"10.5 minutes. Wow. That's gotta be a new record in Slow-sville for the speed race."
Benard leaned against the fence, arms crossed, watching Patricia strut across the finish line.
"Come on, Milton. Where's your energy? This isn't a derby modeling contest—it's a clash of Titans. Survival of the fittest. You don't want your rump ending up in the dumb pile, do you?"
Patricia looked the part—light green blouse, brown derby slacks, sturdy boots. Her hair was tied into a high ponytail, her hands wrapped in thick brown gloves. But beneath the gear, she looked worn. Like sleep had abandoned her days ago. Red-rimmed eyes, dark circles, and a sluggish posture atop Speed, her usual fire dimmed.
Benard had chalked it up to morning fatigue. They'd been training since 4 a.m., and now it was creeping past six. But this… this felt different.
He approached slowly as Patricia turned Speed back toward the track, readying herself for another run. She yawned and twisted her neck, trying to shake off the fog.
"Okay, that's enough, rookie," Ben said, grabbing Speed's reins.
"You're done for today. Get down."
Patricia snorted softly.
"What… giving up on me already? I thought you wanted me to train until I dropped. What's changed, huh?"
"What's changed is you look like a zombie riding a horse. A beautiful zombie, actually," he muttered under his breath.
"I won't let you disgrace this track with that sluggish performance. Get down. That's an order."
Patricia rolled her eyes.
"Aye aye, Captain," she mocked, swinging her leg to dismount.
"Woo!"
She yelped as her body tumbled forward, bracing for impact—until strong arms caught her mid-fall.
She opened her eyes slowly.
Honeydew eyes stared back at her, warm, fluttering, enough to stir a heartbeat into a dance. She was grateful she hadn't hit the ground… but annoyed it was him.
Mostly, she was angry at herself, for letting the jerk's touch stir something inside her. She'd vowed that only her handsome agent could move her heart. This guy was dangerous. And she needed to avoid him at all costs.
Benard felt it too. That flutter. That warmth. That ache he always felt when she was this close. So near, yet so far. He saw the rejection in her eyes, strong, defiant, but he also saw the flicker. The spark she refused to acknowledge.
He smirked.
He'd vowed to ignite that fire. To make her his. And he wasn't backing down.
He leaned in, daring, provocative, playful, ready to steal a kiss—
Patricia turned her face away, clearing her throat.
"Mmmm… mmmm."
She wiggled out of his hold and stepped back, putting distance between them. Her eyes narrowed in disapproval before dropping to the ground. The air between them turned awkward.
Benard looked away, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face. He'd been about to embark on a daring quest—one he was determined to win. But his prey was a fearless tiger, and one wrong move could leave his throat sliced open.
Patricia exhaled softly.
"Thank you… for catching me. I guess I really do need to rest. Otherwise, I'll turn into a real zombie in no time."
She chuckled faintly.
Benard smiled.
"It's okay. It was my pleasure. And I'll do it again, anytime you need me. I won't hesitate. Ever."
He looked directly into her eyes.
Patricia felt like she was drowning in those hazel depths. She could see it—feel it. The sincerity. The devotion. The affection, all aimed at her. And she didn't deserve it. Her heart belonged to someone else. He was only going to get hurt.
A pang of guilt twisted inside her. She had to make it clear—before he started hoping.
She sighed, looked away, and opened her mouth to speak.
But the words never came.
A wave of dizziness hit her. She stumbled slightly, her vision blurring.
Bernard rushed to her side, catching her by the waist before she could stumble further.
"Hey… hey, easy… easy…"
Patricia pressed her fingers to her forehead, massaging gently to steady her vision.
"I… am… fine," she whispered.
"No, you're not," Bernard said firmly.
He glanced around the track and spotted a bench beneath a tree.
"Come on."
He guided her gently, helping her sit down with care.
"Easy."
