Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

End of shift. Iron dust in his lungs, ringing in his ears, and the world above — entirely different.

The whistle sounded like a blow — harsh, abrupt, dull. It yanked Hank out of the earth's depths like a hook, without warning, leaving behind an emptiness that even air couldn't fill.  He stood with his palms braced on his knees, breathing hard. The hot, rusty, dry air burned his throat. Dust settled slowly on his shoulders, in his hair, crept into the collar of his shirt, into the skin beneath his nails. His fingers were nothing but scrapes upon scrapes. His wrists throbbed.

The mine had been especially hot that day — as if the earth itself was angry, resisting, refusing to give up its veins. The iron ore felt sticky, stubborn, heavier than usual. The stone wouldn't yield, the crowbar wouldn't obey. Whispers, scraping, shouting, and somewhere — a muffled crack, dangerously close to the start of a collapse.

But Hank said nothing. As always. He worked tight, precise, economical in movements and words. He was the one they could rely on. Even in a damned cave-in. It was him who pulled the buried man out first, then helped shore up the passage, then — in silence.

He was nineteen. His hands — sinewy, exhausted. He didn't even feel it anymore. Or maybe he was just used to it.

In the locker room — the smell of sweat, soap, wet clothes. And the inevitable tobacco. Hank stripped off his coveralls, tossed them onto the bench. The water in the tap was murky, almost warm. He rinsed his face, the back of his neck, his shoulders. Too quickly. Fresh bruises bloomed across his chest, one near the collarbone especially sharp, but he didn't even glance at it. He pulled on a clean T-shirt and zipped his jacket.

At the exit he shook hands with Joe, an old miner who had once known his father, and gave a nod to the others. Words were unnecessary.

On the surface his younger brother Philip was already waiting.

"What took you so long?" Philip's voice carried complaint, as if he had been standing there not ten minutes but the whole day.

"Finishing my shift," Hank wiped his hands on his pants. "Want to try it yourself?"

"Mom won't let me," Philip answered proudly. "I've got school, anyway. I'm smart."

Hank only smirked. He wasn't angry with his brother. Not exactly. Just… tired of him.

Philip was twelve. Clever, quick, sharp-tongued, always finding a way out. Their mother loved him to blindness. And Hank, at his age, had already been sent down into the mine — out of necessity. Or maybe just to keep him out of the way. But Philip wasn't even allowed to stick his nose inside.

But he's smart, Hank thought. That means maybe he can get out of here.

They walked home — through dusty streets, past sagging houses, across a vacant lot overgrown with burdock and rusted swings. Evening. The air smelled of dust and machine oil.

They crossed the vacant lot with the rusty swings, at the lot Philip hopped onto a swing as they passed, rocked once, then jumped off mid-arc. Hank walked beside him. Silent.

At the house, their mother was waiting on the porch, arms crossed. The crease between her brows hadn't left in years. Her eyes were tired, but sharp.

"Covered in dust again. Couldn't even wash before coming home? And where have you dragged this poor child?"

"I came myself," Philip interrupted. "And Hank works, Mom. Hard. Just like Dad."

Their mother went rigid. The word Dad was a wound that never healed. Her lips pressed tight, she turned away and went inside to the kitchen.

Dinner — bread, a little beans, tea. Hank ate on autopilot, silent. Mother muttered. Philip toyed with his fork.

"Everything rests on you, and you just spend it all on that hunk of metal," their mother said, not looking at him. "Time you grew up instead of nursing that car, as if it could replace a life."

"Go on, tell me to get married too," Hank muttered, without even looking up.

"Exactly. A car isn't even a person."

"I'm not for people, — he said suddenly, quietly but hard.

Mother froze. Philip stared.

Hank pushed away from the table. His fingers clenched. Jacket over his shoulder. He walked out. She shouted after him — about duty, family, life, responsibility, about how he would never be a real man. But he didn't listen.

Outside, night had already fallen. The air had cooled, but it still carried the same dust and exhaust. Hank walked toward the only thing in town that yielded to effort. The only thing that responded. That came alive beneath his hands.

He wiped his palms, shoved them into his pockets. Looked up at the sky. Starless.

And he thought: what if there really was a way out? Not for them, not for his brother, not for her. Just to get out.

The Garage. Silence. His world.

He walked around the house, past the peeling fence where grapes had once grown, past the old tree whose branches were now thin as fingers. In the backyard stood a shed with a rusted iron roof. The doors creaked as he opened them, but in that sound there was something familiar.

The cold smell of metal, dust, old oil, and gasoline hit his face like a greeting. He drew it in with a full breath. Inseparable, known.

Inside, it was half-dark. Light seeped through the cracks in the boards. He found the flashlight and clicked it on. The beam picked out the angular outlines beneath the tarp — his car.

The car was a hybrid. A Frankenstein stitched together from models of the seventies. Something from a Chevy, something from a Ford. Rust was patched over with paint in places, stripped bare in others. No shine, no polish.

But under the hood — it was a different matter. There was heart. His work. His pride.

The engine was the heart. He had built it himself. Some parts came from his father — the carburetor, the tools. Some he had found at junk dealers. Some he had bought. Some he had traded for — sometimes for pennies, sometimes for silence. Sometimes he had simply taken. But no one would ever know about that.

He tugged the tarp, pulling it off with slight effort. Dust rose into the air, and in that cloud there was a sense of ceremony.

He ran his hand over the hood. The metal was cold. Rough. Alive.

He did not hurry. Every step here was a ritual. He checked, inspected. Everything was as it had been yesterday. The day before yesterday. Always. But today — it was not the same.

Today.

The ring of keys jingled in his hand.

He sat behind the wheel. The seat came from another car, but it had been fitted exactly for him. The steering wheel was slightly rough. On the dashboard there was a faded sticker with stripes. He had never removed it. There had been something childlike in it. There still was.

He had dreamed of this since the moment he first sat behind the wheel of his father's pickup — he had been ten. Since then — only the mine and the car. Nothing else.

Today he would drive. He knew where and when. And he knew against whom.

A smile slowly spread across his face. His eyes were tired, his hands throbbed from labor. But inside — there was a spark, excitement. Almost like in childhood.

He locked the garage from the inside. Click — the lock.

The engine would breathe soon.

No, the car was not a human being. But perhaps it was the only one that would not betray him, the only one that demanded nothing of him.

Night. The old industrial district. Headlights cut across the asphalt like neon scars. Everything shimmered. Everything felt foreign.

Huge concrete buildings, black silhouettes of workshops, abandoned warehouses with shattered windows. The asphalt beneath his feet was cracked, stained with oil, with torn scraps of road markings scattered here and there.

And above it all — the light of headlights. Like neon scars slashing the dark. Bursts of xenon, the cold gleam of LEDs, reflections on wet concrete. Everything flickered. Everything was alien.

Hank stopped at the edge, where the darkness ended and this scene from another world began. His heart pounded, loud and steady, like an engine that had started and was waiting to be unleashed.

He cut the engine. Switched off the lights.

Inside, everything hummed. Not from fear. From... a tense anticipation. He knew why he had come. And he wasn't leaving.

He opened the door, climbed out, the slam of metal echoing in his chest. He leaned against the fender, breathed in the smell of exhaust, dust, burned rubber.

And he saw them.

A whole world he had never belonged to.

Glossy, predatory, expensive. Rows of cars lined up like exhibits in a gallery.

Bright machines — gleaming, lacquered, low, aggressive. One had a body like molten metal, like a shard of lightning. Another had chrome inserts and airbrushed graphics that hurt the eyes. One was smooth as mercury, its headlights narrowed like squinting eyes. European cars he had only seen in pictures. There was even a "classic" — an old Impala, black lacquer gleaming, polished down to the last bolt.

