MARTY GRAVES: Well, if anyone wondered whether the new season would shake the old order—wonder no more! Aleksandr Volkov takes the chequered flag in Melbourne, making it look disgustingly easy.
TARA WHITCOMBE: Textbook Obsidian dominance. Smooth start, ruthless pace, and not a single mistake. Precision. Power. Perfection—they’ll be insufferable on the socials tonight.
MARTY: Behind Volkov, Luca Moretti wrung every ounce out of the Hawthorn, but he just couldn’t close the gap. And look who’s back on the podium—Jax Rivers, apparently deciding Nova Dynamics is his new stage.
TARA: It paid off for him. Risky overtake on lap forty-two, and somehow he didn’t end up in a wall. Growth, Marty. Personal growth.
MARTY: You sound almost proud.
TARA: Don’t ruin it. And let’s not forget the rookies—Sofia Vega bringing Stratos home in eleventh. Out-qualified half the grid, held her nerve, and kept it clean. Not bad for a début that half the paddock said would end in tears.
MARTY: Speaking of tears, Riley Chen’s day ended in the gravel after a tangle with Matteo Ramos. Tempest will be looking at that one in the stewards’ room for a while.
TARA: Racing incident, if you ask me. Two ambitious kids, one narrow corner, and physics did the rest.
MARTY: That’s Melbourne for you. But the story of the day? Obsidian. Still untouchable, still smug, and still giving everyone else nightmares. If the other teams have any hope of toppling Volkov this year, they’d better find an extra half-second and a miracle.
TARA: Because right now, it looks like the champion’s just getting started.
Aleksandr Volkov – Post-Race Press Pen
The podium haze still clung to me—champagne sticky on my hands, the sharp fizz of it caught in my throat. My cap dripped as I stepped off the stage, the roar of the crowd fading into the hum of generators and cameras. Another win. Another performance.
The Obsidian PR handler, Heidi, guided me through the maze of cables and microphones. “Sky first, then RTL, then the written press,” she said, already waving to the next crew. I’d done this dance enough times to know the steps.
“Congratulations, Aleksandr,” came the first voice. “Strong start to the season. What was going through your head those last few laps?”
Same questions. Always the same.
“Stay clean, keep focus, trust the team,” I said, nodding for the camera. The taste of victory and carbonation still sat on my tongue.
Another mic. Another grinning presenter.
“How confident are you going into Singapore?”
“As confident as today.”
“What about the rumours about the engine performance?”
My expression never faltered. “Rumours don’t win races.”
That line landed well.
Heidi steered me toward the final section—the written press. Not live, but worse in its way: more time to twist your words.
I recognised half the faces behind the barriers, phones ready, eyes sharp. And then I saw her.
Elena Archer, leaning on the rail, phone poised like a weapon. Hair pulled back, sunglasses gone this time. She looked every bit as composed as yesterday, but there was something new in her expression—amusement, maybe, or calculation.
The PR handler gestured. “We’ll take three questions.”
A man near the front got in first. “Aleksandr, a clean lights-to-flag victory. You make it look easy. Were you ever under pressure today?”
I gave him a practised half-smile. “It only looks easy because of the people behind me.”
A murmur of polite laughter. Cameras clicked and flashed.
Then Elena leaned forward over the barrier, voice cutting clean through the noise.
