TARA: Depends. If he’s driving badly, that’s one problem. If Obsidian are making him drive badly… that’s another. There’s something political going on there.
MARTY: Oof, that’s a spicy take.
TARA: I’m not saying sabotage. I’m just saying… resource distribution. The number-two syndrome. Anyone who remembers the early 2000s knows what I’m talking about.
JAMIE: Poor guy. He looks like he wants to apologise to the tyres every time he pits.
MARTY: He might be safe for now. But with results like this? That seat’s going to look awfully tempting to a few hungry young drivers.
TARA: Final thoughts before we wrap?
MARTY: Moretti on pole, Volkov breathing down his neck, Vega climbing like she’s allergic to being behind anyone… Suzuka’s going to be a cracker.
JAMIE: And I’ll be in the pit lane trying not to get run over. Tune in tomorrow!
Chapter Nine – Japanese Race Weekend
Elena Archer – Post Qualifying
Time was a noose. Tightening with every tick.
Qualifying was over. Volkov had finished second. The car was now in parc fermé, untouched. Allegedly.
And somewhere between now and Sunday afternoon, the cheat would happen. The software mapping switch. The fuel tweak. The thing no one could prove.
I had one shot to catch it. One window. And it was closing.
I loitered near the Obsidian hospitality suite, keeping to the bustling walkway, close enough to see who came and went but far enough not to draw suspicion. I’d already done three laps around the media centre pretending to look for a charger, then spent twenty minutes making myself invisible near a catering truck.
Nothing.
The mechanics were buttoned-up. The engineers were ghosts. No loose tongues, no slips of protocol. Ross was nowhere to be seen. Volkov had disappeared after the press conference.
And I was stuck watching doors.
A group of Nova crew passed by, chatting in bright voices. I kept my head down, notebook tucked against my ribs. I wasn’t technically breaking any rules—but journalists didn’t hover in the middle of the paddock without a reason.
That’s when I saw her. Clipboard in hand, navy FIA polo shirt, blonde hair in a loose knot, moving like someone with a purpose no one else could see.
She wasn’t looking at me.
But I had the sharp, unmistakable sense of being seen.
She passed twenty feet away, never breaking stride. Didn’t glance sideways. Didn’t pause. But the way she adjusted her pace as she passed me…
That wasn’t a coincidence.
She’d clocked me.
And she wanted me to know it.
But why?
I shifted my stance, pretending to check my phone, but kept her in my periphery. She showed her badge to the gate marshal and disappeared through, as unremarkable as any other FIA staffer.
I didn’t recognise her from the regular media briefings. Not one of the public-facing compliance officers. She moved like someone used to walking corridors that weren’t on the map.
And she’d noticed me. Not the way fans or drivers did. The way insiders did.
