The Red Valley race had left bruises on Leo's body and deeper bruises on his mind. Every replay of Cruz's swerve was still etched behind his eyelids, playing again each time he closed his eyes. He had said nothing to the media, swallowed his fury, kept his smile. But inside, fire burned hotter than ever.
Adrian kept him moving. Training runs, endless laps on the simulator, punishing sessions in the gym. No time to sulk, no time to lick wounds. "You want revenge?" Adrian told him one night, as they ran along a dark track lit only by stadium lights. "Win. That's the only revenge that matters. Not words. Not complaints. Victory."
The circus rolled into Belgium next — Spa-Francorchamps. The circuit of legends. The place where history was written in rain and courage.
From the moment Leo set foot on the asphalt, he felt its weight. The rolling hills, the forests that loomed over the straights, the infamous corners whispered stories of triumph and tragedy. Spa was no ordinary track. Spa tested the soul.
Rain threatened all weekend, the sky brooding with gray clouds, the air heavy with tension. The paddock buzzed louder than usual, whispers swirling that the sponsors were beginning to lean toward Leo after his podium. Cruz noticed. His smiles at the media were polished, but behind them his eyes burned.
In practice, Leo flew. The car felt alive beneath him, the corners flowing as if the circuit itself had finally accepted him. Cruz shadowed him, always a step behind, always watching. By qualifying, the tension was unbearable.
The track was damp, slick patches lurking in the shadows. Drivers tiptoed through corners, cautious. But Leo knew he couldn't afford caution.
He braked late into Eau Rouge, car twitching as he hurtled uphill, the forest closing in around him. He didn't lift. Didn't blink. The car screamed but held, and when he crossed the line, the time was good enough for pole position. His first ever.
The garage erupted, mechanics roaring with joy. Javier's voice cracked as he shouted into the radio. "Pole! Pole position, Leo! Dios mío, you did it!"
Cruz crossed the line seconds later, slotting into second. He climbed from his car, applause greeting him, but his eyes were knives aimed at Leo. When the cameras turned, he clapped slowly, mockingly, mouthing just one word: lucky.
Leo ignored him. He had pole. Tomorrow, the real battle would come.
Race day dawned with rain. Sheets of water pounded the asphalt, puddles forming in the low sections of the track. The grandstands were packed, ponchos and umbrellas a sea of color against the storm. The officials delayed the start, but eventually, the engines fired.
Leo sat on pole, heart pounding, visor misting with his breath. The spray was so thick he could barely see the grid behind him. He whispered the same words he had whispered at Monza. Be strong enough to survive it.
The lights flickered red. Then black.
The cars exploded forward, water spraying in blinding sheets. Leo gripped the wheel, the car twitching under acceleration, Cruz's orange blur shadowing him immediately. Into Turn 1, Leo defended hard, the tires barely holding. He kept the lead.
Down the Kemmel Straight, the spray was so dense he drove half-blind, trusting memory and instinct. Cruz lunged, pulling alongside, their wheels inches apart. Leo refused to yield, braked late, and somehow held him off.
The laps blurred into survival. Rain hammered the track, cars spun and crashed behind them, safety cars came and went. But always, at the restart, Cruz was there, hungry, relentless.
On lap thirty-two, with the track beginning to dry, Cruz finally struck. Down the straight, slipstream pulling him close, he dove inside at the chicane. For a heartbeat, Leo thought he'd lost it. But he cut back, crossing behind Cruz, reclaiming the inside line. They touched wheels, sparks flying, the crowd roaring. Leo surged back ahead.
The radio crackled with Javier's voice, frantic. "Careful! Don't let him take you out!"
Leo's voice was calm, ice over fire. "He won't. Not today."
The final laps were madness. The drying line gave more grip, speeds soared, risks grew sharper. Cruz threw everything at him, lunging corner after corner. But Leo was untouchable. His fear was gone, replaced by something stronger: clarity. Every apex, every braking point, every acceleration felt inevitable, as if he was writing the race with his own hands.
The checkered flag waved.
Leo crossed the line first.
The world erupted. The team screamed in his ears, voices breaking with joy. The grandstands shook with thunder. He raised a fist, tears streaming unseen behind the visor. He had done it. His first victory.
When he climbed from the car, the roar of the crowd hit him like a wave. He raised the trophy on the podium, champagne spraying, lights flashing, the anthem playing above him. He looked out at the thousands of faces and felt something he had never felt before — not just belonging, but triumph.
Cruz stood beside him, second place, clapping for the cameras. But when the anthem faded and the noise dulled, Cruz leaned close again, his voice a blade.
"Enjoy this one, rookie. Because next time, I'll make sure it's your last."
Leo didn't flinch. He met Cruz's gaze, steady and unbroken.
"Next time," he said, voice firm, "I'll beat you again."
