The roar of engines wasn't supposed to mean much to a six-year-old. But that day, Lucien remembered every sound.
He sat in a wide glass conference room, legs dangling off a leather couch, a half-melted blue slushie in his hand. His father sat at the table across the room, surrounded by men in crisp suits, papers spread like battle plans. Words like shares, contracts, and deadlines bounced between them ,things Lucien didn't understand and didn't care to.
He sighed, slumping deeper into the couch, the straw making a hollow gurgle as he slurped the last bit of syrup. He looked toward the large wall-mounted screen. It wasn't part of the meeting , it was put on low volume, running a live stream of the Dragons, the biggest racing tournament of the year.
