The orange blur of Daniel Cruz's car filled Leo's mirrors, hounding him with relentless pressure. Every straight was a threat, every corner an ambush. The roar of engines around him blurred into a single storm, but Daniel's presence was sharp, surgical, inescapable.
"Defend, Leo. Don't overdo it," Javier's calm voice came through the radio. Easier said than done.
They tore into Siren's Bend again, side by side. Leo held the inside line, braking later than he dared. The tires squealed in protest, smoke rising as the car trembled on the edge of grip. Daniel was forced to yield, sliding just behind. For now.
Leo's pulse raced faster than his engine. He's stronger. He's faster. But I can't let him through.
The pack ahead was breaking away, five cars in a furious fight of their own. If Leo lost momentum now, the leaders would vanish. He clenched the wheel, jaw set. This wasn't just about finishing. This was about proving he belonged.
Down the back straight, Cruz attacked again. The slipstream dragged him closer, the orange nose diving toward Leo's rear wing. The crowd roared as Cruz pulled alongside, their cars slicing through the air neck-and-neck at over 250 kilometers per hour.
The Cliffside Chicane loomed.
Leo knew the statistics: nine out of ten times, two cars side by side through there ended in disaster.
But giving up wasn't an option.
"Don't let fear drive you," Adrian's words echoed in his mind.
They plunged into the chicane together.
Leo's tires skated over the curb, the car shuddering violently. The ocean blurred past his right side, terrifyingly close. He could almost feel the pull of the abyss. For a heartbeat, everything slowed: the crowd's distant roar, the scream of engines, even the pounding of his own heart.
Then—he was through. Ahead.
Cruz had backed off, forced wide by Leo's audacity. The orange car twitched, nearly losing grip, before settling back behind.
"Brilliant, Leo! That's how you fight!" Javier shouted through the radio.
Leo exhaled sharply, his visor fogging for a moment. He wasn't safe yet—not even close. But in that instant, as the car rocketed down the next straight, something shifted inside him.
For the first time, he felt not like a boy chasing heroes, but like a racer among them.
The laps blurred into a storm of speed. Ten, then eleven. Every corner demanded perfection, every straight threatened with Cruz's relentless shadow.
Leo's hands ached from gripping the wheel, sweat trickling under his helmet. His breathing came fast, too fast, but he forced himself to stay calm. A single mistake here meant more than losing a position—it meant disaster.
"Car ahead is slowing," Javier's voice cut in. "Push, Leo, push now!"
He saw it—two cars battling just before the chicane. Their duel left the door cracked open. Leo lunged. The blue-and-white machine surged forward, tires screaming as he threaded between them. For a heartbeat, all three cars were locked together, sidepods nearly touching. The crowd's roar became deafening.
Leo braked late, heart in his throat. He squeezed through. One car clipped the curb too hard, jolting into the runoff. The other fell behind.
P5.
From tenth on the grid to fifth. He almost couldn't believe it.
But then came the shadow.
Daniel Cruz. Again.
The orange car blasted down the straight, fury in its speed. He'd followed Leo's every move, refusing to fade. And now, with half the race gone, he was ready to strike.
Leo braced for the attack.
The first corner—blocked.The hairpin—defended.The chicane—barely survived.
But Cruz was merciless. He wasn't just faster—he was smarter, waiting for the perfect moment.
Lap fourteen. Siren's Bend.
Leo braked late again, too late. The rear of the car twitched, sliding wide. In that heartbeat of imbalance, Cruz dove inside, impossibly quick, impossibly clean. The orange car swept past, sparks flying as it seized the racing line.
"Cruz is through," Javier confirmed. "Stay with him, Leo. Learn."
Leo wanted to scream. He'd fought with everything, risked everything—and still, Cruz had found a way.
But as the race pressed on, Leo kept his eyes fixed on that orange tail. He matched Cruz's braking points, copied his acceleration, studied every angle. Every lap was a lesson, every mistake an opportunity to adapt.
And somewhere deep inside, past the exhaustion and the frustration, a spark ignited.
Maybe he couldn't beat Cruz today. But one day—he would.
Lap after lap, Leo clung to Cruz's tail. The orange car carved through corners with surgical precision, its lines perfect, its exits flawless. Leo's arms shook, his neck burned from the g-forces, yet he refused to let go.
"Three laps left," Javier said over the radio. "Cruz is P4. You're P5. This is where boys quit, Leo. You decide."
Quit? Not a chance.
Leo pressed harder. He braked later, squeezed the throttle earlier, let the car dance on the razor's edge of grip. He was no longer simply surviving—he was hunting.
On the penultimate lap, the two cars stormed toward the Cliffside Chicane. The sea glimmered a cruel blue to the right, the grandstands to the left. Cruz defended the inside, confident. Too confident.
Leo faked the move. Jinked right, then darted left.
Cruz reacted late—too late.
Leo dived into the chicane with inches to spare, sparks exploding from the curb as his car skidded through. The crowd erupted. He was ahead.
P4.
Adrenaline flooded him. He barely noticed Javier's cheer in his ear. All he could hear was his own heartbeat. One lap remained.
But Cruz wasn't finished.
The final lap was war. Every corner, every braking zone, Cruz attacked, nudging closer, threatening to retake what Leo had stolen. The orange car filled his mirrors, an unshakable shadow.
Coming into the final straight, Leo felt the slipstream drag Cruz closer. Side by side, they thundered toward the finish, engines screaming, tires screaming, hearts screaming.
The checkered flag waved.
Leo crossed the line first—by less than the length of a front wing.
"YES, LEO!" Javier roared over the radio. "P4! Incredible drive!"
Leo's chest heaved, lungs burning, hands trembling on the wheel. He hadn't won, not even reached the podium—but it didn't matter. He had fought. He had proven he belonged.
As he slowed on the cooldown lap, the crowd's cheers washed over him. He glanced toward the pit wall. Adrian Varga stood there, arms crossed, watching. For the first time, the old champion gave him a small nod.
It wasn't praise. It wasn't approval. It was something far more important.
Recognition.
Leo exhaled, a smile tugging beneath his visor. The dream had only just begun.