The morning at Silverstone Circuit buzzed with an energy Leo had never felt before. This wasn't Azure's seaside glamour or Valdelinares's mountain ferocity. This was history. The birthplace of Formula racing, the cathedral of speed. The moment he stepped into the paddock, goosebumps rose on his skin.
Everywhere he turned, he saw legends carved into photographs, walls plastered with memories. Here, champions had been made — and destroyed.
He wanted to belong.
Qualifying had gone badly. He was nervous, pushing too hard into the legendary Maggots and Becketts sequence, losing time instead of gaining it. He started tenth on the grid. Cruz, as always, was near the front — third, prowling, ready to pounce.
When the lights went out, the roar of engines felt like thunder rolling across the flat English plain. Leo launched well, climbing to eighth by Turn 1. The pack bunched tight, wheels inches apart, the speed dizzying.
He told himself to stay calm, remember Adrian's words. Control. Precision. Flow.
But when he saw Cruz's orange car slicing ahead through traffic, the fire in his chest blazed too hot to contain.
I can beat him here.
Lap after lap, Leo fought through the field. By mid-race, he was sixth, Cruz just two cars ahead. The British crowd roared as he overtook another rival down the Wellington Straight, engine screaming, adrenaline surging.
"P5," Javier said. "Good job. Keep it clean."
But Leo's eyes weren't on fifth. They were locked on Cruz.
The duel began at Stowe corner. Cruz defended hard, pushing Leo wide onto the curbs. Leo caught the slide, sparks showering from the undertray, and attacked again at Vale. Their wheels touched — once, twice — the crowd gasping.
"Careful, Leo!" Javier shouted. "Don't—"
The rest was swallowed by chaos.
Down the Hangar Straight, slipstream pulling him close, Leo darted to the inside. Cruz moved late to block. Too late. Too aggressive. Their tires clipped.
The world shattered.
Leo's car snapped sideways at 300 kilometers an hour. For a heartbeat, there was silence — then metal screamed, carbon fiber exploded, the track became a blur of smoke and sparks.
He felt weightless, then crushingly heavy. His head slammed against the cockpit padding. Flames licked the air as the car skidded across the grass, spinning, spinning, spinning—
And then it stopped.
Breathless silence.
Leo sat frozen, chest heaving, hands locked on the wheel. His visor was cracked, smoke seeping in. His ears rang, the world distant and unreal. Somewhere, sirens wailed, marshals running toward him.
"Leo!" Javier's voice finally broke through the static. "Talk to me! Are you okay?"
His throat scraped raw. "I… I think so."
They pulled him from the wreck, his legs trembling, knees buckling as he touched solid ground. The crowd clapped in relief, but he barely heard them. All he saw was the mangled ruin of his car, the dream turned to twisted metal.
Later, in the medical center, the doctors cleared him with only bruises and a mild concussion. Physically, he was fine. Mentally, he was anything but.
He sat on the cot, helmet still in his lap, staring at the cracks across the visor.
One mistake. One second. And it could have all been over.
Cruz passed by outside, surrounded by reporters, his voice cutting through the chaos. "I left him room. He was reckless. That's what happens when kids try to play with the big boys."
The words burned hotter than any bruise.
That night, the paddock quiet, Leo sat alone in the garage. The wrecked chassis lay under a tarp, still smelling of scorched rubber. His hands shook as he replayed the crash in his mind. The sound. The spin. The silence afterward.
"You won't sleep tonight if you keep staring at ghosts."
Adrian's voice.
Leo turned to see the old champion step into the dim light, a bottle of water in hand. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp.
"I almost died," Leo whispered.
Adrian nodded. "Yes. And?"
Leo blinked. "And? That's all you have to say?"
"Do you think you're special?" Adrian asked, his tone flat. "Every driver who straps into a car at this level dances with death. The only question is whether you learn to lead the dance."
Leo's jaw tightened. "Cruz shoved me. He—"
"Stop." Adrian's voice cracked like a whip. "You let Cruz control you. He got inside your head. He made you desperate. That's why you're sitting here shaking instead of standing on the podium."
The words cut deeper than Cruz's insults ever could.
Leo buried his face in his hands. "Maybe I don't belong here."
For a long moment, Adrian was silent. Then he pulled a chair and sat across from him. His eyes were darker now, shadows of something older, heavier.
"Do you know why I'm not still racing?" he asked.
Leo looked up. "Because of the crash. Everyone knows."
Adrian leaned forward, his voice low. "No. Not because of the crash. Because I lost my nerve afterward. The doctors fixed my bones, but not my fear. I let it control me. That's why I'm standing here in the shadows while other men take the checkered flag."
Leo swallowed, his chest tightening. He had never heard Adrian speak this way — raw, unguarded.
"You think fear makes you weak?" Adrian said. "It doesn't. Fear keeps you alive. But if you let it drive, it will end you faster than any crash. You must learn to carry it, harness it, and still push harder than the man beside you."
Leo's voice cracked. "What if I can't?"
Adrian studied him, then placed a hand on the battered helmet in Leo's lap. "Then you walk away now. Before this dream devours you. But if you stay, you must decide — are you willing to pay the price? Because sooner or later, every driver does."
The silence stretched. Somewhere outside, a generator hummed, mechanics packed up, the night settling in.
Leo stared at the helmet, its cracks catching the light. He remembered the kart his father had built from scrap metal when he was seven, the nights spent watching old races on a flickering TV, the way his mother had hugged him before he left home with nothing but a suitcase and a dream.
He clenched his fists.
"I'm not walking away."
Adrian's eyes narrowed, but a flicker of something — pride, perhaps — crossed his face.
"Good," he said. "Then tomorrow, we start again. But remember this, Leo: survival is only the first victory. The real battle is believing you deserve the next one."
He stood, his silhouette framed against the garage lights, and left Leo with his thoughts.
Leo sat alone a while longer, the wrecked car silent beside him. His body ached, his mind spun, but in his chest, beneath the bruises and fear, something still burned.
It wasn't over. Not yet.
He would rise.
Even if it killed him.