The sun beat down on the circuit as qualifying day dawned. Mechanics bustled, air guns hissed, and the smell of burnt rubber clung to the air. For Leo, the garage felt more like a battlefield than a workshop. He could feel the tension in every glance, every muttered word. His side of the garage worked furiously, but the resources were thinner, the parts fewer.
He strapped into the cockpit, his heart steady, his mind sharp. This was the one place they couldn't spin him with headlines or silence him with politics. Here, it was only him, the car, and the clock.
But as he rolled out of the garage, a flicker of doubt gnawed at him. What have they done to my car?
His first flying lap was a disaster. The car twitched under braking, the rear sliding like it was on ice. His engineer's voice crackled over the radio:
"Telemetry shows rear balance off… we'll need to adjust."
Leo gritted his teeth. He knew this wasn't a coincidence. A setup change had been "missed." Or maybe a damper adjustment was "forgotten." One mistake, maybe. Two mistakes, maybe. But three in one session? No. This was sabotage dressed as oversight.
On his second run, the engine mapping failed mid-lap, robbing him of straight-line speed. The display flashed warnings. He slammed his fist against the wheel, snarling.
"They're trying to kill my lap time," he hissed into the radio.
His engineer didn't answer right away. Finally:"Copy that, Leo. Just… keep pushing."
The hesitation told him everything. Even his own crew didn't know who to trust anymore.
Cruz, meanwhile, glided effortlessly around the circuit. His car was flawless, every adjustment perfect, every sector polished. The commentators gushed:
"Cruz looks like a man in total control!""This is why he's the reigning champion."
Leo's name barely left their lips. When it did, it came laced with doubt.
"He's fighting the car more than the circuit.""Maybe the pressure is finally breaking him."
Every word was another knife.
But Leo refused to yield. On his final run, with the tires nearly spent and the setup still fighting him, he attacked the track like it had insulted him personally.
The rear danced on the edge of disaster, the car sliding out of corners, but he kept his foot planted. The wheel wriggled in his hands like a wild animal, but he refused to let it go.
Sector one: green. Sector two: green. Sector three— a slide so violent the commentators gasped. But he caught it, somehow, crossing the line in a blaze of sparks and fury.
His time? Fifth fastest. Not pole. Not even front row. But a miracle, given the state of his car.
The garage was silent when he pulled in. Silent except for Adrian, who ripped off his headset and bellowed:
"That lap was a f***ing masterpiece!"
Leo sat in the cockpit, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his temples. Fifth place. On paper, nothing special. But in his gut, it felt like a victory.
Because today, it hadn't just been Cruz he was fighting. It had been the machine of politics itself. And he had survived.
In Cruz's garage, champagne corks popped. On Leo's side, there was only quiet determination. He knew tomorrow's race would be worse. They would throw everything at him — strategy, politics, sabotage.
But he also knew something else.
They hadn't broken him. Not yet. Not ever.
The paddock was electric with tension as the sun climbed high above the circuit. Fans pressed against fences, their chants echoing across the asphalt. For the cameras, qualifying day looked like a celebration — a festival of speed. But inside Leo's garage, it felt like a funeral.
The air was heavy, suffocating. Conversations stopped when he walked past. Tools clinked softly, mechanics moved quickly but avoided his eyes. Even the smallest details felt wrong — the torque wrench left on the floor, the headset volumes mismatched, his seat belts pulled an inch too tight. Little things that said: You don't belong here.
Leo tightened the straps himself, his jaw rigid. Adrian stood by the pit wall, arms crossed, glaring at every mechanic who so much as hesitated. But even Adrian couldn't stop the silent war being waged inside the garage.
The engine roared to life, and for a moment, all the noise in Leo's head vanished. The cockpit was his sanctuary, the only place the politics couldn't reach him — or so he wanted to believe. He rolled onto the track, weaving left and right to warm the tires, but already the car felt different. The steering was heavier, the rear twitchier.
He pushed on, starting his first flyer. The opening corners were tight, demanding precision, and the car snapped loose under braking. He fought the wheel, catching the slide, but his lap was ruined.