Standing apart was a black car — something between a Mustang and the Batmobile. Strange, almost unreal.

Around them was a crowd. Guys in branded clothes, girls in leather jackets, glossy lips, hair and nails in perfect shapes and colors. Everything expensive, shiny, reeking of speed and money.

Laughter. Music. Bass thumped from speakers hidden in trunks. Someone drank from a metal flask. Someone filmed it all on their phone.

Hank felt their eyes — mocking, curious. Piercing, slippery. A laugh here, a whisper there. Someone pointed at his car. Someone took a picture.

He was still scanning the scene when a guy in a baseball cap came up, skinny, smirking.

— Yours? — he nodded toward the car.

— I'm standing right next to it, — Hank answered dryly.

The guy snorted, but held out his hand.

— Mickey.

Hank gripped it firmly.

— Hank.

Mickey gave the car a squint, studied it.

— Your engine sounded interesting. Why'd you come here?

Hank looked him straight in the eye.

— I want to race.

Mickey tilted his head, then suddenly yelled:

— Hey, Jim!

The hum of the crowd softened, as if everyone turned.

From the center came a giant — tall, broad-shouldered, pale-haired, his scalp already glinting under the lights. Thick fingers, a chain around his neck. He walked like the owner of the lot, every step met with laughter and shouts.

— Got someone here who wants a race with you, — Mickey said loudly, pointing at Hank.

The crowd roared. Someone whistled, someone snapped a picture.

Jim walked up, glanced at the car.

— In that? — he drawled, and laughter rolled again.

— Go on then, show us what's under the hood.

Hank opened it without a word. Metal creaked, the guts of the engine gleamed, hot and oily. A few leaned in, then quickly pulled back — clearly they didn't know what they were looking at, though they pretended they did.

— Ha, yeah… just iron, nothing special, — Jim smirked, and the crowd echoed him — jeers, applause.

— You know the stakes? — Jim asked, looking Hank down like testing if he would flinch.

Hank knew. It was simple here: the winner took the loser's car. Not money. The car.

The crowd went still for half a second, waiting for his answer. The laughter faded, someone even gave a short, heavy whistle — like, was he serious?

— My car's the stake, — Hank said calmly, snapping the hood shut.

Noise erupted again: laughter, shouts, someone yelled "he's crazy!", someone else — "that junker isn't even worth keeping."

Jim grinned wide, slapped his thigh.

— Now that's what I'm talking about! — he turned to the crowd. — You hear that? He's putting his pile of scrap against my beauty.

From behind him, a sleek machine rolled forward — a dark-blue beast with flawless lines, straight off a magazine cover. The crowd shrieked.

— Hope you won't mind walking home after, — Jim laughed, and the crowd joined him.

But Hank only stepped closer, eyes steady, no smile.

— I've said mine. All that's left is to drive.

— Fine by me. Let's go, — Jim said, stomping back to his car.

And the laughter turned into a roar again. Music blasted louder, the air thickened with anticipation.

Eyes stayed on him. Curious. What kind of creature had wandered into their cage.

He stood, and felt it: everything would be decided now. Not in words. On the road.

At that moment, a figure stepped out of the crowd. Compared to the others, almost unremarkable. Dark hair, black jacket. But his eyes — too bright. A faint smile, a sharp gaze.

— These guys don't play fair, — he said quietly. — They don't know how to lose. Especially one of them — Jim. He's the son of the man who owns this whole town. He always wins. Even when he doesn't.

Hank nodded.

— Thanks. But I'll race anyway.

The guy didn't argue. Just nodded back, and melted into the crowd.

Asphalt. Headlights. The roar of engines. The start.

On your marks.

Hank gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. It felt as if his fingers were about to pierce the synthetic leather of the rim. Under his hands he felt the engine trembling, pulsing like a heartbeat. In a second it would become part of his body. Ahead — the starting line, two rivals: Jim and the guy in the purple car. First row. He was in the second. But that didn't matter.

Get set.

A bead of sweat rolled slowly down his temple, tickling as it clung to his chin. Somewhere nearby doors slammed, music thundered, the crowd buzzed and laughed. A girl in short shorts and heels raised her arm. In her fingers — a white bandana. Her silhouette was lit by the headlights like on a stage. He heard only the engine.

Go!

The bandana dropped. The world exploded.

The race began.

A roar, a wail, a screech — as if the night had ripped open and begun speaking in every voice at once. Tires squealed, smoke burst from the rubber. Hank slammed the gas, the engine howled, pressing him into the seat. He felt his heart beating in rhythm with the motor.

The first turn — sharp, almost ninety degrees. That moment decided everything. The car slid sideways, and Hank, teeth clenched, caught it, as if holding a beast by the throat. Tires screamed, the asphalt breathed heat, and he held the line perfectly, drifting as if he had been born for it.

The second — long, smooth, to the left. He shifted gears, movement precise, exactly how he loved it. Left foot — brake, right foot — gas, everything instant, without thought. The car obeyed. Its metal answered every touch, every command. It wasn't just a car. It was him.

Headlights snatched gray walls of abandoned buildings out of the dark, sparse trees, concrete hulks. A rusted railway bridge flashed by, and then they plunged into a corridor between concrete walls. A narrow corridor where most slowed down, but not him. He rode the edge. He had no right to caution. He had nothing but this car.

They tore past a long-dead motor plant and the railway leading to it, also abandoned. A concrete giant that once, long before his birth, had produced train engines — his father had told him that. But for Hank it was only ruins, a skeleton of the past. The bulk of the plant stretched on endlessly, but Hank barely noticed. They circled around and were already rushing back.

He had cleared the first two-thirds of the track and broke ahead. Behind him came the guy in the purple car, who had taken the lead at the start. Third was Jim — trailing.

He shifted gears, feeling every vibration pass through his palms. A traffic light blinking yellow flickered out of the dark, reflecting in the windshield. Hank blinked but didn't ease up. His feet worked on their own. Gas. Brake. Clutch. Turn. Drift, and back to straight.

He stayed first almost the entire race. Behind him Jim and the purple car traded places.

Hank pressed harder on the wheel, feeling every shiver of metal beneath his fingers. The car obeyed him like a tamed beast.

And then — that turn again. Dangerous. Blind. A sharp corner with poor light and potholes in the asphalt. He knew it, had studied it. He calculated the line in advance, entered just a bit earlier, and the nose of the car slid smoothly into the curve. Ahead lay a stretch of road almost straight. And then he saw it in the mirror.

The purple car loomed close behind. Hank had already noticed him in the rearview. The guy was on his tail, but this time too close. Too reckless.

The hit came suddenly, from the side, under the rear wheel. The car jolted, the roar turned into a scream. Headlights scattered across the glass, the asphalt tilted, and everything filled with the screech of metal and the shriek of rubber.

Hank was thrown sideways. He yanked the wheel, tried to recover — too late. The car clipped the barrier, sparks sprayed like a fountain. The metal wailed, alive.

A crash. Darkness. Dust and debris in the beam of headlights.

The world flipped.

Landing — a brutal slam into his spine, his chest crushed by the seatbelt. Air burst from his lungs. The car crashed onto the roadside, rolled, and came to rest, the engine rasping like a beast after a fight.

The car froze.

Silence. So loud it rang in his ears. Only his heart kept pounding. Fast, in his throat, in his temples.

Hank shoved at the door, forced it open with effort, and crawled out. The ground swayed beneath him. His hands shook, the taste of blood and dust filled his mouth. The crowd erupted — some screamed, some cheered, flashes lit everything up. For them it was a show. For him — a wreck.

He watched Jim drive toward the finish, as if he had really won.

