Three Weeks Ago – Post Brazilia GP (GP5)
The Vaayu GP garage had quieted down. Mechanics packed equipment. Fans had left. Sukhman was off giving interviews. Harinder sat on a folded chair near the rear truck, sipping chai from a half-crushed thermos, nursing the hollowness of another tense weekend.
His phone buzzed — not with a call. A local Bluetooth prompt?
> "Do not panic. Turn off cellular. Walk to Gate C-5. No security."
He stood up instinctively, unsure whether to laugh or shiver. The true caller app of his phone showed no ID.
He looked around. Just fluorescent lights flickering and some distant laughter.
But Harinder wasn't one to ignore a mystery.
---
Gate C-5 – 11:47 PM
Behind the carbon fence, where the media trucks lined up for early morning hauls, a figure stood beside a nondescript grey van. Hoodie drawn, face hidden, voice modulated.
> "You're Harinder Singh, yes?"
Harinder stopped. "Who's asking?"
> "Someone who doesn't want to see Mr. Singh end up in a coffin."
That did it. Harinder's smirk faded. He took one step forward.
The man held up a tablet — running telemetry playback from the Brazilia GP. A sharp flicker between steering input and ECU response.
> "This was Charlotte's car. She wasn't at fault. And Montoya's car? Same signal glitch. Mid-turn override."
Harinder's voice dropped. "Are you saying… the crash was planned?"
The man didn't nod. He didn't need to.
> "Others data shows similar anomalies. You just haven't seen it yet. I wish it doesn't happen but there's a high possibility that it can happen again. In that case not only them but also other drivers surrounding them may be affected."
---
Back at the Hotel – Harinder's Room
He dug into the data dump the man had slipped onto a drive.
Encrypted. Triple-layered.
Harinder stared at the screen, its lines of code reflecting faintly in his eyes. The file blinked back at him — secured behind three layers of encryption. Every part of its existence screamed one thing: classified. Someone had gone to great lengths to bury whatever this was.
He sighed, running a hand down his face. I'm a bodyguard, he reminded himself. Not a hacker. Not an investigator. Just muscle with a conscience. But now, he was in the middle of something way bigger than fists and bullets.
Still, there was someone he could trust.
He unlocked his phone and tapped the number with a trembling thumb. It was late in Boston, but she always answered.
The line clicked.
"Phone kar raha hai itni raat ko (calling this late)… this better not be about your weird protein shake recipes again."
Harinder let out a soft chuckle despite the storm inside him.
"No, didi… It's serious. I need your help."
Her voice sharpened instantly.
"What happened?"
"I found a file," Harinder said, his voice low and tense. "On someone's private server. It's… encrypted. Triple-layered. I've never seen anything like it. I think it has something to do with the crash. With Charlotte. Ypu know that Australian racer who died yesterday."
There was a pause.
"Send me a screenshot of the encryption protocols. Now."
He complied quickly, snapping a picture of the screen and sending it via Signal.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. He paced. His muscles were coiled like springs.
Finally, her voice returned. Calm, but laced with tension.
"This isn't just encrypted. It's government-grade. Whoever sealed this wanted it invisible and untouchable. You weren't supposed to find this."
"Can you break it?" he asked.
Shanaya hesitated.
"It's not about can I — it's about should I. Harinder, if this is what I think it is, we're walking into dangerous territory. And you're already neck-deep."
"I need to know the truth, Shanaya." His voice was firm now. "A people has died. A good person. And no one's talking. I think someone in power is covering it up."
Another pause. He could hear her exhale.
"Okay. I'll help you. But I need time. This kind of encryption isn't something you break open with a hammer. It's like defusing a bomb — blindfolded."
"How long?"
"Give me an hour. Maybe two. Don't try to open it yourself. Don't let it connect to any public network. And for god's sake, don't let anyone know you have it."
Harinder nodded.
"Thanks, didi. I owe you."
"You already owe me for four rakhi gifts. Don't make this a fifth."
Her voice softened.
"Be careful, Harinder. Whatever's behind this… they won't hesitate to protect it."
The line disconnected, but her final words stayed with him — lingering like a warning carved into steel.
Harinder looked back at the screen.
Triple-layered. But not for long.
---
Two hours later, with her help he watched it in full: a race software patch pushed to multiple HUD units during GP2–GP5, disguised as an official update.
It rewrote input handling. It could interfere with steering, braking, even throttle response.
Worse — it could mimic driver error.
> "Bloody hell... They made it look like they caused their own crashes."
His hands trembled. Sukhman's name appeared in a flagged list.
> "Target: S.Singh. High engagement rating. High risk."
---
Return Message – Back to the Mysterious Informant
> Harinder: "Who are you?"
Unknown: "That's not your concern."
Harinder: "Why me?"
Unknown: "Because no one's watching you. That makes you perfect for my plan."
Harinder: "What do you want?"
Unknown: "I want you to expose them."
---
Lusail GP – Turning Point
By GP7, Harinder had traced fragments of the firmware's origin to a phantom supplier based out of the European mainland — Germany or the Czech Republic, possibly both.
He confronted one engineer at Lusail, who went pale when Harinder referenced "Patch Sigma-4b" from Monza.
That night, Harinder made his choice.
---
Harinder Leaves the Grid
Just before the Mumbai GP, Harinder vanished from the Vaayu GP paddock.
He left a secure voicemail for Raghav:
> "Chasing something big. Protect Sukhman. Trust no one. Especially not the new telemetry engineer — cross-check her paperwork."
Then he was gone.
Through whispers, he made his way to the European continent — first to Brno, then Berlin — tracking a logistics shell company called ZephyrSync, registered under multiple aliases, which supplied blackbox data middleware to at least three World GP teams.
Every stop pulled him deeper into something murkier. Someone was buying influence over race outcomes. And not just for fame.
---
Present Timeline – Sukhman's Regret
The Mumbai rain was soft against the glass of Sukhman's apartment. Despite the GP win, he didn't celebrate.
Harinder's absence is haunting him.
Their last conversation — an argument. His words still echoed:
> "You're not funny anymore, Harinder. You're just obsessed."
He didn't know his friend was protecting him.
He didn't know Harinder was risking everything for him.
> "You idiot…" Sukhman whispered to the window, voice cracking. "You were right there. And I pushed you away."
---
Meanwhile – The World Watches
The media frothed with rumors:
"Where is Harinder Singh? Vaayu GP's Watchdog Goes Dark"
"F1 Sabotage Theory or Delusion? Rumors of Data Manipulation Emerge Post-Lusail"
"GP Drama Continues: Can Sukhman Singh Challenge for the Title Without His Bodyguard?"
Callum Graves made a sly remark in an interview:
> "Not all drivers need security guards to race. But hey, whatever makes you feel safe…"
IRC declined to comment, but internally, they opened a confidential inquiry.
Too many coincidences. Too many crashes. Too many secrets.