That is All I Ask For: Chapter 23: Truth That was Once Buried in the Ashes, Out in Display

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The celebration was still echoing through the halls of the stadium when Micah slipped away.

Confetti fluttered through the air like snowflakes dipped in gold. Reporters buzzed in the pit lane. Fans cried and chanted in the stands, voices crashing like waves against the walls of the stadium. The scent of burnt rubber mingled with that of champagne, sharp and electric.

But Micah’s footsteps moved steadily away from it all. Past the garlands. Past the gleaming trophies. Past the flashbulbs and roaring chants of his name.

He didn’t want to be celebrated.

Not yet.

Not until the truth was free.

His boots echoed against the concrete floor as he stepped into a corridor hidden beneath the media wing—a service hallway few even knew existed. He passed the vending machines, emergency maintenance lockers, and a rusted door with no label.

He entered.

The small room was dim until the motion sensors clicked on, flickering pale white light into existence. Inside: a metal table, a battered fold-out chair, and a laptop already waiting for him. A single hard drive blinked steadily, connected and ready. Micah moved like a man who had rehearsed this a hundred times.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

Worn. Creased. The ink smudged from time.

He set it beside the laptop.

"Winning wasn’t the endgame. This is."

He spoke the words aloud, grounding himself in them.

The door creaked behind him.

He didn’t turn.

“I thought you’d be with the others.” Micah said quietly.

“I was.” Dante’s voice replied. There was no anger in it. Only the gentle rasp of someone who understood more than he wished he did. “Then I saw you leave.”

Micah stared at the screen. “This is what I’ve been working on. Every night after the others went to sleep. Every time I told you I needed air. This is why.”

Dante walked closer, eyes flickering over the contents on screen.

Emails. Audio clips. Surveillance stills. Medical reports. Contracts with blacked-out clauses. Video thumbnails, some labeled by date, others with names.

Adam’s name was everywhere.

Micah tapped the hard drive. “It’s all of it. Everything Adam’s done. From Julian… to Rai. The sabotage. The crashes. The media manipulation. Even the pressure he put on you. He never stopped pulling strings.”

Dante’s jaw tightened. He said nothing. Just listened.

“I didn’t want to hide this from you.” Micah added. “But I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it. He raised you. Maybe not kindly. But he was still… part of your life.”

The ache behind the words wasn’t pity. It was respect.

Micah wasn’t asking for permission.

He was asking if he’d lose Dante in the process.

“You’re asking if I’m okay with you exposing him?” Dante finally said.

Micah nodded.

The hum of the laptop was the only sound in the room for several moments.

Then Dante stepped forward.

“You’re not doing this for revenge.” He said. “You’re doing it so no one else ends up like Julian. Or you. Or me.”

Micah’s voice cracked ever so slightly. “I just didn’t want to cross a line that meant losing you.”

Dante shook his head, eyes burning but unwavering.

“You won’t.” He said. Then, softer: “You never could.”

Micah looked up, and the walls he had built around himself began to fall.

Just a little.

Just enough.

“Then let’s do this.” He said.

Together, they turned toward the laptop.

Dante’s hand hovered near Micah’s on the keyboard.

Julian’s name flickered on a report.

An encrypted recording opened—Adam’s voice, cold and clinical:

“If Blade gets too close, break the team apart. Start with the weakest link.”

There were photos of Rai’s brother’s crash report—clearly labeled as deliberate brake failure during a junior heat Adam once denied even knowing about.

There was footage—grainy but real—of Vex shouting at Adam in a hallway, yelling about “not being part of this blood game.”

There were contract copies—one marked with Julian’s forged signature on an unauthorized race entry, dated two days before his fatal accident.

And then, there was Julian’s voice.

“Micah… if anything happens, it’s not on you. It’s him. It’s always been him.”

Micah pressed a hand over the folded paper on the table.

Julian’s last note.

The press conference room was packed wall-to-wall.

