The safety car peeled away.
I took a long breath.
The doubts, the whispers, the unease—they’d have to wait.
Because when the lights went green again, instinct took over.
The launch was perfect.
The line was pristine.
Every gear shift sharp, every corner alive.
The car was a weapon—and whatever was hidden inside it, I was its trigger.
I glanced in my mirrors. Vega had fallen back. Moretti was behind me now.
Turn Ten flashed past in a blur of light and colour; Moretti darted left, hunting the inside line, but I’d already seen it coming. I braked late, hugged the kerb, and powered out clean. Grip held. The rear twitched once, then bit.
“Moretti’s got DRS, watch your six.”
“Copy.”
I took Turn Thirteen hard and gave the car everything for the straight, Moretti hunched right behind me. But I held himoff in Turn Fourteen and by Turn Fifteen, the gap opened. Two-tenths. Three. Half a second.
“Beautiful drivin’, champ,” Mac said in my ear. “Yer clear to push.”
I did.
The car flowed through the corners like liquid metal, sliding from apex to apex with surgical precision. Every vibration sang through the wheel, each shift smooth as a blade drawn from its sheath.
My mirrors showed nothing but distant light. Moretti had fallen behind, fending off his team mate, Oliver Kane, while the rest of the field fought for scraps. I caught sight of Vega on one of the big screens—her Stratos sliding slightly wide through Turn Nine, tyres slick with heat. She was losing grip, dropping pace. Rookie lungs in veteran conditions. Still, she kept fighting it.
Respect.
“Pace is perfect,” Mac said. “Fuel delta nominal. Just bring it home.”
I should have felt elation. Pride.
Instead, all I felt was… wrong.
The car was still too perfect. Its timing, its balance, its obedience. Like it was compensating before I even moved.
I hit the back straight, full throttle. The engine screamed in the humid dark, and for a heartbeat, I swore I heard it—an almost imperceptible shift in the note, like a whisper sliding under the roar.
Then it was gone.
I forced the thought away.
Four laps to go. Focus.
The city glittered on both sides of the track, a wall of light and smoke and human noise. Sweat trickled down my back. The tyres were gone, the air was molten, and my hands were shakinginside the gloves. But the car—my perfect, impossible car—didn’t falter.
Lap sixty-two. Chequered flag ahead.
I crossed the line, engine howling.
“P1, P1, that’s the win, Aleks! You beauty!” Mac’s voice was raw with triumph. “Absolutely flawless.”