Hank stood by the roadside. For a moment it felt as if his heart had been ripped out. His car — his machine — lay mangled on the shoulder. Months of work, sleepless nights, his rage, his strength, his dream. And now all of it in one heap of twisted, sparking metal — gone in a single night, in a single second.

He stared, and inside there was nothing. And pain.

And still… Still what, he didn't know. But giving up — that wasn't him.

Chapter Text

The mine. Heat, dust, the thud of pickaxes. The garage. Emptiness, silence. And a stranger who was not such a stranger.

The next morning was no different. No drama. No collapsing to his knees, no cries, no complaints about injustice.

He had simply come home that night. On foot. Through the bushes, along the roadside, in the shadows. He had heard the sirens — the police always came late. And they always caught the ones in plain sight, the ones who failed to disappear into the dark.

Hank knew the rules. He had slipped into an alley, pressed against a wall, waited. The patrol car had glided past, headlights sliding over bricks before fading. He had exhaled. And gone on.

At home it seemed no one had noticed either his absence or his return. He was glad of it, and simply collapsed into sleep.

And in the morning he had been where he always was. At the mine. Down again — into the narrow, rattling elevator with walls that smelled of iron and dust. Again that smell of iron and damp earth that clung to the skin. Again the weight beneath his feet and above his head, the hum of machines, the clang of carts, the heavy rhythm of pickaxes.

His body worked on its own — automatic. His hands knew what to do, muscles strained, moved, clenched. He did not think. He did not allow himself to think. Not about the night, not about the headlights that had turned the world upside down, not about how his car was perhaps already stripped to the bolts in some stranger's garage, destined to become a shiny toy for someone else's race.

He had not been angry. Anger would have been weakness, and he did not allow himself weakness. He simply worked. Because if he stopped — everything would collapse. And he could not let that happen.

In the evening he had returned home. His mother had said something from the kitchen — about groceries, about bills, about food. Her voice had droned on like a radio, without pause. Philip had rushed about the house, slamming doors, laughing. Hank had not listened.

He had walked past, opened the garage door.

And for the first time — it had been empty.

The space that had always lived — with the clink of tools, the oily smell, the heavy breathing of the engine even in silence — had now turned dead. Empty, bare, lifeless. The hollow void struck harder than last night's crash.

Hank sat by the wall. Stared at the rows of hooks where tools hung. At the jar of bolts, each one important. At the workbench, stained with old patches of oil. Everything around him — his hands, his time, his life. And now all of it reminded him of what was gone. Everything cut.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. Now he was angry. At himself — for his trust. At them — for their treachery. At how easily they had taken everything.

"Your mistake was thinking you could play fair with them," said a voice.

Hank turned sharply. In the doorway stood a young man. The same one — with bright blue eyes like current. And dark, slightly curly hair falling carelessly across his forehead, as if he had never cared about appearances and still looked flawless.

"It's you…" Hank recognized him instantly.

"Francisco," the guy stepped closer. "Francisco d'Ancona."

He spoke softly, but there was mockery ringing in his tone. Not cruel — more weary, as though he had long been used to no one listening.

"Of those d'Anconias?" Hank narrowed his eyes.

"Exactly. Copper mines, money, ridiculous last name. You know the rest."

Francisco looked around the garage. Tapped his fingers against the empty workbench, lingered for a moment at the wall.

"Empty," he said quietly. "But this is not the end."

Hank said nothing. He felt distrust in every cell. He waited for the catch.

Francisco sat down beside him, so close Hank caught his scent — faint, bitter, unfamiliar.

"I saw you drive. You were good. In that old wreck. With no support. Not even the slightest chance. And still you almost won."

He smiled faintly, but there was no joy in the smile.

"And them… they only know how to win dirty. Especially Jim."

Hank turned away. His cheeks burned — shame, anger, humiliation. All at once.

"I can help you get your car back. And teach Jim a lesson. Are you ready?"

"With what?" it tore out of Hank. "I have nothing. No car. No money. Everything I had… is gone."

Francisco rose lightly to his feet. A smile crossed his face — warm and dangerous at once.

He pulled keys from his pocket. The metal caught the light.

"Not everything," he said. "Take mine."

Hank froze. He did not understand.

Francisco nodded toward the street. In his eyes a spark flickered — excitement, challenge, something else Hank could not name.

"Come on."

The car. That very one — the insane child of a Mustang and the Batmobile. Black as a moonless night. Its glossy body caught the light of the streetlamp and swallowed it whole. The lines were smooth, swift, as though every curve had been drawn for speed alone. Chrome gleamed, sharp as a knife's edge.

It carried aggression. Wrongness. Perfection.

Hank approached slowly, as if toward something sacred. His heart pounded loud in his chest. He reached out and touched the hood. The metal was cool, smooth, like the skin of a predator. His fingers trembled.

"You looked at her like that yesterday," Francisco said with a smirk, leaning against the streetlamp. His voice was light, almost mocking, but his eyes were watchful, alive.

Hank opened the door. The hinges slid soundlessly. The cabin lit up in red — deep, saturated, like blood, like wine, like a sin. The contrast with the black body was sharp, defiant, almost vulgar. And for that reason — beautiful.

"You're joking?" he asked hoarsely, staring at the red glow inside.

"Never," Francisco replied. He was already in the passenger seat, effortlessly, as though it had always been his place. "I haven't raced her in a long time. But you can. If you want."

Hank lowered himself behind the wheel. The leather wrapped soft around his palms, dense, tight. Beneath his fingers he felt cold metal. His legs shook, muscles charged with current. His heart beat in his temples like an engine.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked, eyes fixed on the dashboard.

Francisco did not smirk. He looked seriously, straight, with a gaze that burned through.

"Because I know what it feels like — when everything is taken from you." He paused, and that pause carried too much. "And because…" the corners of his lips stirred, a faint smile, dangerous in its hint. "…I am curious what else you're ready for, Hank Rearden."

Hank gripped the wheel. The air in the cabin was thick, heavy. Everything felt unreal, and too real at the same time.

And suddenly he understood: almost anything.

They drove through the night district, past the junkyard, through old warehouses. Hank felt every bump vibrate through the wheel, but the car held steady — as if it carved its own path.

Francisco sat relaxed, calmly chewing gum.

"Right turn… Then through the gates."

They rolled into a yard. An old brick building overgrown with ivy and graffiti. Metal gates. A crooked sign: SERVICE. From inside came light, music, and the smell of metal, oil… and food?

Hank killed the engine. He got out. Francisco clicked the fob, and the black beauty blinked its headlights.

"Welcome to the lair."

Inside, the garage was full of chaos and life. On one table sat a cluster of clearly empty cans, and for some reason a pot. Nearby lay a pizza box. At another table, someone was soldering microcircuits, headphones on, utterly focused. Next to him, a guy sprawled on a chair with his legs on the table slept with his mouth open.

Francisco walked up and knocked his legs off the table.

"Wake up, pretty boy. We've got company."

"Go to hell," the guy muttered, cracking one eye open.

Blue eyes. Black shirt with a half-torn sleeve. An earring. Hair in a mess. He yawned, stretched, and glanced at Hank.

Hank recognized him instantly.

"Ragnar Danneskjöld."

The guy laughed.

"What am I, some kind of celebrity?"

"My mother hates you. Says you're a disgrace to the city. A preacher's son, thief, womanizer, brawler. She says you'll burn in hell faster than your old man can cross himself."

"Cool lady. I should meet her," Ragnar smirked.

The soldering iron went silent. The second guy took off his headphones, stood up, and came over. Tall, lean, glasses, face calm as a blank screen.

"This is John. Around here he's basically the brain. Or at least the processor," Francisco introduced.

"John Galt," the man said quietly. "You drove well. Very well."

Hank looked at them. They were so different, yet somehow a single whole — chaos, order, mischief.

"And you… you're all on the same side?"

