The paddock in Barcelona was alive with heat and noise. The air shimmered over the tarmac, heavy with the smell of fuel and burning rubber. After Monza, Leo had felt the world's eyes turn toward him. Reporters no longer ignored him; they swarmed him. Fans pressed at the barriers calling his name. He wasn't invisible anymore. He was the story: the rookie who had crashed in flames and come back fighting.
The press conference before the race was suffocating. Daniel Cruz sat beside him, legs crossed casually, sunglasses perched on his head though they were indoors. When asked about Leo's comeback, Cruz leaned forward, smiling like a predator. "He's fast, I'll give him that. But speed is nothing without wisdom. Wisdom takes years. He should be grateful to finish behind me. It means he's learning." The room laughed politely. Cameras clicked.
Leo forced himself to smile. "Grateful? No. I'm here to race. And if I'm behind you today, Daniel, it's only because I haven't passed you yet."
The laughter this time was louder, sharper. Cruz's jaw twitched before the smirk returned. Leo held his gaze, heart pounding, but refused to blink first.
Qualifying was brutal. The heat pressed on his shoulders like an extra weight, every corner of the circuit demanding perfection. In Q2 he nearly missed the cut, sliding wide at the final chicane, but somehow scraped through. In Q3, something inside him clicked. Through the long, sweeping Turn 3, he refused to lift, the tires clawing at the asphalt, the car trembling on the edge of control. When the lap was over, he was third on the grid. Cruz sat second, and veteran champion Matteo Bianchi on pole.
The garage erupted. Mechanics hugged him, Javier shouted into his ear, the team slapped his helmet. From the shadows at the back, Adrian gave him a single nod. "Second row. Good. Now the real fight begins."
Race day arrived with a sky of merciless blue. The grandstands seethed with thousands of fans waving flags, chanting names, stomping in unison. The noise was thunder, alive and merciless. Leo sat in his car on the grid, visor down, fingers trembling on the wheel. The lights flickered red above him. His chest tightened, breath caught, the memory of Silverstone's crash trying to claw its way back.
The lights went out.
The cars surged forward like unleashed beasts. Bianchi launched perfectly into the lead, Cruz tucked neatly behind, and Leo fought through the first corner, defending hard against the pack snapping at his heels. The speed was relentless, every lap demanding more.
By the fifth lap, the top three had broken away, a train of precision and fury. Bianchi, Cruz, Leo. Leo locked his eyes on the back of Cruz's car, memorizing every twitch, every fraction of weakness. Sweat soaked his suit, his neck screamed against the G-forces, but he stayed with them.
Pit stops came and went. On lap seventeen Leo rejoined, still tucked behind Cruz but closer than ever. The engine roared, the tires burned, and he felt the car begging him to take the risk.
Down the long straight, he caught the slipstream. The orange of Cruz's car grew in his vision until it filled his world. He pulled out, wheel to wheel, their engines shrieking in harmony as they hurled toward Turn 1. For a heartbeat, time stopped. The memory of Silverstone flashed: fire, spinning, panic.
But he braked late. Too late. The tires screamed, the car squirmed, the steering wheel bucked in his hands. For an instant he thought he had lost everything—then the car held. He forced Cruz wide, claiming the corner, and the crowd erupted in a single voice. He was ahead.
His radio crackled with Javier's scream. "Yes! Yes, Leo, that's it! You're faster than him!"
But Cruz wasn't finished. Lap after lap, he attacked. He dove into corners, pressed against Leo's mirrors, shoved him to the limit of his courage. Leo's arms shook, his vision blurred from the heat, every lap a war against exhaustion. Still, he held on.
Bianchi was untouchable, his car a rocket built from years of mastery. Leo knew he wouldn't catch him. But Cruz—Cruz could not pass.
The final five laps were agony. Every muscle in his body screamed. The tires were gone, the car sliding dangerously, but he clung to his line. The fear whispered in his head—don't crash, don't throw it all away—but Adrian's words pushed through louder: Make fear your passenger, not your driver.
The last lap arrived. Leo's car fought him at every turn, but he refused to yield. He saw the checkered flag waving, the line rushing toward him. And then he was across. Third. His first podium.
The team exploded over the radio. Javier's voice broke with joy. "P3! Podium, hermano! Podium!"
Leo laughed, his voice cracking inside the helmet, his chest tight with something like disbelief. The boy who had once stood on a plastic karting podium, trophy bought from a toy store, had made it to the real thing.
The ceremony was a blur of lights and sound. The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave, the champagne sprayed across his face, the weight of the trophy in his hands heavier than he imagined. He looked out over the sea of fans, and for the first time he felt he belonged here.
Bianchi raised his winner's trophy with the easy grace of a man who had done it a hundred times. Cruz, standing between them, wore a mask of polite indifference. But when the cameras swung away, Cruz leaned closer, his smile sharp as a blade.
"Enjoy third place, rookie," he whispered. "It's the highest you'll ever climb."
Leo kept smiling for the crowd, but inside, fire spread through his veins.
That night, the team's celebration filled the garage with music and laughter. Mechanics danced, sponsors shook hands, champagne bottles popped. But Adrian pulled Leo aside, away from the noise.
"You think a podium means you've arrived?" Adrian asked.
Leo frowned, holding the small shining trophy in his hands. "Doesn't it?"
Adrian's eyes were hard. "No. Podiums are sweet. But they don't make champions. Today, you earned respect. Tomorrow, the pressure doubles. The sponsors will want more. The team will want more. And Cruz? He'll want you destroyed. This world doesn't reward survivors. It eats them. If you want to stay, you'll have to fight harder than you ever thought possible."
Leo stared at the trophy. It gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, beautiful and heavy. For a moment he saw not just the object but the cost hidden inside it—the sleepless nights, the pain in his ribs, his mother's voice trembling with fear on the phone.
He clenched his jaw, fire burning in his chest. Cruz's whisper echoed in his ears. Adrian's warning weighed on him. But deeper than all of it was the dream that had carried him from that tiny karting track years ago to this place.
He wasn't finished. Not even close.
And somewhere in the shadows of the paddock, Daniel Cruz was already plotting his next move.