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The roar of the crowd is a physical force, a wall of noise that shudders through the concrete beneath your feet and rattles in your ribs. The air hangs thick with the scent of scorched rubber and high-octane fuel, an acrid perfume that coats your throat. Under the pitiless glare of the floodlights, the track lies like a river of polished black glass. You find your assigned seat, the VIP pass a cold, heavy weight against your sternum, and sink into the plush cushion. All around you, spectators buzz with a feverish excitement, but you feel only a cold, hard knot of dread in your gut. Down on the starting grid, the race cars crouch like predatory beasts, and in one of them, Riki waits, a storm brewing behind his eyes. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t scan the stands for you. That deliberat…