Mason's hands moved with surgical precision, feeling along the trunk's felt lining. Her fingers found a seam that shouldn't exist. She pulled, and a hidden panel popped open, revealing a compact leather pouch wrapped in protective cloth.
The crowd pressed closer. Vivian's phone captured every movement, her viewer count spiking to 120,000. The chat exploded: What is that? Hidden compartment? This girl came prepared.
Mason unwrapped the pouch. Inside: a custom fuel pressure gauge, a specialized vapor release valve, and a handwritten card in her father's distinctive scrawl: For the day they realize they need you. —Dad.
Her hands trembled holding that card. Calvin Harris had known. Somehow, he'd known this moment would come.
Sterling's face had gone from smug to uncertain. "That's... that's my property. Anything in that car belongs to—"
"This toolkit was installed in 2010," Mason interrupted, her voice stronger now. "6 months before you fired my father. Before you erased him." She held up the pressure gauge. "This is the only tool that can diagnose vapor lock in the Atlantic series. Your expensive mechanics don't have it because my father invented it."
Gary's face went white as chalk. He recognized that tool. He'd seen Calvin use it.
The countdown timer on the platform's digital display glared red: 09:42 remaining.
Sterling's jaw clenched. "Fine. You have your little toys. You still have to actually fix the car, street rat. And when you fail—and you will fail—I'm having you arrested for theft of that toolkit."
Mason locked eyes with him. "When I succeed, you pay 50,000 in front of everyone. On camera."
"When you fail," Sterling countered, his smile returning, "you apologize to every person here for wasting our time. On your knees."
The crowd gasped. Vivian's chat went ballistic. Even some guests looked uncomfortable with that demand.
Keisha screamed from the gates. "Don't do it, Mason! He's trying to humiliate you!"
Mason looked at the toolkit, then at the Bugatti, then back at Sterling. "Deal," she said, and the timer hit 09:00.
Mason popped the Bugatti's hood. The engine bay gleamed under the spotlights, a masterpiece of pre-war engineering that had cost more to restore than most people earned in a lifetime. Dual overhead camshafts, hand-assembled cylinder heads, polished aluminum manifolds that reflected her face back at her like a funhouse mirror. Her father had touched every piece of this. 15 years ago, his hands had rebuilt this exact engine. Now, his daughter's hands would save it.
The countdown timer glared: 08:43.
Mason's fingers traced the fuel lines with eerie confidence, muscle memory inherited through late nights in her father's garage, back when they had a garage, back when they had anything.
The primary fuel pump checked normal. Secondary delivery system: normal. But there... her fingers stopped on the pressurized feed line connecting the tank to the carburetor. "Temperature differential," she murmured, more to herself than the crowd pressing uncomfortably close.
She pulled out her father's custom pressure gauge, a brass and copper instrument that looked like Victorian steampunk next to the Bugatti's Art Deco elegance. Gary Wilson watched from 10 feet away, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. When Mason reached for the connection point, he stepped forward with a wrench.
"You'll need this. The fitting is custom threaded."
Mason took it. The weight felt wrong immediately. She looked down: it was a 7/16 wrench. The Atlantic series used 11mm metric fittings. This wrench wouldn't even grip properly; it would strip the threads if she forced it. Gary had just tried to sabotage her.
Mason's eyes lifted to meet his. For one heartbeat, they stared at each other, her confusion morphing into understanding, his guilt barely concealed behind professional neutrality.
"Thanks," she said quietly, setting the wrong wrench aside. "But I'll use my own tools."
She reached into her backpack and pulled out a bent coat hanger, straightened and filed to a precise taper. The crowd murmured—some with derision, others with fascination. Vivian's livestream chat exploded: A coat hanger? Is she serious? This girl's crazy.
07:55 on the timer.
Mason slid the makeshift tool into the pressure release valve, feeling for the internal mechanism. Her father's voice echoed in her memory: Expensive tools impress people. Simple tools solve problems.
Click. The valve unseated. A hiss of pressurized vapor escaped—not explosive, but sustained and telling. Mason grabbed the pressure gauge and connected it to the diagnostic port. The needle swung hard right: 85 PSI, nearly triple the normal operating pressure.
"Vapor lock confirmed," she announced, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "The fuel system's been building pressure all evening. That's why your diagnostics showed green. Electrically, everything's perfect. Mechanically, it's choking itself."
A businessman in the crowd, expensive suit, Rolex catching the light, leaned toward his companion. "How does a homeless girl know this?"
Because my father was a master, Mason wanted to scream. Because he spent 15 years documenting problems rich people's mechanics couldn't solve. Because he created solutions they're still using without crediting him. But she stayed silent and kept working.
07:12 remaining.
That's when Keisha somehow slipped past the security perimeter. Mason's 12-year-old sister squeezed through the crowd, breathless and determined, carrying something heavy wrapped in a tattered blanket.
"You forgot this." Keisha thrust the bundle into Mason's hands.