One Month Later – Paris, IRC Headquarters
The atrium of the IRC's main building had been refitted into a neutral tribunal chamber. No banners. No brand sponsors. Just truth — finally standing on its own.
The tribunal panel consisted of four international judges, two whistleblower protection experts, and a rotating cyber ethics chair from the UN.
At the center of the room: Harinder Singh.
Unshaven, his turban proudly upon his head, suit wrinkled, but steady.
He answered every question calmly, never overplaying, never editorializing. Just facts. Logs. Names. Server trails. Driver lists. Video captures. Encryption keys. Every evidence possible.
> "Project Mira was not just an algorithm — it was a cage," he told them. "They turned adrenaline into data. Human instinct into market variables. They stole lives. You owe the victims more than a verdict, sir. You owe them memory."
The tribunal listened.
And for once?
They didn't look away.
Perth – Charlotte's Memorial Garden
A statue stood tall.
Not of her final pose on the podium. Not a corporate tribute.
But Charlotte Reid as a girl — helmet in hand, eyes fierce, wind in her hair.
At the base of the statue, someone had carved:
> "She saw the truth before the world did."
Sukhman stood there in silence, head bowed.
A rose in one hand.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
He just stood beside her, alone.
And remembered.
Her warnings. Her fire. Her last smile in Monza.
"I should've listened earlier," he whispered.
Behind him, Harinder waited respectfully.
When Sukhman turned, he offered a tired smile.
> "You think she'd forgive us?"
> "I think she already has, brother," Harinder replied.
They walked away together.
The world had changed — quietly.
But the scar it left would never fade.
---
Mumbai – Vaayu GP Factory
The wind tunnel was back online.
The simulator center was busier than ever — not with rushed telemetry, but raw data from hundreds of karting hopefuls across India.
Nandini leaned against the balcony, watching the test unit roll out — a brand new car design, stripped of foreign software.
All human.
All earned.
Behind her, Raghav approached.
> "Feels good to build something real again," he said.
> "Feels better not looking over my shoulder every day," she replied.
> "And now?"
> "Now," she smiled, "we will look forward."
---
Brisbane – Final Press Conference
The season had officially ended.
But the press still lingered for one final conversation.
Sukhman took the mic.
He wore no sponsor badges today. Just a white shirt. Clean. Honest.
> "I'm grateful for the title," he began. "But I didn't win alone. I won because some people refused to let the sport turn into a simulation. I drove the laps — but they fought the war."
Cameras clicked. Reporters typed fast.
> "This isn't about me. It's about what racing should be. No matter how far tech evolves, it should never replace courage. Or sacrifice. Or truth."
He paused.
Then added with a small smile,
> "And if any young kid out there is watching… you don't have to come from Monaco, or Silverstone, or Tokyo. Sometimes, you can come from Punjab."
A cheer broke out.
And this time?
It didn't feel like celebration.
It felt like home.
---
Somewhere Quiet – One Final Drive
Late night.
An open road outside Brisbane. Quiet. Empty. No cameras. No radio.
Just a lone Vaayu GP car, stripped for leisure. No race settings. No overlays.
Sukhman sat behind the wheel.
He hit the throttle — not to break records.
Just to feel it.
The raw pull. The hum of the machine. The vibration in his chest.
The sound of breath syncing with speed.
Not monitored.
Not modified.
Just real.
As the car flew into the horizon, with the ocean on one side and sky on the other, Sukhman laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
Because this wasn't the story of a world champion.
It was the story of a boy who refused to be overwritten.
---
Sukhman arrived at the airport. His sister, Manpreet texted him that she has a surprise for him. He should be at Brisbane airport at sharp 5 pm.
Now he is here. But still 15 minutes are left. One thing he can do for now is to scroll through Facebook. As henopens he can see people of India are going crazy by his victory. For some reason it felt really good. He can see some people are going too insane that they even deciding how to receive him in airport when he will arrive in Mumbai.
Siddenly a familiar voice called out, hesitant.
> "Sukhman?"
He turned. His mother stood there — eyes wet, hands trembling as she held back both pride and relief. Behind her was Manpreet, his sister, phone in hand, already capturing the moment.
And standing just a few steps back, arms crossed tightly, was Harjeet Singh — his father.
The man who once said racing was a dead-end.
The man who once refused to watch a single lap.
Sukhman took a slow breath.
Harjeet stepped forward.
He looked older than Sukhman remembered. Or maybe it was the years of tension finally leaving his frame.
He said nothing at first.
Just looked at his son.
> "You drove like a cheetah today," he said, voice rough. "Like you meant every inch of it."
Sukhman didn't reply.
He didn't trust himself to.
His father looked down, then back up, locking eyes with him.
> "I was wrong."
The words hung in the air.
Even the wind seemed to still.
> "You didn't choose an escape. You chose a battle I didn't have the courage to fight. You… made it more than sport. You made it truth."
Sukhman blinked, tears stinging at the edge of his eyes.
His father stepped closer.
Then, slowly, extended his hand.
Sukhman stared at it for a moment.
Then shook his head — and pulled him into a hug.
The elder Singh stiffened… then let go.
He returned the embrace. Tightly.
And in that moment, ten years of silence shattered.
No more running.
No more needing to prove anything.
Not to the world.
Not to his father.
Harinder turned away to give them space, just as Manpreet ran up and wrapped her arms around her brother too.
> "You did it, bhai," she whispered. "You have changed everything."
Their mother reached over and touched his cheek.
> "We're just happy you're safe," she said.
> "I'm more than safe," he whispered back. "I'm free."
They stood there in the golden glow, the family finally whole.
Behind them, the floodlights began to flicker off, one by one.
The roar of racing engines faded from memory, replaced by the soft rhythm of hearts reconnecting.
And just before the final light went out, Sukhman looked up at the grandstands and whispered to himself:
> "For every lap they tried to steal… I gave them one they could never touch."
---
The war is over.
The system is broken.
And for once — finally — the fastest lap had also been the purest one.
The soul of racing is safe... for now.
And so is the boy who never stopped believing he belonged on the track.
---
Final Words – From Harinder's Last Journal
> "We cracked the code, yes. But it wasn't about the data. It was about the people they tried to erase. The ones they turned into numbers.
Charlotte.
Diego.
Even Erik and Jia.
And Sukhman — the one they couldn't tame.
In a world that wanted engineered stars, he become something far rarer: a driver who raced with nothing but his truth.
We call that the soul of racing. And now… it lives on."