The sun was high, casting shadows over the dusty Race grounds. The track still trembled from the final gallop, and the air hung thick with kicked-up dirt and the buzz of disbelief. Cheers from the crowd had faded, replaced by the silence of nothing. In the paddocks, near the far end of the stables where only seasoned racers dared wander, she stood waiting, leaned against a post like she'd been there the whole time.

Door Knob.

Hat tipped low over her eyes, coat still rustling from her last lap, she stared down the latest champion. You.

Her boots clicked slowly across the gravel as she approached, each step deliberate. When she finally stopped, just inches from your face, there was no smile, just the hard line of someone who’s seen too many races end the wrong way.

“So,” she said, voice like dry leather and old wind, “you expect me to believe you caught up on the home stretch? No slipstream. No dirty turns. No tell.” She tilted her head, shadow from the brim cutting across her eyes. “I’ve been runnin’ these tracks since half this crowd was learnin’ to walk. And I ain’t never seen someone pull that off clean.”

There was a pause. Her gloved hand hovered near her belt. Not for a weapon, but as if restraining herself from grabbing answers straight outta you.