"On the side of everyone those bastards threw overboard," Ragnar answered through a mouthful of pizza. "But right now — on yours."

"You want to help me?"

Francisco perched on the edge of a workbench, swinging one leg.

"We want to beat Jim. To show him the world doesn't belong only to him. You can do it. You almost did already. And we'll give you everything you need. A car. A track. A plan."

Hank frowned.

"And what do you want from me?"

John looked at him as if he could read his entire soul in one glance.

"For now — nothing. Later… you'll understand for yourself whose side you're on."

Ragnar tossed him a can of soda.

"Relax. We've got food. Tools. People who know what they're doing. No need to sell your soul just yet."

Francisco leaned closer, locking eyes with him.

"But if you decide you don't just want your car back — if you want to wipe that smirk off Jim Taggart's face — you know where to find us."

Hank sat down. Hot pizza. Cold soda. And three strangers who suddenly felt like his own.

He liked it here. Too much.

The pizza was greasy, smelled of melted cheese, and sat on the table between motor oil, tools, and printed suspension diagrams. Hank ate, listening, watching.

Ragnar told stories, interrupting himself, waving his hands, laughing, teasing John, then reaching over to tug Francisco's hair.

"You know this peacock almost stole a cop car in his first year of college?" Ragnar said, jabbing a finger at Francisco.

"I just wanted to see how it was built," Francisco shrugged. "And you, by the way, were drinking gasoline out of a bottle and calling cops to a fight club behind the warehouse."

John smiled faintly, chewing a crust, nodding only when the joke was truly worth it. He barely spoke, but Hank sensed — he was always watching. He understood everything. And at any moment, with a single word, he could either crush you or save you.

Hank looked around the garage. Everything was real. Oil stains on the floor. Dust. Torn rags. Real machines. They weren't toys. They were working beasts. Like his old car. Like himself.

Francisco sat across from him, their eyes meeting now and then, and each time Hank felt as if Francisco could see straight through him. Bright eyes. Dazzlingly bright. Hank's were blue too, but pale, almost gray. These burned.

And then the door opened. She walked in.

Dagny. He heard them call her that.

He knew her at once — she had stood at the finish line of that race. Dark pilot-style jacket, hair tucked under a red bandanna. But she was beautiful. In her movement, in her voice, in the way she scanned the room and spotted him immediately.

"So this is our newcomer," she said, stepping closer. "I saw you drive. Shame how it ended."

"Thanks," Hank muttered, suddenly shy. He wasn't used to girls like her. He wasn't used to them looking at him at all.

Ragnar kissed her cheek. John nodded. Francisco flashed her a wide smile, a little longer than he should have. She dropped into a chair, grabbed a slice of pizza as if she belonged there.

"And what, he's with us now?" she asked.

"Not yet," Francisco answered. "But I'm working on it."

Hank sat, ate, stayed quiet, and felt not just inside. But in place.

Hank couldn't remember the last time he had felt so light.

As if something heavy inside him had vanished, dissolved into the laughter and noise. As if a window had opened within him, letting the air rush in so he could finally breathe deep.

When he noticed the clock, it was already close to midnight.

"I have to get up early," he said, rising. His voice sounded a little hoarse. "Thanks for… everything."

"I'll drive you," Francisco didn't give him a chance to argue. He was already standing, clapping Hank on the shoulder. "Let's go."

They drove in silence. In the background played a low, muffled bass line — like a heartbeat, but calm. The dashboard cast Francisco's face in a soft glow. A steady profile, a faint tension in his cheekbones, hands on the wheel — smooth, precise, as if he wasn't holding a machine but playing some kind of instrument.

Hank nearly drifted off. The car's cabin was warm, the air smelled of tobacco and something sharp, unfamiliar. The car glided so gently it felt as though it wasn't on asphalt but clouds. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to relax.

When they arrived, he felt a light touch on his knee.

"Hey. We're here, Schumacher."

"Huh? Yeah…" Hank exhaled sharply, opened his eyes, rubbed his face with his palm.

The cold hit him at once as soon as he opened the door. The damp night air smelled of garbage and wet asphalt. After the warmth of the car, it felt like a blow to the chest.

"Thanks," he muttered as he climbed out.

Francisco raised an eyebrow, half-smiling.
"You fit in pretty well."

"They… you…" Hank hesitated. "You all seem… normal."

"Just don't tell Ragnar that," Francisco smirked.

Hank shut the door. The car slid away smoothly and disappeared around the corner, as if it had never been there.

A lamp glowed on the porch. The kitchen light was still on inside. His mother was waiting.

"Where have you been?" instead of hello. Her voice was sharp, tired, restrained.

"With friends," he tossed back.

"What friends?" her voice already rising with worry that shifted into reproach. "Work tomorrow! And you're roaming the streets like some stray… And don't you dare waste money on nonsense, you hear me? We have bills to pay, and you…"

"I didn't spend anything," he cut her off dryly.

"Philip needs new sneakers! You only think about yourself!"

"Let him earn them himself," Hank said wearily, walking past. "Deliver newspapers, whatever. I was already in the mine at his age."

His mother shouted something hurtful after him. Her voice cracked, but he no longer listened.

Philip peeked out of his room — sleepy eyes, messy hair:

"Got five bucks?"

"No," Hank snapped. "And I won't."

He walked into his room, slammed the door, tossed his jacket onto the floor, and collapsed onto the mattress.

The ceiling was gray, cracked. His hair still carried the smell of machine oil, rubber, smoke. He closed his eyes, and smiled.

They had food. They had cars. And, damn it, they laughed.

He was out almost instantly, as if someone had switched him off.

Chapter Text

The shift had dragged on endlessly. Down in the mine, time ceased to exist. Only the strikes of the pickaxe, the rumble of carts, the heavy breathing. His ears rang with noise, coal dust ground against his teeth. Every breath burned his lungs. Hank came up to the surface as though another man had clawed his way out of the earth — grimy, exhausted, with eyes that had seen too much. All he wanted was a shower and a bed.

But the sun had not yet set. And the first thing he saw was that car. Black as a moonless night, as if darkness itself had crawled out of the shafts to wait for him. Chrome caught the sunset, glass flashed. And beside it — Francisco, lazily leaning against the door. He was chewing something and holding a paper wrap with the glossy logo of a fashionable store — the kind of place Hank would never have entered.

"We don't have much time," Francisco said and tossed him a sandwich.

Hank caught it in midair. The paper crinkled in his fingers.

"You sure as hell didn't make this yourself," he muttered, tearing the wrapper.

"Do I look like someone who knows where the knives are kept in a kitchen?" Francisco smirked. His voice was too light, almost mocking. But his eyes remained serious.

Hank wanted to retort, but his stomach growled, and he took a bite in silence. The bread was soft, warm, the meat dripping with juice. The taste was unfamiliar — expensive, precise, as if every spice cost more than his whole shift.

"Damn," he mumbled with his mouth full. "Not bad."

Francisco laughed and already opened the driver's side door. His movements were far too confident.

Hank shrugged, took another bite, and climbed in. The car's red interior greeted him with a daring contrast — blood and leather. Against it, his dusty clothes looked almost profane.

"Where are we going?" he asked, still chewing.

Francisco started the engine, and the low growl rippled through the body like a beast awakening. For a moment, Hank forgot his exhaustion — something tightened inside him with anticipation.

Francisco shot him a quick glance. His smile widened just a fraction too much.

"For a ride."

And they tore off.

The old concrete walls of the abandoned parking garage bounced back the sound of the engine, as if the dead structure came alive for moments with each roar. Rust on the pillars, shattered lights, scraps of posters curled by the wind — everything here looked like a forgotten arena, still able to echo with battles if one found the right rhythm.