Once she was settled, he walked to his horse, reached into the saddle pouch, and pulled out a bottle of water. Returning to her side, he opened it and handed it over.
"Here… take a drink."
Patricia looked at him with droopy, grateful eyes and took the bottle with a weak smile.
"Thank you," she murmured, sipping slowly.
She paused, her gaze drifting across the track. A faint smile touched her lips.
"I… remember the day," she began softly.
"When my dad bought me a young, beautiful white mare colt. She had the prettiest golden mane and tail. I adored her—braiding her hair, decorating her with flowers. Her name was Goldie. She was my first little derby horse. I'd ride her all morning long."
The memory bloomed.
A serene field, bursting with wildflowers, encircled the track. A little girl in a black derby jacket, white slacks, black boots, and a white helmet rode a white mare with a golden mane and tail. Her laughter echoed as she trotted joyfully.
"That's it, Sweetie! But watch where you're going and steer carefully. Ha ha!"
She turned her head slightly and saw a man riding a grey stallion behind her, keeping pace.
"Ha! You'll never catch me, Dad! I'm the best derby racer ever! Wooo!"
Just then, Goldie failed to make a sharp turn. The colt halted abruptly, throwing the little girl into the air.
"Patricia!!"
The man shouted, eyes wide as he watched her crash into the field.
He galloped over, dismounted, and climbed the fence in a rush.
She lay on her back, hands covering her face, as if crying.
"Are you okay, darling? It's okay. I've got you," he whispered, gently caressing her forehead.
"See? I told you to be careful. Always look where you're going. That's the first rule of derby racing. Or you might get hurt."
Patricia didn't move, still covering her face.
Simon sighed.
"Okay, Sweetie. Let's go back to the house, alright?"
He leaned in to lift her—only to feel soft lips press against his cheek.
He looked down, surprised, and saw her smiling up at him. Her pretty black eyes sparkled like obsidian.
"Ah huh. Now what was that for, huh?" he asked.
"To say sorry. For not listening. For worrying you," Patricia said.
Simon's heart melted.
"Oh, Sweetie. You didn't have to do that."
Patricia grinned.
"I had to… because it was also a distraction."
Simon raised a brow.
"Huh?"
"A distraction to do this…"
She pulled out his horse whip, tossed flowers at his face, and dashed away—leaping over the fence with acrobatic precision. In a flash, she mounted his grey stallion.
"Hyaah!"
She turned the horse toward the house.
"Sorry, Dad! Love you!" she shouted.
The stallion galloped off with her. Moments later, Goldie followed, her golden mane streaming behind.
Simon stood there, stunned.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Ha ha! That little rascal! Ha ha!"
He chuckled as he walked down the track, following the trail of mischief.
Back in the present, Patricia was all smiles, lost in the warmth of her memory. Bernard sat beside her, utterly captivated—drowning in her soft chuckles and radiant smile.
'Damn', he thought. 'He could sit here all day if it meant hearing that laughter, watching that smile from his beautiful angel'.
Patricia's smile faded as she glanced at him.
"Oh… I'm sorry for getting lost in my memory. I didn't mean to wabble at you."
"It's okay. I needed that too," Bernard said gently.
"Mr. Milton… he was like a father to me. Just like Mr. Saccoth. It hurt me too, when…"
He hesitated.
"When he encountered the tragedy."
Patricia's face dimmed, and Bernard instantly regretted saying it.
"I—" he began, but she cut him off.
"It seems my father touched a lot of lives—with his care, his kindness, his guidance."
She smiled softly, then sighed.
"It still feels like a dream… that he's gone. Every memory, every word of praise, every moment we shared—it all makes it feel like he's still here. With us."
She looked around the track, her eyes shimmering with the bliss of reminiscence. Bernard watched her, mesmerized. She looked impossibly beautiful in that moment. He smiled, dreamily.
Then Patricia blinked out of her reverie and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"Excuse me," she whispered.
Bernard quickly looked away, clearing his throat to regain composure.