"Balance is off," he barked into the radio.
"Copy, Leo," came the flat response from his race engineer. "We'll, uh, look into it."
Look into it? The words made his stomach churn. This wasn't a mistake. This was deliberate.
He reset, tried again. The second lap was smoother — until halfway down the straight, his engine mapping suddenly switched modes. His acceleration died. Cars thundered past him like bullets.
"Engine map just cut — what the hell is going on?" he shouted.
"Telemetry shows no issue," the voice in his ear said, too calm, too scripted. "Box now."
He slammed his fist against the wheel, rage burning through him. They're killing me in real time. They want me slow. They want me to fail.
Back in the garage, Adrian's face was a storm. He cornered the chief mechanic, his voice low and lethal.
"What the hell are you doing to his car?"
The man's hands shook as he shuffled papers on the desk. "We're following orders, Adrian. Don't put this on me."
"Orders from who?" Adrian growled.
The mechanic didn't answer. But the silence was answer enough.
Cruz, meanwhile, was flawless. His car looked like it was gliding, every apex kissed, every straight-line speed perfect. The commentators couldn't praise him enough.
"Cruz is in another league today!""Look at that control — that's what makes a champion!"
Leo's name barely registered, and when it did, it was only as a punchline.
"Lastplace struggling again… maybe the hype was premature."
The words sliced deep, but Leo pushed them away. He wasn't here for their approval. He was here for himself.
The final minutes of Q3 arrived. He had one last chance. One lap to save something from the sabotage. He sat on the grid, waiting for the pit wall's call, his heartbeat echoing in his chest like war drums.
"Alright, Leo," Adrian's voice cut through, sharper than steel. "Forget the politics. Forget the games. Drive like hell. That's what you do best."
Leo lowered his visor. Copy that.
He tore out of the pits, the car still twitching, still fighting him. But he fought harder. The wheel wriggled in his hands, the rear stepping out on every exit. He balanced it with instinct, muscles reacting faster than thought.
Sector one flashed green. He was alive.Sector two — another slide, sparks spraying as he kissed the curb, the commentators gasping. Still green.
Sector three. The final corners. The car tried to throw him off one last time, skidding across the asphalt, but he caught it, foot still planted, wringing every ounce of speed from a car that didn't want to cooperate.
Across the line.
Fifth.
Not pole. Not front row. But considering the sabotage, it was a miracle.
The garage was silent when he pulled in. No applause, no pats on the back. Just quiet resentment. Except for Adrian, who ripped off his headset and slammed it onto the desk.
"That," he shouted, his voice shaking with pride, "was a f***ing masterpiece!"
Leo unstrapped himself, heart still racing, sweat dripping down his face. He climbed out of the cockpit and met Adrian's eyes. In that look, nothing needed to be said. They both knew what had just happened.
The politics had tried to bury him. But he had dug himself out with pure will.
Reporters swarmed Cruz in the media pen, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward.
"Pole again, Cruz! How do you keep it so consistent?""What do you think of Leo's performance today?"
Cruz smiled that careful, polished smile. "Consistency comes from discipline. And discipline is what wins championships. Leo is quick, but quick doesn't always mean smart. He'll learn."
The headlines were already written. Cruz the professional. Leo the reckless. The media lapped it up.
Back in his room, Leo sat in silence. Fifth place. The world would see it as ordinary, maybe even disappointing. But he knew the truth. They had tried to cripple him, and he had still fought back.
He looked at his hands, raw from gripping the wheel. For the first time all day, he allowed himself a smile.
"If that's all you've got," he whispered to no one, "you'll have to try harder."
That night, long after the lights in the paddock went out, Adrian slipped an envelope under Leo's door. Inside were photocopies of internal memos, the ones the PR manager had risked her job to deliver. Proof of what Leo already knew. Proof that they were fighting him from the inside.
He stared at the papers, the evidence of betrayal laid bare. Then he folded them neatly, tucked them into his bag, and lay down. Tomorrow wasn't about politics. Tomorrow was the race. And the track was the only courtroom he needed.