Silence. The world fell completely mute. Everything happened too quickly. The rolling heatwave rushed forward, overwhelming the senses. Eyes, hearts, and minds simply could not process the data fast enough. Before anyone could react, the moment had already roared past. The crowd stood frozen, their eyes instinctively tracking the two intertwined streaks of light as they blasted toward Turn 1, Abbey.
Looking down the straight, the silver car had taken the lead. It plunged into Abbey ahead, leaving the burning red trailing behind.
To the spectators in the main grandstands, the Number 44 car held a clear advantage. The tension caught in their throats finally detonated.
Hamilton! Champion!
The world erupted into chaos. Silverstone caught fire, consumed by a wave of fanaticism.
However, up in the broadcast booth, Crofty and Brundle possessed a slightly different vantage point. Their high-altitude perspective revealed a completely different reality. A storm of confusion washed through their minds.
What just happened?
Kai had absorbed Hamilton's final, desperate assault at Club Corner with an unbelievable display of defensive driving, pulling ahead. Yet, in the very moment of crossing the line, his front-left tire finally surrendered completely, disintegrating and throwing the chassis off balance as it limped toward the finish.
Hamilton, who had never relaxed his pursuit, seized the opportunity. He surged forward in the final microsecond, launching a full-throttle sprint.
The two cars, separated by millimeters, crossed the line side-by-side.
So... what next? Who won? What was the actual outcome of the 2019 British Grand Prix?
They had witnessed it with their own eyes, but their brains had short-circuited. They were left operating on pure instinct.
The two commentators exchanged a look, finding the exact same shock mirrored in each other's eyes. A wave of electricity ran down their scalps, their bodies trembling involuntarily. Their rapid-fire commentary was simply repeating every image their eyes registered, but they still couldn't keep pace with the reality of the circuit.
It wasn't until the slow-motion replay appeared on the broadcast feed that their floating consciousness finally snapped back into their bodies. They witnessed the miracle again, frame by frame.
Leading. The tire. Side-by-side. The finish line.
In that thousandth-of-a-second sliver of time, the chaos and instability lasted until the final meter. The bright, vivid red managed to suppress the gleaming silver by a single nose length, securing the finish by a perilous margin. The difference was so microscopic it was nearly impossible to identify with the naked eye.
A jolt of pure adrenaline shot from the soles of Crofty's feet straight to the top of his head. Before he even realized it, he had lunged to his feet, completely unaware that he had knocked his chair over and yanked his headset out. Operating on pure instinct, he grabbed the microphone and roared with every ounce of strength he had left.
"Goodness me!"
"We have just witnessed The Race!"
"Lewis Hamilton! Kai! Two legitimate contenders for the World Championship have delivered a race at Silverstone that will go straight into the history books!"
"From teaming up to overtake Bottas at the start, to the close-quarters contact that sent them both to the pits early, followed by the chaos of the Safety Car and the sudden rain—these two have relentlessly traded blows. While the rest of the grid provided incredible racing and suspense, the battle between these two operates on an entirely different level!"
"They fought to the bitter end. Hamilton's W10 and Kai's SF90 were pushed to their absolute limits, showcasing the true magic of motorsport on this legendary circuit. Their understanding of the track in the wet surpassed the limits of the cars themselves, and their duel after the rain stopped pushed their talent to the extreme! An epic race demands an epic conclusion!"
"In the final half-lap, the front-left tire on Car 22 was practically destroyed! Car 44 suffered front wing damage! Yet both drivers pushed their machines and the track to the edge, battling all the way to the line! Kai has proven once again why he is the vanguard shaking the foundations of the Mercedes dynasty! Why he is the rookie rewriting history!"
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
"The winner of the 2019 British Grand Prix—"
"Kai!"
Hoarse and buzzing with adrenaline, Crofty panted as he turned to look at Brundle. He realized his partner was sitting somewhat awkwardly in his chair, tears streaming down his face. But beneath the tears, his expression radiated pure, glowing happiness. The emotion of the moment simply defied language.
The Race.
Unique. Historic.
Down in the pit lane, Nappi couldn't contain himself any longer. He broke free from his constraints and sprinted out of the garage. It wasn't just him; the entire sea of Ferrari red poured out. They rushed the pit wall, clinging to the catch fencing. They didn't shout; they didn't cheer. They just stared out at the circuit, their hearts pounding against their ribs.
The noise, the chaos—none of it mattered.
Their captain. He truly was their captain.
It had been a chaotic, brutal race. The challenges from the weather, the track, and the opponents were relentless. Ultimately, the challenge from their own car had been the most despair-inducing. But Kai had endured it in his own way, fighting to the end. The fighting spirit of Ferrari was shining brighter than ever before.
One by one, the cars completed their cool-down laps and returned to the pits. Behind Kai and Hamilton, Leclerc crossed the line in third, followed by Bottas, Albon, and Verstappen.
