Focus.
Focus.
Turn Fourteen. I hit the apex like a heartbeat.
Precision. Power. Perfection.
Just as I was approaching Turn Sixteen of lap forty, the rhythm snapped without warning.
A flash of yellow lights on the gantry. Then Mac’s voice—calm, clipped. “Yellow, yellow. Safety car deployed. Crash in Sector Two. Box this lap. Repeat, box, box.”
“Copy.”
No hesitation. I backed off the throttle and swung toward pit entry, tyres squealing on the painted line. The roar of the race dropped to a growl as I hit the limiter, the floodlights of the lane flickering past like camera flashes.
The Obsidian crew was waiting—black and chrome blurring into motion as my car came to a halt.
The car lifted. Four wheels off. Four wheels on. A perfect stop.
“Go, go,” Mac snapped.
I tore out of the box and back into the pit lane, lights strobing across the carbon fibre. Moretti had stacked behind Kane, and the Hawthorn pit looked frantic in my mirrors. Everyone had jumped at the same opportunity, but I was already through.
Back on track, the safety car loomed ahead, orange lights flashing. I slipped in just before it picked up the leader—me.
“Beautiful stop,” Mac said. “You’re still P1. Both Hawthorns pitted, Vega too. Everyone’s on fresh tyres. Temps look good. Just manage the restart.”
“Copy,” I said, keeping my tone level.
The heat hit harder now that the speed had bled away. The field bunched tight behind me, a ribbon of cars winding through the glow of the floodlights, engines rumbling low and frustrated. I toggled the brake balance forward, coasting to keep the pressures stable.
Singapore was always brutal. The attrition was mounting—five DNFs flashing red on the board. The track gleamed like oil under the street lights, treacherous and slick.
Mac’s voice came back, calm but firmer now. “Safety car in this lap. Mode seven on restart. Everyone’s bunched, so keep yer nose clean through Turn One.”
“Understood,” I said.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, flexed my fingers. The sweat on my palms made the suede slick. My breathing slowed, precise, mechanical.
But underneath it, the thought still itched.
The car felt… different. Too perfect. Like it was reading me before I moved.
The safety car lights blinked out ahead. I rolled to the final corner, building tension through the throttle, waiting for that green light to drop.
Ross’s voice replayed in my head from the debrief days ago.
Leave the conspiracy theories to the internet.
But I couldn’t. Not any more.
The car felt too clean. Too exact. Torque delivery so smooth it bordered on unnatural. I knew the Obsidian engine betterthan anyone alive. Every vibration, every whine, every heartbeat of it.
And tonight, something was off, despite everything being the same.
The lights above the grandstands blurred as we crawled along behind the safety car. Vega’s car shimmered in the reflections, a streak of colour on black asphalt just behind me. Drake was further down the order, his team radio no doubt full of excuses.
I rolled my shoulders. The heat pressed against me like a weight, sweat soaking through my balaclava, eyes burning with salt.
