Dawn crept over the circuit with a pale orange glow, the kind that promised heat later in the day. The paddock was already alive with movement: trucks unloading, engineers wheeling tires, mechanics adjusting toolboxes with the precision of soldiers preparing for war.
For Leo, race day mornings always carried a weight. But this one was different. The paddock wasn't just buzzing with anticipation — it was humming with intrigue, whispers, unspoken questions.
Could the rookie survive the machine built against him?
In the garage, the smell of fuel and burnt rubber hung thick. The engineers checked every sensor, every bolt. Leo sat alone in the corner, helmet in his lap, eyes closed. He tried to block out the noise.
Focus. Just focus. Breathe.
But the voices still crept in. Commentators dissecting his every mistake. Cruz's smug soundbites. The memos confirming sabotage. The laughter of executives who thought they'd already won.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Adrian. His voice was low, steady."Don't fight their noise. Outdrive it."
Leo opened his eyes. The words didn't erase the pressure, but they anchored him.
Meanwhile, Cruz held his own court. His garage glowed with confidence: fresh upgrades fitted, data streams optimized, cameras lining up for his every smile. He thrived in this environment, walking among his crew like a king among loyal subjects.
"Keep it clean," he told them, grinning. "Today we make it easy."
It was more than instructions. It was a performance. He wanted everyone — especially Leo's side of the garage — to see how relaxed he was. How untouchable.
As the hours ticked down, the paddock filled with fans, their chants echoing like waves. Banners rippled: CRUZ FOREVER. LEO THE WILDFIRE. The divide was stark. Cruz's fans came polished, draped in sponsor gear. Leo's came raw, homemade signs scrawled with passion, faces painted, throats hoarse.
When Leo stepped into view, the noise doubled. Some booed, some screamed his name, some simply stared. He waved once, briefly, before ducking into the motorhome. He didn't need their approval — but he could feel their energy, like gasoline waiting for a spark.
The grid walk was chaos. Celebrities and influencers swarmed the tarmac, shoving microphones, cameras, phones into every corner. A television presenter cornered Cruz first, catching his million-dollar smile.
"Cruz, you're on pole again! What's the strategy today?"
Cruz chuckled, casual as ever. "Keep it clean, keep it fast. The team's given me everything. Now it's just execution."
The cameras loved it. Easy, safe, perfect.
When they reached Leo, the tone shifted."Leo, fifth place. Do you think you can really challenge Cruz from that far back?""Some say you're reckless — how will you avoid another incident?""Are you racing for yourself, or for the team?"
Leo tugged his visor down, cutting them off with silence. His answer was simple: he climbed into the car.
The cameras followed the movement like vultures chasing blood. Silence was its own headline.
Inside the cockpit, the world faded. The seat wrapped around him, the belts locked him in, the wheel lit up like a cockpit from another world. This was where he belonged. No politics, no sponsors, no lies. Just the car.
Yet even here, the sabotage gnawed at him. Will they mess with the strategy? The pit stops? The engine mode? He gritted his teeth. If they tried, he'd fight through it.
On the pit wall, Adrian unfolded his headset, his eyes sharp. He scanned the rival garages, spotted Marlow laughing with a broadcaster. Adrian clenched his jaw. The politics were thick as oil today.
But then he looked at Leo's car, gleaming on the grid, and he smiled. Because whatever schemes had been plotted, they hadn't accounted for the one thing that couldn't be controlled: Leo's refusal to bend.
Engines began to fire, one by one. The sound rose, a rolling thunder that shook the grandstands. Fans screamed, cameras zoomed, commentators shouted over the noise.
This is it. The moment before the storm.
Leo closed his eyes inside the helmet, just for a second. He pictured himself slicing through corners, overtaking on the knife's edge, forcing the world to look at him.
When he opened them again, the lights on the gantry above the grid were already glowing red.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The roar of engines built to a scream.
Five.
The world held its breath.
Perfect — let's keep squeezing Chapter 29, letting it simmer even longer before the flag falls. We'll dig deeper into the minutes before the start, with strategy whispers, political undercurrents, and psychological warfare.
The formation grid was a theater stage, and everyone knew their role. Celebrities were ushered away, the pit crews tightened bolts, and engineers stared at laptops glowing with streams of data.
Leo's visor was down, but his ears caught fragments of conversation over the radio.
"Fuel loads balanced… track temperature climbing… expect high degradation.""Copy."
The calm technical chatter couldn't disguise the undertone of worry. Someone had laced doubt into the team. He heard it in their hesitations, the slight tremor before each command. They were second-guessing themselves — or worse, second-guessing him.
Adrian's voice cut through the static. Firm. Solid."Eyes forward, Leo. Block out the noise. It's just you and the lights."
A few rows ahead, Cruz looked serene. His visor was still up, his face visible as he waved to fans, winked at a camera. He wanted everyone to see how easy this was for him. The champion, unbothered.
But then he looked over his shoulder — just briefly — to where Leo's car sat, fifth on the grid. The glance was fleeting, but it wasn't nothing. Cruz had noticed. He always noticed.
Leo smirked under his helmet. That glance was fuel.
On the pit wall, strategy maps glowed on tablets. Two camps inside the same team argued in whispers.
"We start Leo on the harder compound. He won't match Cruz for pace, but he'll gain on strategy.""No, no. If we mirror Cruz, we box him in. Don't give Leo any flexibility. Force him to fight."
It wasn't just strategy. It was sabotage dressed as calculation. Adrian leaned over the desk, jaw tight.
"You play games with tires, you cost us the race. Give him the same weapons. Or I'll make sure everyone here answers for it."
The silence that followed was heavy. The head strategist didn't look up from his screen, but his slight nod told Adrian his threat had landed. For now.
Above the circuit, a drone camera swept across the grandstands, capturing a mosaic of colors. Cruz's banners gleamed under sponsor polish, neat and corporate. Leo's banners were raw, hand-painted, some misspelled but all burning with emotion.
One caught Leo's eye as he scanned the crowd through the slits of his visor:BURN THE SYSTEM, WILDFIRE.
He laughed quietly to himself, almost imperceptibly. It wasn't strategy. It wasn't politics. But it was enough.
The marshal walked past, holding the signal board: THREE MINUTES TO START.
Engines roared louder as mechanics stepped back. Tyre warmers were stripped off, tires gleaming like black glass. The smell of fuel grew thicker. The air itself felt electric.
Cruz tapped his wheel once, twice. A ritual. Leo tightened his gloves. Adrian stood on the pit wall, headset clamped, his lips pressed into a hard line.
The whole world funneled into this moment — millions watching, billions invested, reputations balanced on the edge of a red light.
The grid cleared. Marshals ran to the sides. The cars lurched forward one by one, beginning the formation lap. Engines screamed into life, the sound reverberating through concrete and bone alike.
Leo's car surged ahead, every vibration traveling up his spine. The tires were cold, the car twitchy, but he knew the machine like it was an extension of himself. He swerved side to side, weaving aggressively, heating the rubber. Fans cheered as he whipped past.
Ahead, Cruz drove smooth and controlled, wasting no energy. Another message to the world: calm, calculated, untouchable.
The formation lap ended. Cars pulled back into their grid slots, one by one, like chess pieces locking into place.
Leo stopped on the fifth marker. His heart pounded once, then slowed into steady rhythm. His breath fogged the visor for a second before vanishing. He gripped the wheel, waiting.
The gantry lights lit red, one by one.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Engines screamed. The ground shook. Fans stood as one, screaming in every language.
Five.
The world froze.
The red lights held. A heartbeat. Another.
And then—