Media lights shone like judgment from above. Journalists filled every chair, some crouched in the aisles. The backdrop behind the podium gleamed:

Zero Eclipse — Champions of the Circuit

Rai sat with a healing bruise on his jaw, but he looked taller than ever. Daniel bounced his leg nervously, stealing glances toward Micah. Meredith stood poised, a quiet storm ready to strike.

Micah stood off to the side, behind the podium. He didn't fidget. He didn’t blink.

He waited.

And then Adam walked in.

Flanked by two publicists, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit that fit like arrogance. The crowd hushed the way prey goes still when a predator enters.

“Congratulations.” He said, voice smooth. “To all of you. What a beautiful, emotional story you’ve written.”

Micah stepped forward.

“You’re right.” He said. “It is a story. But it’s time the world hears the real one.”

Adam’s smile faltered.

Micah plugged the laptop into the media projector.

The lights dimmed. The screen behind the team flickered. And then—

Chaos.

Footage. Emails. Audio. Images.

Adam’s voice. Adam’s threats. Adam’s cold instructions.

One reporter gasped. Another dropped their notepad.

The whispers turned to ripples. The ripples turned into a roar.

Julian’s message played last.

“If anything happens, it’s not on you. It’s him. It’s always been him.”

Silence fell like an earthquake.

Adam’s face drained of color.

“No comment.” He said, then louder, “This is—this is doctored. This is manipulation—”

“It’s real.” Dante said, standing at the center of the table now. “Every bit of it.”

Adam turned to him, mask cracking. “You can’t prove intent—”

“You did that yourself.” Meredith said. “We just gave the world a mic.”

Reporters stood, shouting questions. Cameras zoomed in. Someone was already streaming it live.

A security official approached Adam, one hand already near his badge.

“Sir.” He said. “We need to escort you out.”

Adam turned on Micah, fury replacing all pretense.

“This isn’t over.” He hissed. “You think they’ll let you keep this team after what you’ve done?!”

Micah stepped closer, voice calm and unshaken.

“No.” He said. “They’ll let us keep it because of what we’ve survived.”

“You’ll burn!” Adam snapped. “All of you!”

Dante met his gaze.

“What we rebuild,” He said, voice low and steady, “they can’t burn.”

Adam lunged forward, but the guards pulled him back. The crowd parted as they dragged him out. The doors slammed shut behind him.

And for the first time, the silence wasn’t terrifying.

It was freeing.

Outside the conference room, the stadium lights still glittered in the night. A hundred stories being written. A thousand memories made.

Rai caught up to Micah in the hallway.

“You planned all of this?” He asked.

Micah gave a small nod. “Since the moment he came back.”

Rai looked at him for a long second. Then he smiled.

“Good.”

He bumped shoulders with Micah gently and walked ahead, light on his feet despite the bruises.

Further down, Dante stood alone.

His wristband caught the hallway light, golden edges glowing against his skin.

He didn’t speak as Micah approached.

He just held out his hand.

Micah took it.

Their fingers intertwined like old promises renewed.

There were no words.

None needed.

Just the calm after the storm.

The team gathered on the viewing deck later that night.

No reporters. No fans. Just stars and engines cooling in the dark.

Daniel lay on the grass, tossing popcorn into his mouth. Meredith leaned against the railing, watching the wind ripple the banners still fluttering high above.

Rai leaned on the hood of his car beside Dante.

Micah sat slightly apart from them all, gaze turned toward the horizon. His expression unreadable—but not cold.

Just... quiet.

“I didn’t think we’d ever get here.” Meredith said.

Daniel grinned. “We didn’t. Micah dragged us here with spite and spreadsheets.”

Laughter followed, soft and warm.

Then Dante turned toward Micah.

His voice was low. Careful.

“What now?”

Micah didn’t answer immediately. He looked up at the stars. Then back at them.

“We race.” He said. “But this time, we race forward.”

The banner above the stadium caught the last breath of wind before dawn:

Zero Eclipse — Champions of the Circuit.

But what they had won that night was more than a title.

It was freedom.

It was justice.

It was their story—rewritten, reclaimed, and finally, truly theirs.

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