Francisco flew between the columns — sharp turns, sudden drifts, but with no trace of fear. He squinted against the setting sun, could hold the wheel with one hand and run the other through his hair, as if this were a stroll, not a trial. Hank kept silent, watching, and at some point realized: he enjoyed seeing this reckless madness.

Then they switched places — Hank behind the wheel. He felt the beast awaken under his feet, like a fury long buried beneath coal dust. He drove as if he wanted to grind the entire rusty concrete into powder. Tires screamed, the body nearly clipped a pillar, and for a second something in his chest broke free.

"Your mistake was going out there alone," Francisco said. "Jim always rides with someone. Like a hyena in a pack. No one faces them solo. But you did."

"And lost," Hank muttered grimly, swinging the car into a hard turn.

"Yes. You lost. But that can be fixed."

Francisco fastened his belt.

"In the next race, you'll ride with Ragnar. Against Jim and the one who ran you off. And this time — for real."

Hank gripped the wheel tighter.

"Ragnar… He's insane."

"Exactly. He doesn't brake at corners, and he doesn't brake in his head. With him, you won't lose." Francisco held the pause.

"You don't have to trust him. You just have to trust me."

Hank didn't answer. His hands clutched the wheel as though he feared letting go for even a moment. The sun was sinking, laying scarlet stripes across the concrete. The car swung into another curve.

Francisco leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the speed carry them both.

"That's it," he murmured almost in a whisper. "Feel how the beast obeys you. The rest… I'll take care of."

Hank clenched the wheel harder. He knew this was not yet a race.

This was only the prelude.

They drove in the evenings. The noise of engines, the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber became part of their new reality, as if life itself had shrunk down to these training sessions. The wind struck their faces, the thunder of wheels echoed in their chests, and Hank began to feel — there was nothing here except the road and control.

Ragnar behaved as always — predatory and brazen. He didn't just drive, he attacked: shoves, sudden maneuvers, playing right on the edge of a crash. At first Hank was angry, but then he began to learn how to take the hit. Now he no longer saw a madman in Ragnar, but a weapon that could be aimed.

John was the complete opposite. He built the track in his mind like a blueprint. His movements were dry, precise, as if calculated in advance. Hank marveled — in places where anyone else would have spun out, John managed to turn the car as though no other option had ever existed.

Francisco was different. He didn't rush forward, nor did he calculate trajectories. His style seemed too light, too careless, as if he were playing, not driving. Yet in that mocking grace lay his strength: he pulled off risky things as though they cost him nothing. And Hank, without realizing it, began to follow him — learning how to be freer.

Sometimes, when the roar faded, they climbed out of the cars, sat on the hoods, traded remarks, laughed, argued. The dust and rusty columns of the abandoned parking lot became their arena, their school, their secret world.

Dagny sometimes came. She never interfered. She just sat on the hood of a car, arms crossed, and watched. In her gaze there was something Hank rarely saw — not softness, but demand. As if she set an invisible bar, and all of them tried to reach it.

When she nodded, it meant: "Good. Keep going." And in those moments Hank felt something strange — as if that single nod made all the exhaustion, grime, ringing in his ears, and pain in his hands worth it.

On weekends, they went to races just to watch. The crowd was thick. The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber hung in the air so heavily that one could breathe it in and taste the metallic tang on the tongue.

Francisco pointed out:

"See. That guy always swerves left, even when the turn's to the right — to throw off the line. That one clips from behind and forces you into a drift."

Hank noticed — the man's car was bright, scarred with scratches.

"And that one?" he asked.

"That one sneaks up, waits for the moment, and bumps you off. In a way, it's even beautiful, but dirty."

Hank nodded. It all looked like hunting.

"And Jim?" he asked darkly.

Francisco narrowed his eyes.

"Jim waits. He knows how to wait. He's like a hyena, Hank. Runs alongside for a long time, pretending he's in no hurry. And then — boom — when you're almost at the finish. And he sprints down the empty road. No one can touch him. He's a Taggart."

Right before their eyes, a guy in an old but lively car broke ahead. Hank already felt himself rooting for him. One breath, and he could almost see the boy taking the finish.

But it all happened in an instant: someone rammed him from the side. The car flipped, sparks burst out, the screech of tires, the scream of the crowd. The boy went into the ditch, his car lying on its side at the edge of the track. And Jim broke into the lead — calm, clean, without a single scratch.

"He got it," Francisco said. "Again."

Hank clenched his fists. Everything inside him tightened.

"I hate him."

Francisco smiled faintly.

"Perfect," he said softly, almost tenderly. "That's fuel. Keep it in the tank. Don't spill it. You'll need it at the start."

The crowd screamed, the cars shrieked, the air vibrated with tension. And inside Hank, a dark, hot fury pulsed — exactly the kind Francisco had wanted to ignite.

For the first time, Hank allowed himself to feel not only exhaustion, but also a strange, unfamiliar warmth — as if someone's shadow always walked beside him, not letting him fall back into the cold of loneliness. The car purred steadily, Francisco guided it with ease, as though this road too was just a game.

Sometimes Francisco turned on music — old, defiant, with a fast rhythm. Sometimes he kept silent, and then the silence between them sounded louder than any melody. Hank caught himself counting streetlights, noticing cracks in the walls, the signs of shuttered workshops. He was learning to see the city. Once, it had been just space between the mine and home. Now — a field. An arena.

Sometimes Francisco would comment — about cars, about tracks, about people. But more often he spoke in passing, lightly, as though the air itself was joking in his voice.

"Notice how those buildings have boarded windows but new doors? Someone still lives inside. There's always someone inside."

Hank listened, and within him grew a feeling — he was no longer going against the world alone.

And when they pulled up to his house, the streetlights fell across Francisco's hands on the wheel. Hank looked at them, then turned away toward his door, clenched his teeth, and thought: I'm preparing. I'm preparing for something bigger.

And for the first time in his life, that something didn't scare him.

The night had been hot. The air was loud and alive. The thunder of engines merged with the rhythm of hearts. Hundreds of headlights cut through the darkness, their glare flashing on windows, on asphalt, in the eyes of the spectators gathered along the track. They shouted, waved their hands, and the whole street hummed like a hive, full of impatience and the stench of burning fuel.

Hank sat in the car. Calm. Confident. His hands rested on the wheel as if he were holding something of his own, something that had long belonged to him. He didn't feel fear — only focus, only the sharp anticipation that spread inside him like a hum.

Ragnar walked up and ducked into his window.

"Remind me," he said, rolling a toothpick in his mouth, "which one's mine?"

"The guy with the stripe on the hood. He knocked me out last time."

"Pretty boy," Ragnar drawled, the corner of his mouth twitching as he pulled on his gloves. "Let's go."

In the cars nearby were Jim and his buddy. Jim looked deliberately confident, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses even in the dark. He leaned back as if this weren't a race but a joyride, a smirk fixed to his face. The guy next to him laughed loudly, pointing at Hank's car, tossing out jokes that drowned in the roar of the crowd.

And Hank's car — Francisco's car. Black, low, with a red interior, gleaming under the lights. It stood silent, like a beast ready to pounce at any second. Hank gripped the wheel and felt everything inside him hum in unison with the engine.

The starter. A short signal. A roar. The start.

Hank shot forward immediately — it hadn't been hard in a machine like this, a machine he had grown used to, one that obeyed him without question. It was like an extension of his body, sharper, faster, more powerful than anything he had ever had, but now it was his. He knew how to take the corners, how to glide along the line, how precisely to throw the car into a drift and pull it back. He knew when to ease the gas, when to slam it to the floor.

In the rearview mirror, Ragnar appeared — in a neon-green car, a flash of poison in the dark. He wasn't chasing; he was hunting. Somewhere on the second lap Ragnar simply began pressing his opponent toward the curb, swerving his tail so the other couldn't get past. That guy and his car weren't the target. Their target was Jim. Jim had to finish last.

