Twenty engines screamed into the humid dark, the sound crashing off the glass walls of Marina Bay and back again until it felt like the air itself was tearing apart. My tyres bit, rear twitching once, twice, before locking in. I launched clean.
Turn One came at me like a blade.
Sofia Vega’s Stratos darted alongside, white, navy and crimson ghosting in my peripheral vision, audacious for a rookie but clean. I tightened the line, gave her a metre, no more. She took it. Smart girl.
Behind us, chaos bloomed. A yellow flare of sparks—someone clipping the wall. The roar of the crowd rose, echoing through the concrete canyon.
“Good launch,” Mac’s voice cut through the static. “Point five second gap on the entry. Keep it tidy, track’s green.”
“Copy.” Focus.
Turn Five shimmered ahead under floodlight glare—slick, treacherous, exactly as he’d warned. I braked late, trail-balanced through, feathered the throttle. The car twitched, righted. The G-force punched me into the seat. Every muscle in my body screamed, sweat already beading inside my gloves.
Sector Two was a furnace. Tight, narrow, unforgiving. The engine temp spiked; I felt it vibrate through the steering column.
“Rear temps rising,” Mac warned. “Cool the tyres through Ten to Twelve.”
“Copy,” I said through clenched teeth.
In the mirrors, Vega’s Stratos stayed sharp—steady, disciplined, not folding under pressure. The rookie had guts, I’d give her that. A flash of respect—or irritation—burned through my chest before I crushed it flat.
The city blurred around the circuit—skyscrapers like towers of molten glass, the harbour reflecting every light. Neon flashed by in a blur. The air inside my helmet was a storm. I could smell fuel and sweat, taste iron and adrenaline.
Lap three.
I caught a glimpse of Drake’s car on one of the big screens as I streaked down the straight. He was late into Turn Six. Too deep. The back end snapped and kissed the barrier, a spray of carbon sparks lighting up the corner.
“Yellow flag, Sector Two,” Mac reported calmly. “Callum’s kissed the wall. Keep pace, no debris line.”
Figures.
I gritted my teeth. He’d blamed the car, but his driving wasn’t prize-winning even on his best day. But a tiny part of me wondered if my car was too perfect.
“Mac,” I muttered, “torque delivery feels… early.”
Static, then his voice, neutral. “Telemetry looks fine.”
“Doesn’t feel fine.”
“Eyes forward, Aleks. You’ve got Vega closing half a tenth.”
I adjusted, downshifted, felt the chassis bite back into place. The sound from the Stratos behind me changed—overrev on the corner exit, a rookie push, too eager. I smiled.
“She’s overdriving,” I said.
“Then let her burn her tyres,” Mac replied.
Lap after lap, the rhythm took over. Brake, turn, throttle, sweat. The steering wheel thrummed under my hands, the edges of my vision trembling with heat and concentration.
Every corner of Marina Bay was a trap, and I was dancing on the edge of it.
I wasn’t thinking about the scandal. Or Ross. Or Archer.
Except I was.
Because every time the lights flashed across the grandstands, I thought of her—Archer. The glint in her eyes, the challenge in her voice. The question I hadn’t answered.
She’d gotten under my skin, and I hated that I could feel her there, flitting through my thoughts even as the world blurred at three hundred kilometres an hour.
