft shuffle of footsteps as the team gathered around the main monitor.

The tournament bracket had just been released.

It gleamed on-screen like a battle map — sharp lines, bold names, and merciless pairings.

At the top right corner: Zero Eclipse vs. Talon Vortex.

The semifinals.

"Of course." Meredith muttered, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Daniel whistled low. "That's early. We were expecting them in the finals."

"They changed the bracket last minute." She said, jaw clenched. "Adam's hand is all over this."

Micah leaned forward, scanning the paths. "If we beat Talon, we go straight to finals."

"If." Dante echoed, tone darker than usual.

Micah shot him a glance but didn't press. The weight in Dante's voice wasn't about racing — it was about something else. Something heavier.

Daniel turned toward the table, reaching for the latest telemetry. "We'll need near-perfect sync between all drivers if we want a shot."

"That means full trust." Meredith added, her gaze flickering between Micah and Dante.

A silence fell.

Trust. A loaded word.

Dante stood outside the trailer as the others returned to their duties. He hadn't moved in five minutes.

Micah finally stepped beside him, coffee in hand. "You okay?"

"Just a lot." Dante said without looking. "Bracket. Strategy. Media. Everything."

Micah sipped his coffee. "You don't have to carry it alone."

Dante turned slowly, eyes sharp. "What if I've already broken under the weight?"

Micah froze.

"Adam called me again." Dante confessed.

Micah's body tensed, but his voice stayed even. "What did he want this time?"

"To remind me that Zero Eclipse will collapse if we lose. That I'll be to blame."

"He's lying."

"I know." Dante said quickly. "I just... needed to hear you say it."

Micah set his mug down. "Then let me make something clear: You're not a weight on this team. You're part of what lifts it."

The words landed softly, but they rooted deep.

Dante nodded, lips twitching with the smallest hint of a smile. "Thanks."

That afternoon, Rai stood beside the simulator, watching Daniel run laps with the new software.

Micah walked by and nodded. "Want a go?"

Rai blinked. "I'm not—"

"You're not on their team anymore." Micah interrupted, tone gentle but firm. "You're family now."

That word — family — almost broke Rai.

He looked away, jaw tight.

Dante came up behind them, watching quietly before he spoke. "What really happened with your old team?"

Rai hesitated, then swallowed hard. "They... used me. Said I was a stand-in, a tool. Once I started getting podium finishes, they replaced me. Paid me to shut up. I didn't."

Micah didn't speak — but Dante stepped forward.

"You deserve better."

Rai blinked up at him.

Dante smiled and extended a hand. "Then make it official. Join Zero Eclipse."

Rai stared.

Then shook his hand.

Everyone watching cheered.

Micah placed a quiet hand on Rai's shoulder. "Welcome home."

The day closed with rain tapping gently on the garage roof.

Dante stood at the edge of the pit, watching it fall, alone.

Meredith approached, holding her tablet like a shield. "You told him."

He nodded.

"I'm proud of you." She said, surprising him.

Dante turned. "Even if I told him too late?"

"You didn't." She said. "You're just scared. Same as he was. Same as we all were."

He looked down at the puddles. "Is it too late to be what this team needs?"

She stepped beside him. "It's never too late to fight for what you love."

The morning sky was slate gray as Zero Eclipse's drivers suited up. The pit lane buzzed — tire rotations, fuel tests, last-minute sensor calibrations. But there was a different kind of anticipation today.

Rai stepped into the garage wearing his new Zero Eclipse jacket — midnight black with a silver-stitched phoenix wrapping around the collar.

Daniel tossed him a helmet. "Ready to burn some rubber?"

Rai smirked. "Let's see what the phoenix can do."

The mock run began, not as a race, but as a dance — tight formations, corner synchronization, pit coordination drills. Rai held his own with elegant precision.

Micah observed from the side with Meredith. "He's fast." She noted.

"Fast, smart, and finally free." Micah said.

Dante passed Rai on lap three, flicking his headlights in a friendly tease. Rai responded with a perfect outside line and nudged ahead.

Laughter echoed over the comms.

For once, it wasn't about pressure or legacy. It was about racing. Pure and simple.

That afternoon, the team was scheduled for what was marketed as a "friendly tournament feature" with a major network. Meredith had warned them not to trust it — but they couldn't afford to back out.

The set was clean and modern. Three chairs. Two cameras. One script they hadn't seen.

Micah, Dante, and Meredith sat down.

The host smiled thinly. "Let's talk about Vex. Some say your team was built on shadows. Micah Blade, once a racer accused of match-fixing. Dante Shade, whose scandal nearly destroyed his father's empire. What makes Zero Eclipse any different from what it replaced?"

Micah's jaw clenched.

Meredith cut in. "Truth. That's what makes us different."

The host smiled wider. "Truth? Or silence? We've received footage that contradicts your recent statements—"

Micah leaned forward. "You mean the footage your network got from Adam Shade's media office? The footage that was digitally tampered with, as proven by a timestamp de-sync across frames?"

The host's smile faltered.