And when it seemed Jim had a chance — slipping past Ragnar while he toyed with his prey, coming after Hank — he realized: too late. Hank was pulling away. But Jim didn't give up. He lunged forward, closed the gap, swerved sideways, trying to clip him, push him off.

Then Ragnar lunged after him like a predator. He brushed Jim's fender, and Jim's car went wild. It skidded, rear wheels breaking loose, a pillar of dust rising, brakes shrieking so sharp the sound cut through the crowd. Jim held on, but it was enough — lost seconds could not be won back.

"He's ready!" Ragnar shouted in the earpiece.

Ragnar and the other guy overtook Jim and tore after Hank. But it was too late.

The finish. Hank. Ahead. In the full roar of horns, cheers, the blinding flash of headlights.

He had won.

He hadn't just won. He had ripped this victory out, and now all the roar, all the light belonged to him.

And somewhere on the curb, sitting on the hood of another car, Dagny watched. And when her gaze met his — she nodded.

"Good."

The crowd buzzed — clapping shoulders, shouting, arguing. The stench of gasoline, burnt rubber, and cheap beer hung in the air, tangled with adrenaline and laughter.

Ragnar appeared, as always, out of nowhere — a whirlwind of endless energy. He slammed into Hank from behind, nearly knocking him over, and wrapped him in a hug so tight Hank's ribs cracked.

"That was beautiful!" Ragnar bellowed, so loud it seemed the whole place fell quiet for a second. "Did you see his face when I smashed him?! Pure gold, Hank! Worth every penalty, you hear me? Every damn one!"

Hank barely kept his balance. He wanted to smile, but the muscles in his face were tight. He could still feel the wheel in his hands, the vibration of the track, and that burning inside him that refused to cool.

And then he noticed Jim. Jim stood apart, almost in shadow, cut off from the celebration like a stranger at his own party. His face was a mask of rage. Lips pressed into a thin line, chin trembling. His hands were in his pockets, but the fists inside them were clenched so hard it showed. His eyes were locked on Hank — heavy, sticky, as if he wanted to erase him from the earth with nothing but that stare.

The crowd sensed the tension, and for a heartbeat it grew quieter.

Francisco stepped forward. He did it calmly, as if the noise around had nothing to do with him. His voice sounded soft, almost friendly — polite, like the matter was trivial.

"Tomorrow we'll come for the car. Consider the debt paid."

Jim flinched, straightened up, and something flickered across his face — relief? hope? He almost smiled.

"So that's what this was all about?" His voice trembled, but he steadied it quickly. "You wanted my car?" And there was joy in his words, as if he still believed he was the center of this game. That everything revolved around him.

Francisco stopped in front of him. His eyes flashed — that look, that cold, cutting expression that always came when contempt touched him. It hit like a blow — light, but deadly.

"We want his car. His old one." He nodded toward Hank. "You didn't think we wanted your trash, did you?"

The crowd burst out laughing. A few snorted loudly. Someone shouted: "Hear that, Jim?!"

Ragnar, passing by, didn't even slow down. He just stuck his tongue out at Jim like a kid, and roared with laughter.

"Psychos," Jim muttered without raising his head. His voice carried no strength — only anger, only despair covered in a thin crust of pride. He threw a short glance at Dagny, as if searching for support in her eyes, but she sat still, her face unreadable.

Jim spun away sharply and walked off. Fast, without looking back, as if chased by his own shadow.

The crowd rose again, loud as ever, as if nothing had happened. And Hank caught himself breathing just as he had on the track — short, deep, as if he were still racing.

Dagny walked up to them, hands in her jeans pockets, her hair tucked under a red bandana. In her eyes was something too direct, too intent. She looked at Hank longer than she needed to. And he didn't know what to say. His heart was still pounding; he was still in the race.

"Are you free tomorrow evening?" she asked, calm, almost casually.

The air seemed to shiver. Ragnar whistled from the side, John rolled his eyes. Francisco stayed silent. Only his lips curved, the faintest shadow of a smile. Hank blushed. Almost embarrassed, almost like a teenager.

"Uh… yeah. I'm free."

"Good," Dagny nodded, as if stating a fact. "Then it's settled."

She turned, walked toward her car, and even her steps sounded confident. Hank stood stunned, as if he had been thrown into another reality in a single second.

"You've got a date, racer. Don't screw it up," Ragnar said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Francisco only looked at Hank. Too closely. There was no jealousy in his gaze, but something else — a test. As if he were checking what choice Hank would make, and whether he could bear it.

Hank turned away, trying to hide his confusion. But the feeling stayed: this race was not over. It had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Hank stepped out of the mine's dusty darkness. He was exhausted, but the moment he lifted his head, and saw Francisco, leaning casually against the gleaming hood — something inside clicked and grew lighter.

Francisco held a coffee in his hand. He offered the cup as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Let's go," he said, as though they had done this a thousand times before.

Hank settled into the passenger seat. A spotless interior, the soft purr of the engine, music playing low in the background. He took a sip of the coffee and almost closed his eyes in pleasure: strong, rich, perfect. Everything Francisco brought was always right.

They drove in silence. Streets slid past the windows — concrete, neon signs, crowds, dusty curbs. But to Hank it all seemed lit from within: he was sitting in a beautiful car, drinking the best coffee he could imagine. Yesterday he had gotten his car back — not a toy, but a dream, a piece of his soul. And tonight… tonight he had a date with a woman he had only ever dared to dream about.

He realized he was smiling. Life, for the first time in a long time, felt simple, clear. Almost perfect.

Francisco glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and allowed the faintest smirk. He didn't ask why Hank was smiling. Didn't say a word. He just pressed the gas, and the road unfolded beneath the wheels.

The Taggart garage was like a museum — sterile, cold, pristine. White lamps blazed from above so bright that any speck of dust looked like a crime. The polished floors echoed with footsteps, as if no living people were meant to be here at all — only cars displayed like relics.

And in the middle of all that flawless shine stood his car. Or rather, its shadow, its parody, its shell.

When Hank saw it, his throat tightened.

The body had been painted neon green with purple stripes as if someone had tried to turn it into the logo of a cheap energy drink. Neon accents, gaudy chrome trims, a hack job of tuning that had nothing to do with raw power. Under the hood — a mess of flashy parts that only got in the engine's way. The interior had been replaced: racing seats with aggressive stitching, neon lights blinking like a nightclub.

He froze. It felt like a punch.

"They killed it," Hank whispered.

He stepped closer, ran his hand over the hood. Beneath his fingers the metal was familiar, scarred, marked with his own work. That part was his — too deep to be erased by paint.

"I'll fix it," he muttered. "I don't have the money… but it's mine again."

He opened the door, slid into the driver's seat. The air smelled alien — plastic, air freshener. And still, the wheel fit his hands as though they had never let go. In that moment he knew: he could breathe again.

Footsteps echoed through the garage. Jim Taggart entered as if stepping onto a stage — in a suit, a spotless white shirt, with a grin that had nothing to do with joy.

"Hey, Hank," he began, as if they were old friends. "I saw what you did with this wreck… well, before I won it. And now look — it's back in your hands."

Hank raised a brow.

"I've been thinking," Jim continued. "You could work with us. With my father's railroad. Mechanic. We're always fixing locomotives, servicing engines… And you've got the hands for it. Pay's good. Definitely better than the mine."

Francisco leaned lightly against the car, his voice soft, calm, and sharper than a blade:

"That's not your company, Jim."

Jim winced as if he had stepped in something foul.

"Not yet," he muttered through his teeth. "But it will be. I'm older than Dagny. I know how business works."

