The sky was still painted in soft tone of pink and orange as Nico arrived at the old racetrack. It felt like a world away from the polished circuits he'd seen on television or raced on before. Weeds sprouted from the cracks in the asphalt, and the faded paint of the starting grid barely clung to the surface. A slight chill hung in the air, but it did little to cool Nico's growing anticipation.
Parked near the track was a battered van, as rusted and worn as Nico's own kart, if not more. Leaning against the side, arms crossed, was Vincent.
"You're late," Vincent said without looking at his watch.
"It's 5:55. You said sunrise," Nico replied, glancing at the faint glow creeping over the horizon.
"And the real workday starts before the sun," Vincent shot back. He gestured toward the kart Nico had just unloaded. "Get it ready. We've got work to do."
Nico hurried to check the tires and tighten bolts, every movement precise and practiced. When he was done, he looked up to find Vincent studying him.
"You know how to keep that thing running," Vincent said, his gravelly voice softening slightly. "That's good. But out there? Maintenance won't mean a thing if you don't know how to push it—and yourself—to the limit."
Vincent waved Nico onto the track and crossed his arms as the young driver climbed into his kart.
"Just drive," Vincent instructed. "I don't care about speed or technique right now. Show me what you've got."
Nico pressed the accelerator, and the kart sputtered to life. As he navigated the track, it became clear that this wasn't going to be a straightforward test. Potholes dotted the asphalt, demanding careful navigation, while sharp corners appeared with little warning.
After a few laps, Vincent waved him in.
"You're hesitant on the corners," Vincent said bluntly. "Too much braking. You're losing valuable time."
Nico frowned, gripping the edges of his helmet. "I'm trying to avoid spinning out. This track is—"
"This track is perfect," Vincent interrupted. "Races aren't held in pristine conditions, Nico. There'll be rain, oil spills, and drivers who'll shove you off the line without a second thought. Learn to adapt, or you'll never make it."
Vincent introduced a series of drills designed to test Nico's precision and courage.
"First up: brake control," Vincent said, placing a series of cones at varying distances around the track. "You're going to drive flat out and stop at the exact cone I call out. Miss it by more than a meter, and you're doing it again."
Nico started the drill, his focus narrowing as he hurtled toward the cones. Each time Vincent barked a number, Nico slammed the brakes, his tires screeching against the asphalt. The first few attempts were sloppy, but he gradually improved, learning to trust his instincts.
Next came cornering. Vincent set up a makeshift chicane with worn-out tires and barrels.
"Late braking," Vincent emphasized as Nico approached the first turn. "Don't even think about the brake until the last possible second. Let the kart feel the edge of control."
The kart fishtailed through the chicane, skimming the barrels with every pass. Sweat dripped down Nico's face as he looped the track again and again, Vincent shouting corrections from the sidelines.
"You're thinking too much!" Vincent yelled after one particularly messy run. "Racing is instinctual. Feel the kart. Trust it!"
As the sun climbed higher, Vincent called for a break. Nico climbed out of the kart, his arms and shoulders aching from the relentless drills.
"You're not bad," Vincent admitted, handing Nico a bottle of water. "Rough around the edges, sure. But you've got something most of these rich kids don't."
"Yeah? What's that?" Nico asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Guts," Vincent replied. He leaned against a fence, staring out at the track. "You're not afraid to push when you need to. But guts will only get you so far. You've got to be smarter than them too."
Vincent fell silent for a moment, his sharp eyes clouding with memory.
"Were you a driver?" Nico asked cautiously.
Vincent smirked. "Once upon a time. But I learned the hard way that raw talent isn't enough. The people at the top… they've got more than skill. They've got resources, connections, and the mindset to use every advantage they can get."
"What happened?" Nico pressed.
"That's a story for another day," Vincent said, pushing off the fence. "Right now, your story is what matters."
When Nico returned home that evening, his father was waiting in the cramped kitchen, his arms crossed.
"You've been gone all day," his father said, his tone sharp. "What were you doing?"
"Training," Nico replied, setting his helmet on the counter.
"With who? That Vincent guy?" His father's brow furrowed. "You don't even know him. For all we know, he's just some washed-up racer looking to make a quick buck."
"He's helping me, Dad," Nico argued. "You didn't see what he showed me today. I'm getting better."
"You think better is good enough?" his father shot back. "Those kids you're racing against—they've got the best of everything. Coaches, equipment, money. What do we have?"
Nico clenched his fists. "We have me. And I'm not giving up just because we don't have a fancy trailer or a team of mechanics."
His father sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "I just don't want you to get hurt, Nico. You've got talent, but talent won't pay the bills."
"Neither will giving up," Nico said quietly.
The tension hung in the air as his father finally turned away, muttering, "Dinner's on the table."
The next morning, Nico met Vincent again. This time, the focus shifted from driving to strategy.
"Racing isn't just physical," Vincent said, tossing a few battered cones onto the track. "It's mental. You need to know your opponents better than they know themselves."
He explained the importance of watching for patterns—how certain drivers braked too early, took wide lines, or hesitated in wheel-to-wheel battles.
"To beat them, you don't just need to be faster. You need to be smarter. Exploit their weaknesses, make them doubt themselves."
As Nico practiced, Vincent pointed out ways to shave precious milliseconds off his laps.
"See that pothole?" Vincent asked as Nico rounded a turn. "Most drivers avoid it. You? Drive through it. Use it to cut the corner and unsettle your opponents."
By the end of the day, Nico was visibly improving. He nailed the chicanes with precision and found ways to maximize his kart's limited power.
Vincent nodded approvingly as Nico climbed out of the kart. "Not bad, kid. But don't get comfortable. The next race is going to be tougher. You're not just racing against kids like Lars anymore. The stakes are higher."
"What do you mean?" Nico asked.
"You'll see," Vincent said cryptically, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
As Nico loaded his kart back into the van, he spotted Lars watching from across the track. The other driver's expression was unreadable, but the tension in his posture was clear.
Nico tightened his grip on the kart's frame. Whatever lay ahead, he was ready to face it.