For most people, driving is about controlling a machine.
And that's correct, of course. The car is the foundation of everything.
But true driving is far more than that. It's a process of perceiving the machine, of using the feedback from the tires on the tarmac to touch the road, to understand the world in a different way.
When you can truly read a car's language, understand how it responds to the surface, to the vibrations; when its center of gravity and its breathing merge with the driver's own heartbeat—in that moment, driving is no longer about control. It becomes an extension, and finally, a part of your own body.
For Kai, this feeling was still indistinct, a vague intuition, a latent instinct.
But he trusted that instinct. Without warning, he lifted off the throttle half a beat early before the corner. His body subconsciously adjusted its center of gravity to follow the car's momentum. The movement was fluid, as if he were walking on an invisible road.
He entered the S-curve with precision, the car as stable as a tightrope walker. He threaded the needle through the twisting section, and in a flash, his body and the car moved in perfect sync. They became a streak of light, painting a perfect 'S' on the track. As he exited the final part of the curve, he was already accelerating, the car instantly blasting past one hundred kilometers per hour. The world blurred into a smear of light and color in his peripheral vision.
In that single, breathtaking moment, Kai, the car, the track, and the wind seemed to merge into one.
"Predictive dynamic control!" Monfardini's eyes lit up. This was an ability only the most elite drivers possessed. His heart began to pound in his chest.
Lap sixteen.
Another unconventional move.
In a low-speed right-hander, Kai deliberately got on the throttle half a beat early, letting the car's tail step just slightly out of line. He didn't fight it. Instead, he used that subtle instability, using the car's momentum and aerodynamics to catch the rear wheels and carve a completely unorthodox line. Incredibly, he kept the car perfectly stable, hugging the kerb and using the entire apex to its absolute limit before shooting out of the corner.
The speed through that corner wasn't even that high—sixty, maybe sixty-five kilometers per hour—but it possessed an exquisite sense of grace. It was like a tango, the push and pull of the forces building to an intense crescendo. It was slow, elegant, and yet utterly lethal. It was impossible to look away.
Racing had become a dance, its rhythm and meter flowing naturally as he interpreted the melody with his body and the car.
The stopwatch?
It didn't matter. In that moment, no one cared about the time on the clock. They were simply mesmerized, their eyes glued to the screen, following the flight of the virtual car. Driving had become an art form, a performance, a source of pure joy.
Leclerc watched in silence, a vein throbbing in his temple. He didn't know whether to call Kai a master of his craft, a bold innovator, or a complete lunatic who didn't care if he lived or died. The way he chose his lines, the way he controlled the throttle and brake, constantly probing the very edge of control—it was a pure shot of adrenaline.
So, was this guy a genius, or was he just completely insane?
Marchionne stood off to the side, his arms crossed. The deep furrow in his brow gradually smoothed out. His tone became laced with wonder. "Are you sure he's a rookie?"
Todt smiled. "All the evidence before us suggests he is. In fact, what he's doing is completely nonsensical."
Marchionne raised an eyebrow and glanced at his friend.
Todt just shrugged. What was happening was clearly beyond even his own expectations. "His entry points, his braking rhythm—there's no formula to it. He's driving purely on instinct."
"And yet… it's working?"
After saying it, Todt tilted his own head, a look of playful interest in his eyes. Though he was retired from the front lines, he had dedicated his entire life to motorsport. The passion in his blood was stirring once again.
A glimmer appeared in Marchionne's eyes. So, did this mean their "Catfish Effect" strategy would work? Could it possibly even exceed their wildest expectations?
It was just as Todt had said: whether Kai passed the trial or not was irrelevant. What mattered was that he brought something new, something that broke the mold, to stir up the stagnant pond and make the academy's young drivers feel a sense of crisis. The focus had always been on the existing talents of the Ferrari Driver Academy.
By that measure, Kai had already executed the plan to perfection. One look at Monfardini, and then at Leclerc, and it was clear that everything was going according to plan.
But Todt didn't respond. He simply gestured for Marchionne to keep watching. His intuition was screaming at him again.
He had a feeling this young man had more surprises in store. Many, many more.
For Kai, the outside world had ceased to exist. He was one hundred percent immersed in the simulator, lost in a world that belonged only to speed.
Even the effects of the G-force seemed to have vanished, the constant rush of adrenaline plunging him headfirst into the raging river of velocity.
Starting from lap eighteen, everything changed.
It was like watching a young boy who already knew how to swim dive into the ocean for the very first time. You might worry that the waves and the currents would pull him under, into the dark depths. But then you realize, to your astonishment, that he is a dolphin, swimming freely, becoming one with the vast blue expanse.
Kai was no longer probing, no longer hesitating. His driving, suddenly, became fast.
Or rather, not "suddenly." It was the natural culmination of everything that had come before. The signs had all been there, and now, the breathtaking result was unfolding before their eyes.
He did not disappoint.
"Push." In Formula racing, it's a standard term. It means to drive at the absolute limit, to squeeze every last drop of potential out of the car.
The Kai they were watching now had officially entered "push mode." But it wasn't a reckless, out-of-control sprint. It was a natural, fluid increase in pace. It was like a river flowing into its channel, the speed pouring out like liquid mercury, the bright roar of the engine soaring like the main theme of a symphony.
It was thrilling, majestic, and powerful.
A pure, unadulterated pleasure for the eyes and ears.
His entry angles became more and more daring, the tires kissing the very edge of the track, like a razor blade gliding over paper—clean and precise.
His braking points were pushed to the absolute limit, but always perfectly controlled. His transition to the throttle on corner exit was seamless. There was no wasted motion in his steering corrections. Every slight flick of the car's tail was used to help it rotate.
All his earlier probing, his risks, his experiments, had now been fully integrated. The clumsy, stop-and-start feeling was gone. The lap times began to tumble, one after another.
All eyes were fixed on the screen. What should have been a monotonous series of laps had become a captivating visual spectacle. It was impossible to look away.
Lap nineteen. Lap twenty.
On the digital display, a bright "green" marker appeared next to the time.
Personal Best.
In Formula racing, the stopwatch never lies. Every lap is recorded and color-coded.
Purple: fastest of the session.
Green: personal best.
Yellow: slower than a personal best.
The colors track a driver's progress not just for the full lap, but for each individual sector.
Marchionne froze. Twenty laps?
Only twenty laps?
If this outsider had never driven a Formula car, perhaps never even a kart, and this was his first time in a simulator… yet in just twenty laps, he had completed the entire process of learning, adapting, improving, and breaking through… then they might be witnessing the emergence of a true genius.
His heart began to race, the beat quickly becoming a roar that thundered in his ears.
This was it.
This was his world. Just as a dolphin belongs in the sea.