Micah tossed a USB on the table. "Here's the clean footage. I suggest you air it. Or we'll release it ourselves, and you can deal with the consequences."

Dante stared at Micah — not shocked. Awed.

The cameras were still rolling. The host blinked rapidly. "We... we'll review that. Perhaps we can—"

"Interview's over." Meredith said, rising.

And just like that, Zero Eclipse walked off the set.

Later, the garage was quiet.

The air was thick with exhaustion and something else—gratitude.

Dante walked over to Micah, who was sitting on the fender of his car, wiping grease off his gloves.

"You had that footage ready."

"I had a feeling." Micah said without looking up.

Dante sat beside him. "I don't know how to say thank you without sounding small."

"You don't have to say anything." Micah replied, finally turning to face him. "You believed me. That's more than I expected. More than I hoped for."

There was a pause, the kind filled with unsaid words and mutual understanding.

"After everything with Adam," Dante whispered, "I've been scared that I'm just... a pawn."

"You were." Micah said softly. "But you're not anymore. You chose this team. You chose us. That's what makes you dangerous to people like him."

Dante looked up, something lighting in his eyes. "You really think so?"

"I know so."

Dante nudged him with his shoulder. "Then let's prove it on the track."

Micah smiled. "With pleasure."

Night fell over the city, wrapping the track in silver mist. Meredith dragged the core team up to the rooftop for a breath of fresh air.

They sat on crates and coolers, legs dangling, drinking cold cola from glass bottles like they were kids again.

Daniel leaned back. "Feels like forever since we did nothing."

"It has been forever." Meredith said, voice warm but tired.

Rai sat cross-legged, looking at the stars. "You ever think we were supposed to find each other?"

Micah answered without hesitation. "No. I think we chose to."

Dante smiled faintly, then leaned closer to Micah, hand brushing his.

No one said anything.

No one needed to.

The morning after the rooftop moment, Meredith received a legal notice.

It was subtle — tucked into her email inbox between tire orders and logistics reports.

She read it twice.

Adam Shade was filing for rights to partial ownership of Zero Eclipse Racing's broadcasting streams—using an old clause buried in Dante's initial sponsorship years ago.

A trap. Long-planned.

"Classic Adam." She muttered, tossing the tablet down. "Doesn't attack the car, attacks the visibility."

Micah walked in and caught the storm in her expression.

"What did he do?"

She handed him the tablet.

Micah scanned it in silence.

Then looked up. "He wants to control the story we tell."

"He's trying to isolate you." Meredith said. "Split you from the media, from fans, from sponsors. If no one sees you, no one believes you."

Micah's jaw flexed. "Then we make them see us before he can."

That evening, while the others were working late in the garage, Rai found Micah alone by the test track, watching the sun dip below the skyline. He held his gloves — the old ones, worn and scuffed and stained with the ghosts of every underground race he ever survived.

"You're really going to wear those?" Rai asked.

Micah didn't look away from the horizon. "Yeah."

"Why now?"

Micah rolled the gloves in his hands. "Because for the first time in years, I'm not running from what I used to be. I'm building something with it."

Rai smiled, soft and sincere. "You're not the legend they warned us about."

"No?"

"You're the one we looked up to." Rai said. "And you still are."

Micah finally met his eyes.

And for once, there was no shield, no edge. Just gratitude.

Night fell fast, and the team gathered one last time before race day.

New tires lined up.

Telemetry loaded.

Suits pressed. Engines whispering readiness.

Micah walked into the prep tent, pulling on his gloves. The old ones. The room fell silent as they noticed.

Dante was the first to speak. "You sure?"

Micah grinned. "Never been more."

Rai elbowed Daniel. "We're about to see the full beast, huh?"

Daniel chuckled. "Hope the track survives."

Meredith snapped a picture of the four of them standing side by side.

"We're ready." She said. "No matter what they throw at us."

Later that night, after everyone had gone to rest, Micah sat alone in the garage, tuning his car by hand — a ritual he hadn't done in years.

Dante entered quietly and leaned against the wall, arms folded.

"I never said thank you." He said.

Micah didn't look up. "You don't need to."

"I want to."

Silence.

Then, Dante stepped forward, knelt down beside him.

"I thought I'd lost you for good." Dante said. "That night... when you walked away, I thought I'd burned the only thing that ever made me feel understood."

Micah's hands froze.

"You didn't lose me." Micah said softly. "You just stopped seeing me."

Dante reached out and gently touched the back of Micah's gloved hand.

"I see you now."

Micah turned.

Their eyes met — years of wounds, unspoken pain, and fragile hope suspended in the silence between them.

Dante leaned forward — and kissed him. Just a whisper of a touch, trembling and sure all at once.

When they pulled apart, Micah's voice was a breath.

"Are you ready?"

Dante nodded. "Only if you're beside me."

Micah's smile was quiet lightning. "Always."

The next morning, just before sunrise, Micah stood at the edge of the track.

Helmet in hand.

Old gloves on.

And for the first time in years, he didn't see a ghost in the mirror.

He saw a phoenix.

Not reborn — but rebuilt.

Ready.

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