Page 36 of Knot So Lucky
The lobby loads, and suddenly I'm staring at a virtual garage space populated by avatars representing the other racers. The interface shows a leaderboard on the left side of the screen, displaying usernames and their associated teams.
ThorneCrown- Thorne Racing
VelocityKing- Vector Dynamics
ApexPredator_23- Crimson Motors
ShadowRider- Dark Horse Racing
NitroNova- Phoenix Squadron
TurboTitan- Titan Motorsports
GhostShift88- Apex Racing (that's me)
Seven racers total. All from established teams.
All probably experienced in virtual competition.
And I'm the last one to arrive, apparently.
The rides are already displayed—each racer has selected their vehicle from the available options. I quickly scan the specs showing on screen, noting the choices. Everyone's gone for the obvious picks: high downforce setups, maximum acceleration curves, the kind of configurations that work well on paper but don't account for track-specific variables.
Amateurs.
I pull up my own vehicle selection interface and immediately start modifying. The default setup is garbage—clearly configured by someone who doesn't understand the physics engine's quirks. Too much rear wing angle, not enough front brake bias, gear ratios that are optimized for straight-line speed when this track (judging by the thumbnail preview) is all about technical corners and late braking zones.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, making adjustments with the kind of muscle memory that comes from years of doing this. Suspension geometry, differential settings, tire pressure compounds. Each change calculated to extract maximum performance from the simulation's parameters.
Thirty seconds.
I fine-tune the final settings—adding a touch more oversteer into the setup because I've always preferred a loose rear end that lets me rotate the car through tight corners—and confirm my selections.
My car materializes in the virtual garage, a sleek prototype in the team's colors. It's beautiful in that purely functional way that racing machines are, all aggressive angles and aerodynamic efficiency.
I'm the last car to line up on the starting grid, my virtual avatar settling into position as the track loads around us.
It's a street circuit—Monaco, maybe, or something inspired by it. Narrow, unforgiving, with barriers that punish even minor mistakes. The kind of track that separates drivers who can actually handle pressure from those who just look good in a straight line.
The voice chat erupts before the countdown even starts.
"Look who finally showed up." Male voice, probably mid-twenties, dripping with condescension.ThorneCrownbased on the indicator.
"Better late than never, I guess," another voice adds.VelocityKing, this one younger, more uncertain.
"He's gonna lose anyway,"ApexPredator_23drawls, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Last to arrive, first to crash out."
More laughter through the voice channel, the kind of casual cruelty that passes for camaraderie in competitive spaces.
I don't respond.
Don't key my mic or type in chat or acknowledge their existence in any way.
Because the moment I speak, I'll have to decide whether to use my carefully practiced male voice—the one I maintain for fourteen hours a day at work, the one that makes my throat ache and my jaw tight—or my real voice, which would immediately identify me as female in a space that definitely won't react well to that revelation.
And let’s be real, I'm not maintaining my male persona for a fucking video game.
Not in my own home, naked in my gaming chair at seven in the morning, still smelling like sex and satisfaction. Not when I don't have to. Not when this is supposed to be fun instead of another performance I have to maintain.