Hank felt something click, cold and heavy, inside him.

"Wait," he said, staring at Jim as if seeing him for the first time. "Dagny… she's your sister?"

Jim's grin widened.

"What, you didn't know?"

He hadn't. But now he did. And something inside him sank — heavy, unbearable.

"No," Hank said firmly. "I won't work for you."

It wasn't work — it was a collar.

He started the engine. The car roared, eager to tear itself free. He shot out of the garage, as if fleeing not only Jim, but the entire system Jim stood for.

Francisco had driven after him. When Hank slowed near his house, Francisco slowed as well. He lowered the window and waved. The streetlight caught his smile — that same smile, teasing, confident as always.

Hank nodded.

Francisco smiled back, softer this time. He started the engine again and drove off, leaving Hank behind.

Hank almost wanted to get out and say something. To tell him that all of this felt strange. That now he knew who Jim was. Who Dagny was. That he felt like a fool.

But he didn't.

He only nodded in return. Then he exhaled heavily, pressed his forehead to the wheel.

Hank breathed out, but the air stuck in his chest. In his head everything mixed together — the taste of victory, the sting of humiliation, and the sudden knowledge: Dagny wasn't just

"Dagny." She was a Taggart. Jim's sister.

Hank lifted his head. He felt irritation — not toward Francisco, but toward himself. He didn't want anyone to notice how everything inside him was crumbling.

He opened the door. He wished he could ask Francisco: "Did you set all this up? You knew whose sister she was, didn't you? Was this just a game to you?"

But he didn't.

He sat still for a long while, listening to the engine cool. He thought about meeting Dagny. About having to look her in the eye. About how everything he had learned today hadn't yet collapsed, but the crack had already spread.

He struck the wheel with his fist, cursed softly, almost soundlessly. Then he closed his eyes. Breathed in.

And only then did he get out of the car.

He had a date with Dagny. He would deal with the rest later.

Hank was in the garage, elbow-deep in engine grease, when he heard a car pull up. Not Francisco — the engine sounded different. Smooth, ringing. More like a voice than a growl.

He stepped out of the garage, wiping his hands on a rag, and froze.

Dagny. She was standing there, leaning against the hood, hands in her pockets, as if she hadn't arrived but simply appeared — as if she belonged here. Her face held both calm and challenge at once.

"You know where I live," he said dryly.

She tilted the corner of her mouth.

"Francisco told me. I asked. He knew."

Hank exhaled. Of course he knew. Francisco always knew.

Dagny stepped closer. She moved into his space as if it were hers by right. She leaned over the car, inhaling the smell of oil and steel, and asked:

"This one? The one?"

Hank nodded and ran his hand over the scarred hood of his disfigured car.

"Jim…" he began, but couldn't finish.

"Jim's an idiot," she said calmly.

He looked up, and understood everything at once. She wasn't here to apologize, she wasn't here to smooth things over. She was with him, not with her brother. And in that simplicity was more trust than he had ever felt with his own family.

"I didn't know you were…" he stumbled. "Jim's sister."

She shook her head slowly.

"I'm not his sister. He's my ballast." Her voice held no anger, only clarity. "And I don't ask you to love him."

The words stuck in his throat. He only nodded.

They spent about ten minutes working on the engine together. Dagny knew what she was doing — precise movements, steady hands, knowing exactly where to push, where to tighten, where to pause to feel the machine's rhythm. She wasn't copying his moves — she had her own style, her own approach, her own intimacy with the car. And Hank felt it with his whole body: she lived the same way he did.

She didn't just drive — she lived machines. And he could feel it.

Then she wiped her hands on the rag and said:

"Let's go. Want to take a drive?"

They rode through the city at night. Empty streets slid past, asphalt gleaming under scattered streetlights. Bridges hummed beneath the tires, districts flashing by one after another. Hank knew these areas by mine routes, by warehouses and supply lines, by the railroad map. But now he saw them differently — from inside a fine car, at speed. Beside a woman with fire in her eyes.

Dagny drove aggressively, but never recklessly. She threw the car into curves as though she were dancing with it, every millimeter calculated. Her hands on the wheel were firm and precise, and Hank understood: she trusted this car the way he had trusted his own. He didn't interfere, didn't advise, didn't hold the road with his gaze — he let her lead. And though it was unfamiliar, he liked it.

Speed. Wind in the windows. The engine's song, taut and ringing — more a voice than a noise. And she, beside him.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught her profile — focused, stubborn, with the faintest smile. Nothing about her was accidental. Everything was exact.

They talked about cars. Carburetors and injectors, arguing which was more reliable. Diesel versus gasoline. German diesel engines — Dagny had driven them. Hank — never. She compared the diesel engines that hauled Taggart railroad trains with automotive diesels, both tough, both reliable.

And Hank listened carefully, catching every nuance, every word. She spoke about machines, but he heard something more: she was speaking about life. Everything strong, tested, durable — it was her world. And in that, he recognized something of his own.

When they stopped on a hill above the city, the engine died, and the silence was sudden, heavy. Below, thousands of lights shimmered — mines, factories, streets.

They looked at the city.

Hank turned toward her.

His chest tightened. He wanted to lean closer. To feel her breath, her lips. Wanted it too much.

But he didn't dare.

He knew too much about himself — about his life, his chains, about what it meant to surrender to this desire. And about her he knew too little.

She stayed silent. She didn't ask, didn't demand, didn't rush him. She only sat, watching the city.

And he — watched her. And that was enough.

He remembered that moment.

Chapter Text

The days blurred into one endless excavation. The screech of rock in his ears. Dust that had seeped into his lungs, his skin, every breath. Lamps dimly lit the stone veins, like stars beneath the earth. Hank came up to the surface only to change clothes, swallow food, and head into another mine. Only there, instead of a pickaxe, he had a wrench. Instead of a helmet — oil stains under his eyes and a shirt that smelled of gasoline.

This was his garage. His true territory. His second mine.
And there she stood. His car. Recreated not just from metal, but from memory, anger, pain, and the fragments of his pride. From the pieces of what they had tried to take from him.

Some of the parts from Jim he had managed to sell — Francisco had suggested to whom and how. John had worked with the wiring and circuits: checked the electronics, resoldered, redid things — in the end, it turned out better than it had been from the factory. Hank admitted it himself: he still understood something about electrics, but when it came to electronics, he didn't understand at all.

Dagny helped when she could. Without unnecessary words, quietly, confidently, as if she had spent her whole life in garages. Sometimes she brought coffee, as if pulling him back to life. Sometimes she rolled up her sleeves and slid under the hood beside him, so naturally, as though that was her place. She wasn't "the racer's girl." She was a racer. His own. Just like him.

Hank kept perfecting it. Down to the last bolt. To the millimeter. Every detail had to become his again.

But the paint…

Acid green with purple, leftover glitter, vinyl wrap. It was like an insult. A brand. A reminder of how he had been humiliated. The car was running again, but it still wasn't his.

"Leave it," Francisco shrugged, lazily sprawled across the hood. Even then he looked like a king. "It reminds them they're idiots."

Hank shook his head, staring at his reflection in the ugly shine of purple.

"No. I need this to be my car again."

Francisco wanted to add something but didn't. He saw that stubborn expression, the one you couldn't break with a joke.

And then Ragnar, who had been silent all evening, only crunching pizza on a toolbox, smirked without raising his eyes:

"I've got an idea."

The next morning Ragnar showed up in a mask, goggles, a respirator, and with cans of paint.

"No one will ever race against it. They'll all be afraid it'll eat them alive," he declared, setting the cans down on the concrete floor of the garage.

