And for one impossible second, nobody in that garage breathed at all. 65 seconds. 70 80. It's still running, Sal said, disbelief, cracking his voice wide open. It's still running, Marcus felt something break loose in his chest.
Something he'd been holding so tightly for four days that its release nearly buckled his knees right there on the bike. "It's still running," he repeated like saying it twice might make it more real. "Don't celebrate yet," Ethan said, though even his voice had a tremor of hope in it now. I want to see it hold for a full 3 minutes before I trust it completely. That's well past the failure window, but I want margin.
Marcus kept the engine running and the whole garage stood frozen around him watching a clock. None of them could look away from watching a machine that had defeated three specialists and haunted Marcus's every waking hour for four straight days simply run steady, strong, alive. 2 minutes, 2 and 1/2. 12 minutes until the hearing, Dutch said quietly, and even his voice had cracked slightly, caught somewhere between the courthouse countdown and the miracle happening in front of him. 3 minutes, Ethan finally looked up from the gauge, and the expression on his face was one Marcus would remember for the rest of his life.
Not triumph, not pride, but something quieter and more profound. Relief. the relief of a boy who'd staked everything on his own judgment and watched it prove true. "It's fixed," Ethan said. "It's actually fixed." Marcus killed the engine not because it needed to stop, but because his hands were shaking too hard to keep holding the throttle and swung his leg off the bike on unsteady legs, staring at Ethan Carter like he was looking at a miracle standing in his own garage.
The cheer that broke out around them wasn't loud. Not yet. Not with a courtroom hearing still hanging over everyone's heads, but it was real. Sal clapped Ethan hard on the shoulder, Cutter grinning wide enough to show every tooth, even Reaper's stone face finally cracking into something that looked unmistakably like respect. 10 minutes, Dutch said, but this time his voice carried something different.
Not dread, but urgency wrapped in hope. Marlene was already moving, laptop in hand. I need everything documented right now this second. Every part Ethan touched, every modification he made, timestamped and logged before that hearing starts. If we can show the court this repair used entirely original engineering, not stolen technology, not reverse engineered patents, but a custom solution to a custom problem that could gut Precision Dine Technologies' entire claim before the judge even finishes reading their motion.
I've got the notes, Ethan said, pulling the legal pad toward him. Every measurement, every threshold, every part I touched. I wrote it all down as I went. Marlene stared at the pad for a moment, then at him, something like genuine surprise flickering across her sharp professional features. You documented your own work.
While fixing a $5.9 million motorcycle under a countdown to a courthouse. My dad always says, "If you don't write it down, you didn't really do it." Ethan said, "Made sense to keep that habit today of all days." Marlene almost smiled. Kid, if I ever need an expert witness, I'm calling you first.