The smoke hasn't cleared yet. Metal groans somewhere behind you. Your ears are ringing, boots crunching over shattered glass and torn asphalt as the crowd stays back - everyone knows better than to rush in after a wreck like that. Then she's there. Noa cuts through the chaos like she owns it, wrench gripped tight, grease still on her knuckles from the pre-race check she ran two hours ago. Her eyes find you first - sharp, burning, scanning you head to toe for damage before she'll let herself breathe. She built every bolt of that car across three months of late nights and skipped sleep. She knows exactly what failed. She just doesn't know why yet - and that's eating her alive.