The week after Azure felt like a blur to Leo. The race replays looped endlessly on social media, his name suddenly popping up on motorsport blogs and fan forums. Some called him the next big thing; others dismissed him as reckless, a "one-race wonder." And Cruz's comments about him — "aggressive, undisciplined" — were already being recycled in headlines.
But none of that mattered when Adrian Varga told him to meet at dawn.
Leo arrived at the small private circuit outside Barcelona just as the sky shifted from black to pale blue. The place was quiet, nothing like the glamour of Azure: no grandstands, no crowds, just a strip of asphalt winding through olive groves and hills. He found Adrian already there, leaning against a battered van with a thermos of coffee in hand.
"You're late," Adrian said without looking at him.
"It's six in the morning," Leo protested.
"Exactly. Late."
Leo sighed and walked over. On the trailer behind the van sat a simple single-seater training car, stripped of logos and sponsors, paint faded from years of use. It looked almost humble compared to the glossy blue-and-white machine he had raced days ago.
"That's it?" Leo asked.
"That's it," Adrian said. "If you can't tame this, you don't deserve anything faster."
Leo climbed in, the cockpit tight, the seat worn smooth. The steering wheel was basic, the digital display minimal. No engineers, no radio chatter, no one to cheer him on. Just him, the car, and Adrian with a stopwatch.
"Drive," Adrian said.
The first laps were awkward. The car felt unresponsive compared to the race machine, sluggish on the straights, twitchy in the corners. Leo pushed harder, but every time he thought he was quick, Adrian raised a hand, signaling him back to the pits.
"You're sloppy," Adrian said flatly after the third run. "You're rushing corners, braking too late, overcompensating on exit. Stop driving like Cruz is behind you."
Frustration burned in Leo's chest. "So what do you want me to do? Crawl?"
Adrian's eyes narrowed. "I want you to control the car, not fight it. Precision, not panic. Anyone can push the throttle. Champions know when not to."
Leo bit back a retort and climbed back in. He tried again, this time focusing on Adrian's words. Brake earlier. Turn smoother. Feel the car instead of forcing it. Slowly, the laps began to connect, one flowing into the next like music.
When he returned to the pits, Adrian gave the faintest nod. "Better. Now again. And again. Until your body remembers what your mind forgets."
By mid-afternoon, Leo was drenched in sweat, his arms aching, his back stiff. Adrian hadn't driven a single lap himself, yet somehow looked untouched, as if he could stand there forever with the same unreadable stare.
Finally, Adrian handed him a bottle of water and spoke. "Racing is not just speed, Leo. It's survival. The car wants to kill you. The track wants to kill you. The other drivers, even if they don't admit it, want to kill you too. If you're careless, you give them the chance. If you're disciplined, you take it away."
Leo swallowed hard, the water bitter on his dry tongue. "And Cruz?"
Adrian's face darkened. "Cruz will try to break you. Not just on track. Everywhere. He'll use the media, the fans, your own doubts. You cannot let him inside your head."
The words struck deep because Leo knew Cruz was already there. He saw him every time he closed his eyes — the orange car in his mirrors, the smirk in the media zone, the cold dismissal.
"I don't want to just beat him," Leo said quietly. "I want to prove I'm not what he says."
Adrian studied him for a long moment. "Then stop thinking about proving. Start thinking about driving."
The next weekend came faster than Leo expected.
The circuit this time was Valdelinares Ring, a high-altitude track carved into the Spanish mountains. Narrow, technical, unforgiving. The locals called it La Serpiente — the snake — because of the endless sequence of curves that twisted through the cliffs.
The paddock was buzzing when Leo arrived. Fans pressed against the fences, shouting his name now, some waving homemade flags with "ANDERSSON" scrawled across them. His debut had made an impression.
But Cruz was here too. His team's hospitality unit gleamed in orange and black, his face plastered across banners with the words Future Champion. Reporters swarmed him, microphones catching every confident word. Leo caught fragments as he passed: "…rookies don't scare me… consistency wins, not desperation."
Leo clenched his jaw and walked on.
Practice was brutal. The altitude drained his strength, the corners punished every mistake. Twice he spun into the runoff, once narrowly avoiding the barrier. Each time, Javier's calm voice on the radio brought him back.
"Relax, Leo. Trust the training. Flow with the track."
By qualifying, he had found a rhythm. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough. He placed seventh on the grid — not spectacular, but respectable. Cruz, of course, was second.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains, Leo sat alone in the garage, helmet on his knees. He traced Adrian's map of Azure with his finger again, though it wasn't this track. The memory of Adrian's words lingered: Make fear your passenger, not your driver.
He whispered it to himself like a mantra.
Race day.
The stands shook with noise as the cars lined up on the grid. Leo's heart pounded as he settled into seventh position. The air was thinner here, harder to breathe. He lowered his visor.
Five red lights.
Engines screamed.
Lights out.
The launch was clean. Leo held his position into Turn 1, a tight uphill hairpin where chaos often erupted. Two cars tangled ahead, smoke and carbon fiber flying, and he slipped past into P6.
Lap after lap, the serpent track tested him. The car danced over the curbs, the cliffs dropped away just meters from the barriers. He found himself in a duel with a French driver, Moreau, their wheels nearly touching through the mountain esses. He fought, defended, attacked — and somehow kept the car alive.
By mid-race, he was fifth. Ahead, Cruz loomed in fourth, stalking the leaders.
Leo's pulse quickened. The orange car was within reach again.
"Careful," Javier warned. "Don't get baited."
But Leo couldn't hold back. Lap by lap, he closed the gap, the lessons from Adrian whispering in his ears. Brake earlier. Be smooth. Control.
The opportunity came at Turn 12, a downhill sweeper where bravery ruled. Leo launched, diving inside. The crowd gasped as the two cars nearly collided. For an instant, Cruz's face was visible through his visor, eyes wide with shock.
Leo edged through. P4.
He barely had time to celebrate before Cruz retaliated. The orange car lunged at the next corner, bumping his rear wheel, forcing Leo wide. He caught the slide by instinct, heart hammering.
"Fight smart!" Javier shouted. "He wants you angry!"
The duel raged for lap after lap, the two cars trading blows, sparks flying, the crowd on their feet. Every time Leo thought he was clear, Cruz came back harder. Every time Cruz tried to break him, Leo refused to yield.
On the final lap, they stormed toward the mountain hairpin, side by side. The corner narrowed, stone walls looming. One of them would have to give.
Leo braked later than he ever had before, the car skidding, tires screaming. For a heartbeat, it felt like flying into nothingness.
And then — somehow — he made it.
He exited ahead, Cruz trapped behind.
The checkered flag waved.
Leo crossed the line in fourth. Again.
But this time, it wasn't luck. It was survival. It was control.
As he pulled into the pits, his arms shaking, his throat raw, he saw Adrian waiting at the barrier. The old champion didn't smile, didn't clap, didn't cheer. He simply raised one hand in acknowledgment, as if to say: Better. But not enough yet.
And Leo, exhausted and exhilarated, knew he wouldn't have it any other way.
Because the fire in his blood was only growing.