If Obsidian thought intimidation would shut me up, they were wrong.
Let him scowl. Let him brood.
I had a story to break—and I was getting closer.
Chapter Six – Singapore Grand Prix
F1 Pulse Broadcast: Singapore Grand Prix, Pre-Race Coverage
MARTY: Good evening, motorsport fans around the world, and welcome to Singapore. The humidity is thick, the lights are blazing, and the tension down there on the grid could cut glass. Tara, if Melbourne was a warm-up, this is where the real season begins.
TARA: You can feel it, can’t you? That mix of nerves and adrenaline. And let’s talk about qualifying—because the usual script just got shredded. Aleksandr Volkov might be on pole again, but it wasn’t a walkover this time.
MARTY: Not by a long shot. Sofia Vega—yes, that Sofia Vega—put the Stratos car on the front row. The first rookie to do it in over a decade, and of course, the first woman in historyto do anything in this sport every time she hits the throttle. You could feel half the paddock blinking in disbelief.
TARA: She’s calm, sharp, and she’s not here to play nice. You should’ve seen the look on Luca Moretti’s face when she out-braked him into Turn Five during practice—pure Italian despair.
MARTY: Meanwhile, over at Obsidian, it’s not all champagne and chrome. Volkov’s still the man to beat, taking first place in yesterday’s sprint race, but his team mate Callum Drake… well, let’s just say qualifying didn’t go to plan. Fifteenth on the grid, nearly a second off Volkov’s pace.
TARA: And you could feel the tension in that garage. Volkov stormed straight past the press pen, Ross looked like a man who’s under pressure, and Drake looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. That’s not harmony, Marty—that’s a PR powder keg.
MARTY: Speaking of tension, the midfield’s getting spicy too. Jax Rivers and Matteo Ramos nearly came to blows in the paddock last night over Rivers cutting Ramos off in Q2. Tempers are running hotter than the track surface.
TARA: Which, by the way, is currently thirty-nine degrees. Tyre degradation’s going to be brutal tonight. The FIA has issued a weather warning for the heat, but the radar looks like it’ll stay dry.
MARTY: The idea behind moving this race to earlier in the schedule was supposed to combat the punishing heat and humidity, but we’ll have to see how the drivers feel afterwards, because so far it doesn’t feel any cooler.
TARA: Quite right, Marty. Strategy will matter as much as speed. But if anyone thrives in chaos, it’s Volkov. He’s clinical, unshakeable, a machine in human form.
MARTY: Unless, of course, someone finds the off switch. And judging by how restless the paddock’s been this week—certain journalists sniffing around, rival teams whispering incorners—I’d say not everyone believes the Obsidian rocket ship is running clean.
TARA: You just love trouble, don’t you?
MARTY: I call it journalism, Tara. Either way, grab your popcorn for sixty two laps of tension. Lights out in twenty minutes, and under these neon skies, anything could happen.
Aleksandr Volkov – Singapore Night Race
The air was thick enough to drink.
Singapore’s heat didn’t just press—it suffocated. Every breath felt heavy, humid, tainted with rubber and petrol. Even with the fans blasting down the grid, sweat crawled under my fireproofs. Two hours in this furnace would strip three kilos off me, maybe more.
The floodlights turned the street into daylight. Rows of cars lined up under the glare, liveries gleaming like jewels—red, blue, silver, gold. Obsidian’s machine sat at the front of them all, black and chrome reflecting the chaos like a blade. It looked the part. It always did.
Mechanics moved around me, unplugging cooling ducts, checking tyres. Somewhere in the noise, Ross was shaking hands with a sponsor. Callum stood further down the grid, pretending to study the car’s wing but clearly simmering.
I unclipped my helmet and set it on the nose of the car, tugged off the stifling balaclava and ran a gloved hand through my hair. Sweat dripped down my temple. Mac was kneeling by the front-left tyre, double-checking the pressures. His eyes flicked up.
“Track’s slicker than it looks,” he said quietly, just loud enough for me to hear over the engines. “Don’t get greedy out of Turn Five.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He gave me that look—half challenge, half concern.
I didn’t answer. The crowd’s noise rose—chants, horns, the distant crackle of fireworks somewhere above the marina. The whole city pulsed like a live wire.
Movement beside me drew my attention. Stratos crimson and navy sat in grid slot two, gleaming under the lights. Sofia Vega climbed out of her cockpit, peeling off her gloves, her dark hair slicked back as she removed her helmet. She adjusted her earpiece, scanning the grid with sharp rookie focus.
I stepped closer before I could talk myself out of it. “Turn Thirteen,” I said, nodding in the tricky turn’s general direction. “The inside line bites. Take it wide.”
