Five lights.
The storm in my chest stilled.
There was nothing left to say.
Only the drive remained.
The final light blinked on.
I took one last breath.
And let the monster out.
The lights vanished.
I launched.
Perfect clutch bite. Minimal wheelspin. I surged forward with violent grace, every muscle tuned to the machine around me. Behind me, engines screamed and tyres smoked, but they were just noise.
I was already gone.
Turn One came at 290kph. I braked later than was wise, later than was sane—right on the bleeding edge of adhesion. The rear twitched, but I caught it, threaded the needle. The city flashed by in chrome streaks and neon blurs. Seoul’s brand-new street circuit was tight, technical, brutal.
Good. Let it fight me.
I didn’t lift.
By lap three I’d broken DRS range.
By lap five, I was three seconds clear.
Mac was in my ear again. “Gap to Rivers: 3.2. Your pace is surgical. Keep this rhythm.”
Surgical? No. I wasn’t slicing.
I was carving my legacy into the tarmac.
Every corner was a test, and I passed them all. Brake late. Downshift crisp. Ride the kerbs. Use the wall to judge the inch-perfect line. Others flinched at barriers. I kissed them.
Let the track come for me. Let the world think I was broken. Let them whisper that Obsidian made me.
Today I was the blade, not the hand wielding it.
And I would cut.
Mid-race pit stop—tight, clean, efficient. Back out in clear air.
“Everything’s green. You’re untouchable right now.” Mac said, his voice calm and collected.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was too far inside the rhythm. Every cell in my body vibrated to the song of the car—engine pitch, tyre feedback, g-forces like a drumbeat in my skull. This was more than control. This was flow.
This was why I did it.
Not for the podiums. Not for the headlines.
Not even for the titles.
For this feeling.