"Were you… involved with my father that deeply?" Patricia asked.
Bernard turned to her.
"Not exactly. You could say I was a big fan. He trained me at the academy, alongside Mr. Saccoth. I was very fond of them both. They weren't just trainers—they were like fathers to me. More caring and thoughtful than my real one."
He whispered the last part.
Patricia felt the sincerity in his words. His affection for Philip and her father was real. And strangely, it gave her a sense of comfort. A warmth she hadn't expected.
Then she remembered.
"Yesterday… at the grazing area. You said something before you walked away. Was it a motto from the academy? Or… something else?"
She looked at him intently.
Bernard held her gaze for a moment, then looked away—toward Speed, who was grazing peacefully nearby.
"You could say it's a motto. A legendary memento, actually. Said to be engraved in the very soil of the derby track by lightning and thunder themselves. Some say it was written by the spirits of past racers. Others say it's a warning."
He chuckled.
"But who believes that kind of myth bullshit, right? They say that when a race is destined to make history, the engraving appears again—etched by lightning. And the one who crosses the finish line during that race… holds the power to either save or destroy the world. At least, that's what I heard."
Patricia blinked.
"Okay… that's beyond imaginable. I guess people love to spice things up with a little mystical magic to make the thrill worthwhile. But… why? Why did you tell me that? Did you really want me to know the legend—or were you looking for something else?"
Bernard chuckled.
"What?"
Then he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Is there something else you want me to look for? Mmm?"
He leaned closer—dangerously close. Patricia could feel the heat of his breath brushing her skin. Her stomach fluttered in protest.
'Stop it, Patricia. You vowed never to feel anything for this man. So why the hell are you fluttering over his cocky, handsome face? He's too close. Too close for comfort. And I don't like what his proximity is doing to me. I don't like it at all.'
Bernard saw it—the flicker of attraction. The faint blush rising in her cheeks. She was falling, even if she refused to admit it. He considered going for it again—this time, not a bold kiss, but something softer. A kiss on the cheek. Maybe her nose. Something sweet. Something disarming.
He leaned in—
"Mmmmmmm!"
Both heads snapped toward the sound.
A familiar figure stood a few feet away, arms crossed, clad in a loose white shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.
It was Isaac.
His expression was unreadable—but the tension in his jaw said enough. He was pissed.
Behind him, Davis lingered like a shadow—poised, amused, watching the scene unfold.
'This is gonna be good', Davis silently chirped.
"Isaac!"
Patricia shot up from the bench and ran straight into his arms.
"The fuck…"
Benard muttered, watching her rush into Isaac's embrace like gravity had chosen sides.
Talk about bad timing.
Isaac met his gaze and smirked, leaning into Patricia's hold with quiet satisfaction.
"Tsk… lucky son of a bitch," Benard cursed under his breath.
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his pants, and walked toward Speed.
"Come on, boy. Let's get you some treats for your performance."
He tugged the reins and headed toward the stables—but not before pausing beside the couple.
He looked Isaac dead in the eye.
"Next time my student faints in my arms because of your pathetic negligence… don't blame me for what I'll do to you."
He smirked and walked off, as if he hadn't just dropped a bombshell.
Patricia stiffened.
Davis's jaw dropped.
'Damn, Captain', he thought. 'Looks like you've got one hell of a rival. And I am glad. I can't wait for the juicy drama to unfold. Wait till my hooligan hears about this—she's going to love it.'
Patricia pulled back slightly, placing her hands on Isaac's shoulders. She cleared her throat, trying to dissolve the awkward tension the dirty jerkass had left behind.
"What are you doing out here? You should be inside, resting."
She turned to Davis, eyes narrowing.
"What is he doing outside? Did you put him up to this?"
Davis raised his hands in surrender.
"I didn't do it. I swear. He insisted on seeing you practice. I tried to stop him—but he wouldn't listen."
"Well, you should've tried harder!" she snapped.