The crowd roared louder, unaware of the war brewing between them. But Leo knew. This was only the beginning. Victory was sweet, but the price of holding it would be higher than anything he had yet paid.
And he was ready.
The champagne stung Leo's eyes as he laughed, the bottle slippery in his hands. Cameras flashed like lightning all around him. Javier was down in the pit lane, tears streaming down his face, pointing at him, shouting his name like a proud father.
For a few precious minutes, nothing else mattered. Not Cruz. Not the sponsors. Not the whispers. Just the anthem, the roar of the crowd, the spray of champagne. He had climbed to the very top, and no one could take that from him.
But as the podium ceremony ended and the drivers were ushered away, reality rushed back in like a cold wind. Reporters swarmed, microphones shoved into his face.
"Leo, how does it feel to be the youngest winner in the championship this season?"
"Was this victory about talent, or was it luck in the rain?"
"Do you think you've now surpassed Cruz as the team's top driver?"
He tried to answer, words stumbling over each other, but every response felt stolen, twisted into headlines he didn't control. Behind him, Cruz handled the cameras like a master, his smile sharp, his answers smooth. When asked about Leo, Cruz leaned into the microphone with mock admiration.
"He did well today. Really well. But one win doesn't make a champion. Let's see if he can keep it up."
The reporters laughed, scribbling furiously. Cruz's smirk found Leo across the scrum, a private victory layered inside the public defeat.
Later, back in the quiet of the motorhome, Leo peeled off his soaked race suit, every muscle aching. The noise of the paddock hummed faintly through the walls. Adrian was waiting, leaning against the table, arms crossed.
"You did it," Adrian said softly. No smile, no cheer, just the weight of truth.
Leo looked up. "Yeah. I did."
Adrian stepped closer, eyes burning with intensity. "And now the real fight begins. Cruz won't forgive you for this. The sponsors will swarm. Everyone will want a piece of you. That victory up there—" he pointed toward the track, "—was the easy part."
Leo frowned. "Easy? I nearly killed myself out there."
Adrian shook his head. "Driving is the one place you're free. It's the rest of this circus that will eat you alive if you're not careful."
The words sank deep. Leo thought of the microphones, the headlines, Cruz's mocking grin. He had won, but somehow the battle felt bigger now than it ever had.
That night, in his hotel room, the trophy sat on the table. He stared at it for hours, fingers tracing the cool metal. It gleamed in the lamplight, a symbol of everything he had fought for. And yet, a voice nagged at the back of his mind.
One win. That's all. What if Cruz is right? What if it's the only one?
He closed his eyes, remembering his younger self—the boy sitting cross-legged on the carpet, watching grainy streams of races, heart racing with dreams of a world he thought he'd never touch. That boy would have given anything just to be here. And now he was.
Leo clenched his fist. No doubts. No fear. This was just the beginning.
The next morning, the headlines confirmed Adrian's warning.
LEO VERSUS CRUZ: NEW RIVALRY IS BORNROOKIE TAKES VICTORY, BUT CAN HE LAST?SPONSORS SHIFT INTEREST AFTER HISTORIC WIN
Every newspaper, every website, every broadcast replayed the final laps, showing Cruz lunging, Leo defending, the clash of wheels. They painted him as the hero, Cruz as the villain—or, depending on the outlet, Cruz as the true star robbed by weather and luck.
The sponsors called. Invitations piled in. Leo's agent, a man he barely remembered meeting, rattled off opportunities: endorsements, interviews, appearances. Leo wanted to refuse, to stay focused, but Adrian stopped him.
"You can't ignore it. If you don't play their game at least a little, they'll turn on you. Balance, Leo. Balance."
He hated it. The lights, the staged smiles, the endless questions about anything but driving. But he forced himself through it, every fake handshake reminding him why he was here: not for cameras, not for brands, but for the raw, untouchable thrill of racing.
Cruz, meanwhile, doubled down. He gave interviews laced with venom disguised as compliments. "Leo's good, no question. But rookies burn bright and fade fast. Let's see if he survives the next few races."
Behind the cameras, he cornered Leo once, voice dripping poison.
"You think this changes anything? You're still the kid playing in my world. I'll bury you at the next race."
Leo stared back, the memory of Spa's checkered flag burning in his chest. "You tried," he said evenly. "And I still won."
For the first time, Cruz's smile faltered. Just for a moment.
When the circus packed up for the next round, Leo carried the weight of something new. The world had seen him now. They expected him to fall or to rise. There would be no hiding, no anonymity, no excuses.
He touched the trophy one last time before packing it carefully away. A symbol of what was possible, but also a reminder: this world would never give him anything easily. He would have to fight, harder and harder, every single time.
But as the trucks rolled out of Spa and the rain clouds lifted, he whispered to himself with a quiet smile.
"I'll fight. And I'll win."