“Careful there,” Mac warned. “Keep it tidy.”
“Copy.”
I let the mistake go. No time to dwell. Coming out of Turn Ten, I spotted the racing green and gold flash of Luca Moretti in my mirrors—Hawthorn’s golden boy, already on a flying lap and closing fast. I could’ve moved aside, lifted off and let him through. But I wasn’t going to hand him P1.
I stayed my line through Turns Twelve and Thirteen.
He tucked in close, then pulled alongside as we approached the straight, like he was going to drag me down the stretch.
“Volkov, play nice,” Mac warned, firm now. “Don’t take the bait.”
“I’m not,” I said, jaw tight.
But I didn’t lift either.
We ran almost side-by-side for a heartbeat too long—close enough that I could see his helmet turn toward me. He held his nerve a second longer than I did, peeling off with a cocky swerve toward the racing line.
Bastard.
I let it go and focused on the next lap.
Clean entry. Strong exit. I kept my foot down through sector three, chasing purple times, hunting milliseconds.
The chequered flag waved as I crossed the line.
“P2,” Mac called. “Moretti just snatched pole.”
I let out a breath and eased off the throttle. It wasn’t the top spot—but I’d made the front row. That was what mattered.
“Good recovery, Aleks,” Ross said, voice crackling in. “You’re where you need to be. We fight from the front.”
“Copy that.”
I coasted into the pit lane and pulled up to the garage, engine winding down. Mechanics lined up like soldiers, clapping as I climbed out.
Mac met me by the car, his expression somewhere between satisfied and unreadable. “Tidy work. You let him through when it mattered. Smart choice.”
I pulled off my gloves and nodded. “He’s fast.”
“So are you.”
I caught a glimpse of Moretti receiving congratulations from his team just the next garage down, all swagger and smirk, his gold-tipped visor now propped on his helmet like a crown. He glanced my way and tipped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute.
I didn’t return it.
Let him enjoy the win today. Tomorrow was the real race.
And I’d be right beside him when it counted.
Elena Archer – Shanghai Circuit, Saturday Afternoon
I jogged down the media corridor, clutching my notebook to my chest and dodging camera crews like I was on a timed obstacle course. The paddock was chaos—drivers darting between debriefs, engineers on headsets, PR reps with clipboards barking orders like drill sergeants. The kind of chaos I usually thrived in. But today?
Today I was barely holding it together.
I’d just wrapped interviews with three midfield drivers—none of whom had anything useful to say—and still had to upload notes, chase a quote from someone at Nova, and maybe breathe at some point. Just not yet.
“Elena!”