Isaac smiled.
"It's okay, Sweeches. I'm fine. I'm okay. Mmmm… I'm actually more worried about you. What did that bastard mean about you fainting? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Isaac. Don't worry about me. I'm just a little exhausted."
Her voice softened.
"But you… you're not okay. The doctor said you need rest. You haven't been sleeping well for weeks. You need to regain your strength. Pushing yourself like this won't help."
Isaac gently rubbed her arms.
"Don't worry, Sweeches. I'll rest soon—just to ease your mind. But first, we need to talk. There's something important. I can't rest until we do."
Patricia sighed.
"Alright… let's go to the gazebo. I don't feel safe with you standing in the sun like this. Who knows what complications it could trigger. Come on, let's go."
She hooked her arm through his, and together they walked—arm in arm—toward the gazebo.
.....
At the gazebo, the air felt heavier—like the sky itself was holding its breath.
Isaac slumped into his chair, a glass of water in hand, his voice low and troubled.
"I guess I've made things more complicated, huh? I didn't think touching that thing would trigger all this. And the worst part? We don't even know what it is. Tsk… just our luck."
Patricia leaned closer, her tone soft but steady.
"Don't worry, my love. We'll find the answers we need. It's only a matter of time before we understand what we're facing. We just have to be patient—and not strain ourselves, okay?"
Isaac nodded, but his eyes remained distant.
"Yeah… but we need those answers soon. Before it's too late."
He turned to Davis, who leaned against the gazebo pillar.
"What did Roy say happened when he touched it? What exactly happened?" Davis asked.
Isaac frowned, recalling.
"He said… everything froze. Midair. Time stopped. Just for a second. Then he let go—and it all resumed. When he tried to touch it again, it zapped him. A small lightning bolt."
"A lightning bolt?"
Davis scratched his cheek, thinking.
"And you said your headaches spike when it rains?"
Isaac nodded.
"Yeah. It hurts like hell. Especially when lightning flashes. The thunder feels like war drums pounding inside my skull. It's insane."
Patricia reached out, gently taking his hand. Isaac smiled, set his glass down, and covered her hand with his own.
Davis's eyes narrowed.
"Lightning and thunder…"
He turned to Patricia.
"You said after that mysterious call, lightning flashed and burned one of your kitchen appliances—even though there were no storm clouds."
Patricia nodded slowly.
"Yes. It was freaky. Alisha and I still talk about it. Do you think it's connected?"
Davis leaned deeper into the pillar, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I guess so. Chronalis… what a dark mystery."
Patricia's voice trembled.
"Do you think Montenegra is involved? I mean, from what you told me about Blake… do you think it's some kind of lethal weapon? And Isaac's been affected?"
Isaac shook his head.
"No… I don't think Montenegra's involved. In Blake's death, yes. But this? I doubt he even knows about it. My suspicions lean toward the Bull Dog. Or maybe both of them. But we need facts. Just in case."
Davis nodded.
"Right. I'll keep pressing the lab team for results. Until then, we stay cautious. Help Patricia with the Race. And keep your health in check, Isaac. We still don't know what that thing is. Best to prepare for the worst."
Isaac's face fell. He looked at Patricia—her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Then let's get to the bottom of this," he said.
Just then, Patricia's phone rang. She pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID—and her face twisted with disdain.
"It's Jethro," she muttered, then answered.
"Hello… Yes… What!!"
She shot up from her seat.
"What do you mean? But they can't be serious!"
She spoke for a few more moments, her voice rising, then hung up.
Isaac and Davis stared at her, alarmed.
"What's wrong? Did something happen?" Isaac asked.
Patricia's voice was tight.
"The derby race competition has been shifted."
"What? But why? When?" Davis asked.
She looked at them, eyes wide.
"Tomorrow. The race is starting tomorrow afternoon. In Costa Rica."
Silence.
Heavy. Absolute.
This was bad.