The smell of solvent quickly filled the room, thick and heavy. Within a couple of hours, a rusty, matte, dark, almost post-apocalyptic color lay across the metal. It didn't go on evenly and smoothly but deliberately rough. Here and there the scars of the old acid paint remained — on purpose, like burn marks that couldn't be hidden. As if the car hadn't been repainted but had survived.

"This… is perfect," Hank breathed, staring at it as though seeing it for the first time.

Francisco nodded, his voice almost soft:

"Car's like you now."

John only grunted approvingly without looking up from his tangle of wires. And Dagny came closer. She ran her palm over the hood — slowly, as if she were feeling not metal but a living creature. Her fingers slid across the new paint, lingering on an old scar. She turned to Hank.

"You have to take me for a ride."

He froze.

The words were simple. But they carried everything: challenge, trust, memory. And the reminder of that night when they drove through the city and he hadn't dared kiss her. When he could have spoken, could have touched her, could have at least admitted she mattered to him. But he hadn't.

Hank felt the blood rush to his face. Since that night, they hadn't been alone together. They hadn't talked about it. And he understood that she was waiting for him to make a move. That it all depended on him.

And that he didn't know what he had to offer her. Except this car. And himself. But maybe that wasn't so little.

He looked at her again. At her eyes, serious and calm, without a shadow of doubt. And he realized: if he drove the car out of the garage, if she sat beside him — it would already be a different beginning.

Hank and Francisco drove almost every evening. With no goal. With no plan. With no pressure. The car carried them down the highway, through darkness, past the lights of lonely gas stations and sleepy motels. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they stayed silent, and both found a strange relief in it.

"You've got sandwiches again?" Hank asked when Francisco handed him a paper bag that smelled of good ham and fresh bread.

"It's called a sandwich, baby," Francisco answered with a predatory grin, adding a paper cup of coffee to it.

"Sure. Just store-bought sandwiches," Hank muttered, tearing the wrapper.

"I never claimed I made them myself," Francisco shrugged. "Unlike my grandmother."

"She also liked to feed men?" Hank couldn't help himself.

"She liked men," Francisco shot back, his eyes flashing. "Feeding them included."

Hank snorted and chewed his sandwich. The car grew quiet, save for the hum of the road and the raspy voice of a radio host reporting on an accident elsewhere in the city. Francisco leaned back in his seat, stretched his legs, and, almost casually, rested his hand on the gearshift — very close to Hank.

Hank felt the warmth of his fingers, and gripped the wheel a little tighter than necessary.

With him, everything was easier. He was rich too. And not just rich — his last name was known to anyone whose hands had ever held metallic money. But with Francisco, there was no sense of being looked down on. He just drove. Talked. Complained about the weather and the wet asphalt. And drove again.

With him, it wasn't like with Dagny. There was no tension. No sense that he had to be better, had to be worthy, had to be someone.

"Do you want to get back on the track?" Francisco asked once, tossing his empty coffee cup out the window.

"Yes," Hank said. He wanted to return. He had to return. Racing meant money. It meant a chance. If he won someone else's car — he could sell it. Pay off debts. Buy parts. Breathe.

"Give me a race. I'll do anything," he said.

Francisco looked at him, and in his eyes that same spark lit up — the one Hank had seen when Francisco first approached him after that night he had lost:

"We'll make it happen. Are you ready?"

Hank nodded. He was. More than ever.

Francisco suddenly swerved the car hard, as if testing his words, and at that moment Poison came on the radio. He turned it up, the first chords hit. Francisco started to sing along, his voice deliberately light, teasing.

"I wanna love you, but I better not touch…" — he dragged out the line, staring straight at Hank without blinking, as if the road ahead didn't even exist.

Hank felt goosebumps race across his skin. He pressed his fingers into his knee to hide it, but inside it was as if he had been struck by lightning.

"Don't wanna touch you, but you're under my skin…" Francisco kept singing, and now it didn't sound like lyrics anymore.

He was singing — to him. His eyes gleamed, his smile tugged slightly at his lips, but this wasn't just a game. Hank felt it. Every word hit him harder than the roar of the engine.

And he couldn't look away.

"Come on," Dagny said. "I asked you."

"The car's not ready yet," Hank muttered, closing the hood.

"Car is ready. And you know it. You're just afraid I won't like it," she tilted her head, looking up at him from below. "I watched you build it. It's the best thing I've ever seen."

Hank kept silent. Then he reached for the door:

"Get in."

They drove around the outskirts, along empty roads and cracked parking lots. Sometimes Dagny was quiet, sometimes she laughed, sometimes she flipped through the radio looking for music neither of them would ever have taken seriously. The car hummed, the evening was soft, damp, smelling of gasoline and heated asphalt.

At a stoplight she suddenly told him to turn off the highway:

"Ice cream," she tossed out, opening the door the moment he stopped.

"What?" he didn't understand.

"You deserve ice cream, Hank Rearden." She said it as if it wasn't up for discussion.

He wanted to protest — why, what nonsense — but already heard her quick steps on the sidewalk. She came back with two cones and handed one to him.

He took it. And immediately felt a strange discomfort. It didn't sit right with him: he hadn't paid. She had treated him. That wasn't how it should be. He was supposed to be the man. He had always paid. That was the right way. But… the ice cream was cold, creamy, sweet. It burned his teeth and calmed his nerves.

He ate in silence, on autopilot. Licked again, and again. And only a few moments later realized she was laughing.

"What?" he asked, frowning.

"You got messy."

He felt embarrassed, wiped his face with his hand, but found nothing.

"Where?"

She leaned closer, bent slightly. Her eyes glowed — too close, too clear. And before he could pull away, she reached out a finger, brushed the tip of his nose, wiped the drop of ice cream, and without blinking, licked her finger clean.

He died. For a split second. Then came back to life. Only for her.

Her smile was so confident, as if she knew — knew she could play him however she wanted. And he sat there in the car, his hand sticky from melted ice cream, realizing that everything he had ever known how to do — was crumbling.

And maybe… maybe that was the salvation.

Later, when night fell, they sat on the hood of his car. The metal beneath them cooled slowly, and the sky was dense, black, scattered with cold stars. The road stretched far away, rare headlights rushing past like other people's lives that had nothing to do with theirs. It was quiet here, as if the world had been left beyond the line of cracked asphalt.

They smoked. One cigarette for the two of them. Passing it back and forth, not looking directly at each other, but feeling — too sharply, too closely. Hank's lips brushed the filter where hers had been a second ago. He didn't want to acknowledge it, but it was her taste, her breath, her warmth. Something in his chest clenched so tight he nearly dropped the cigarette. He almost trembled, not from the cold, but from her.

He wanted to kiss her. God, how he wanted it. As if his whole body screamed in unison — do it. He felt that if he leaned in just a little closer, everything would work, she wouldn't push him away. That it was possible.

But he didn't. Again.

She belonged to another world. All of her — made of headlights and the whisper of tires on highways, of laughter and determination, of endless striving somewhere further. Behind her stood an entire city, an entire era. And him? He was made of the mine, of heavy air, of debts and the eternal dirt on his hands that no soap could wash away. He didn't believe he had the right even to dream of her.

They stayed silent. And that silence was louder than any words. Sometimes she inhaled, and the tip of the cigarette flared red, reflected in her eyes. Sometimes he caught her profile in the light of a distant streetlamp and thought: Say something. Say it, and I'll break. But she stayed silent too.

The cigarette burned down to the filter. She handed it to him, and for a second their fingers touched. He felt that touch stronger than the fire in his lungs.

Then he drove her back. The road was empty, tires whispering softly against the asphalt. The car smelled of tobacco and her perfume, and that scent drove him crazier than the silence. When he stopped at the garage, she looked at him as if she wanted to say something. But she didn't. And she left.

They went their separate ways home.

He drove on, into the darkness. He had done nothing. And that killed him more than anything else could.