TARA: Hold on—hold on, we’re staying with the feed—they’re out of the cars and—
MARTY: Oh no. Ohhhh, this is boiling over. Moretti’s gone after Volkov.
TARA: They're across the barrier. Helmets off. Oh god. Oh—he’s hit him! That was a punch—right to the jaw!
MARTY: Bloody hell.
TARA: Marty!
MARTY: Apologies! But—come on. Moretti just clocked Volkov on live international television. That’s—well, that’s a full meltdown.
TARA: Marshals are in now. They're dragging him back. Volkov’s staying calm—or at least trying to.
MARTY: I... I mean. Wow. That is going to send shockwaves through the paddock.
TARA: It’s already trending. My producer’s holding up a tablet. “Volkov vs Moretti” is blowing up. No surprise.
MARTY: What the hell happens now? Penalties? Suspensions? A full-blown investigation?
TARA: You can bet the stewards will be pulling every inch of footage. And I’d hate to be either team’s PR right now.
MARTY: Yeah. This one’s going to get messy.
TARA: We’ll bring you updates as we get them. For now—deep breath, everyone. The race is still live. The safety car is leading the pack, and we’ll reset as soon as we can. But... that was absolute chaos.
MARTY: Fifteen laps in. Two front runners out. One punch thrown. Buckle up.
Elena Archer – Press Pen, Shanghai Circuit
The gasp that tore through the press pen wasn’t just from me—it was a ripple of shock that silenced every clinking glass and halted every lazy conversation mid-sentence.
I stared at the screen. Watched the impact again in slow motion. The spray. The shudder. The wreckage spinning through the wet.
Then the punch.
My hand flew to my mouth as Luca Moretti’s fist connected with Aleksandr Volkov’s jaw, right there on live television, with marshals shouting and cameras flashing and the whole bloody world watching.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “He hit him.”
Caroline stepped up beside me. “He deserved it,” she muttered under her breath.
I didn’t answer. My heart was hammering so hard I thought I might be sick. The camera panned to a replay. Multiple angles. Frame by frame. The lunge. The collision. The crash.
I knew what everyone else was thinking: Volkov caused it.
And he had.
But the way he walked away from that car, jaw set, shoulders squared—even after being clocked across the face—it didn’t look like guilt.
It looked like war.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fumbled to pull it free.
Graham’s name lit up the display.
I hesitated, then answered.
“Tell me you’re still at the circuit,” he said. No greeting.
