The days after Silverstone were a storm Leo could barely withstand.Every news outlet replayed the crash from a dozen angles. Every slow-motion shot showed his car spinning like a toy, sparks flying, fire licking at its rear.
Commentators dissected it endlessly. Was it Cruz's fault? Was Leo reckless? Could this rookie survive at the top level?Some headlines called him "fearless." Others called him "finished."
And through it all, Cruz's smirk dominated the feeds.
"He braked too late," Cruz said to the cameras, voice smooth, confident. "I left space. He panicked. He'll learn — if he lasts that long."
The words dug under Leo's skin, festering like poison.
Adrian didn't let him hide.
Two mornings after the crash, Leo found himself back on a small, private circuit in Spain, the same training car waiting for him. His ribs still ached from the impact, his neck stiff, but Adrian didn't care.
"Get in," Adrian said.
Leo froze. His hands hovered over the cockpit. Suddenly he was back at Silverstone, weightless, spinning, fire closing in. His chest tightened, breath catching.
"I can't," he muttered.
Adrian's voice cut like steel. "If you can't, then you're already done."
Leo's fists clenched. Anger beat back the fear just enough for him to lower himself into the car.
The first laps were torture. His grip on the wheel was too tight, shoulders rigid, eyes flicking to every barrier as if they might leap out and kill him. His times were abysmal.
When he finally pulled into the pits, Adrian didn't soften.
"You're driving like a scared child," he said.
"I almost died!" Leo snapped, slamming his helmet onto the pit wall. "Do you even care?"
Adrian stepped closer, eyes cold. "Of course I care. That's why I'm here. But if you want someone to pat your head and tell you it's okay to be afraid, call your mother. If you want to be a racer, get back in the damn car."
The words stung — because Leo knew they were true.
That night, alone in his hotel room, Leo did call home.
His mother answered, her voice warm, weary from the late hour. "Leo? Are you safe?"
He hesitated, throat tight. "I'm fine, Mom. Just… sore."
"I saw the crash." Her voice cracked. "Do you have any idea what it's like to watch your child spin through fire on live television?"
Leo closed his eyes. He remembered her holding his karting trophies when he was ten, always smiling, always proud, even when the trophies were plastic and the races tiny. She had worked two jobs just to afford the fuel for those weekends.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
She was silent for a long moment. Then: "Don't apologize for chasing your dream. Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"That if you stay in this world, you'll be strong enough to survive it."
Leo swallowed hard. "I will."
When he hung up, he stared at his cracked visor, now resting on the desk like a relic. Fear still gnawed at him — but beneath it, something steadier pulsed.
Resolve.
The comeback came faster than he expected.
The next race was Monza — the Temple of Speed. Italy was alive with passion: fans waving flags, chanting names, the air vibrating with the energy of thousands.
It was the worst place for a driver haunted by fear. Monza was flat-out fury, the fastest circuit on the calendar. Mistakes here weren't just punished — they were annihilated.
As Leo walked through the paddock, cameras swarmed him. "Are you fit to race?" "Will you finish this time?" "Is Cruz right about you?"
He kept his head down, jaw set. But the whispers burned.
When he reached the garage, Adrian was waiting. For once, his voice softened — just slightly. "Remember what I told you. Fear is a passenger. Not the driver."
Leo nodded. "Then I'll keep it in the backseat."
Qualifying was chaos. At 350 kilometers an hour down the straights, Leo felt every vibration, every twitch. His hands trembled the first time he braked into Turn 1, the memory of Silverstone flashing — but he forced himself to breathe, to trust.
Lap by lap, the rhythm returned. The car no longer felt like an enemy. By the end of the session, he qualified seventh. Respectable. Not spectacular. But enough.
Cruz, of course, was second.
Race day.
The grandstands were seas of red, tifosi chanting as the engines fired. Leo sat in seventh, helmet visor down, heart pounding so hard it hurt. He whispered his mother's words, Adrian's words, his own promise.
Be strong enough to survive it.
The lights went out.
The field exploded forward, engines screaming, the first chicane a battlefield. Cars jostled, smoke rising, carbon fiber flying. Leo braked hard, avoiding a pile-up, slipping into sixth.
Lap after lap, the speed was unrelenting. Through Curva Grande, he felt the air shove the car sideways, the trees blurring into a green wall. At Ascari, he danced with the curbs, praying the tires held.
But always, in his mirrors, Cruz's orange car lurked.
Mid-race, Cruz attacked. Down the main straight, slipstream sucking him forward, he dove inside into Turn 1. They were wheel to wheel, the memory of Silverstone screaming in Leo's head.
For a split second, panic surged — and he almost yielded.
Almost.
Then Adrian's voice echoed in memory: Make fear your passenger, not your driver.
Leo braked late, impossibly late, holding the inside line. The tires squealed, the car shuddered — but it held. He forced Cruz wide, stealing back the position.
The crowd roared.
Something inside him snapped back into place.
He wasn't broken.
He could fight.
By the final laps, Leo was in fifth. He wasn't close to the podium, but he was alive, pushing, refusing to yield. Each corner he conquered felt like another piece of himself reclaimed.
The checkered flag waved.
P5.
Not a win. Not glory. But survival.
When he pulled into the pits, the team applauded. Javier's voice cracked with joy: "That's it, Leo! That's how you come back!"
And at the barrier, Adrian stood with arms crossed, giving the smallest of nods. Approval. Recognition.
But what chilled Leo most was Cruz's face as he walked past. The smirk was gone. The mask had cracked.
For the first time, Cruz looked at him not as a nuisance, but as a threat.
That night, Leo lay in bed, body aching, mind racing. He replayed the duel with Cruz, the fear, the fire, the survival.
He had proven he could come back.
But deep inside, he knew the battle was only beginning.
Because surviving wasn't enough.
The real fight was still ahead — for victory, for respect, for everything he had dreamed of since he was seven years old, holding a plastic karting trophy in his mother's kitchen.
And he was ready.