For the first time this season, Albon defeated his teammate, Verstappen.
For the first time this season, Ferrari thoroughly suppressed Mercedes.
Yet, Leclerc returned. Albon and Verstappen returned. Even Hamilton returned. But there was still no sign of Kai.
After a brief period of uproar, Silverstone grew quiet again.
The home crowd finally registered the outcome. The slow-motion replays on the giant screens clearly displayed the finish. Hamilton had fallen short by the narrowest of margins. The crowd plummeted from the ecstatic heights of heaven straight into the abyss. The despair and bitterness washed over them, swallowing them whole. They stood rooted to the spot, lost, many clutching their heads in disbelief.
A race full of twists and turns, only to fall short right at the finish line. Hamilton had never felt this level of powerlessness at his home race. Even with the Silverstone advantage, even after giving it his all, he... still lost.
From the start, to the dogfight, to the rhythm, and finally to the result—a complete defeat.
The reality hit the 150,000 home fans like a heavy blow.
Silence descended. A subtle, brewing restlessness churned beneath the sun, but it only served to highlight the dead quiet of Silverstone. The world had gone still.
Nappi didn't care. He relished the silence. He had no time to worry about the feelings of the home crowd. He clung to the catch fencing, craning his neck and straining to look toward the exit of Club Corner.
Long after almost every other car had returned, that streak of red finally appeared on the horizon.
Wobbling, battered. The front-left tire was severely delaminated, the cords fully exposed, practically destroyed. The car had lost its balance, limping forward, scarred and bleeding.
Its pace was slow and heavy, yet incredibly resolute.
"Captain!" Nappi shouted.
That was Ferrari's captain. Their spiritual leader. In the midst of adversity and darkness, he stood tall. Time and time again, he used his unparalleled performances to awaken the dormant fighting spirit in Ferrari's blood, taking them step by step back toward the throne. It wasn't about reclaiming past glory; it was about forging a new world.
Turning his head, Nappi saw the throng of engineers crowding together.
Just moments ago, even they had given up. The car had betrayed their trust. Following Austria, it seemed Ferrari was destined to lose at the finish line for the second consecutive time.
But this time was different. Kai had altered the outcome with his unyielding will, dragging the car across the line on three wheels to secure a victory.
No one was immune to the emotion.
Nappi clenched his fists and shouted again, "Captain!"
Once, then again.
And then, the engineers couldn't hold back either. They joined in the shouting.
The sound tore from Resta's throat, feeling strange and overly expressive. A wave of panic hit him, and he instinctively tried to stop himself, to regain control of his voice.
But he paused.
What was this feeling?
It was... indescribable. It was entirely different from sitting in front of a computer, in a simulator, or staring at a wall of data. His palms were sweating, his knees were weak, his whole body ached. His racing heart felt like it was exceeding its physical limits. He had just been standing in the pit lane, yet he felt as though he had just fought a war—drenched in sweat, exhausted. Yet, the profound joy and happiness made the fatigue irrelevant.
So, was this why Mekies had invited the entire engineering team to Silverstone?
On the surface, it was about technical exchange, keeping up with the times, and scouting the opposition. In reality, it was about pulling them out of the R&D base in Maranello and throwing them into the fire of a real race.
It wasn't just him. Resta turned and saw the expressions on the other engineers' faces. The excitement and exhilaration in their eyes were palpable.
Cardile, Lotti, Ravono... all of them.
Back in Maranello, they watched the live broadcasts, but their focus was always on the data. Everything became a jumble of numbers on a screen. Winning or losing was just an outcome; it lacked the power to truly impact the heart, let alone the physical ache of tension.
But being trackside was different. It was even different from any previous trackside experience.
His mind raced, searching for the right words, but it wasn't until the shout broke free from his throat that he felt the true reality of the moment.
A release, a catharsis, a burning passion.
Resta abandoned his reserve and shouted with all his might.
Behind him, Cardile, Lotti, and the others exchanged glances. They were enveloped in the surging madness, and it somehow felt entirely normal, entirely right. They might have professional disagreements, they might even argue until they were red in the face, but ultimately, when it was all over, they were a team.
A driver's success relied on an excellent car, and a top-tier car needed an excellent driver to become a true warrior on the track.
Today, Kai proved that once again. He extracted the potential of the SF90, pushed it to its absolute limit, and created a miracle.
Since the winter break, it had been a bumpy, rocky road. But here at Silverstone, on this unique track, in this unique race, they had finally found the right chemistry.
The stirring emotions could no longer be contained. One shout led to another. Smiles crept onto their faces, blooming freely. They dropped their reserve, their pride, their prejudices. They let go of themselves, allowing themselves to get lost in the spreading, burning madness.
"Captain!"
"Captain!"
The shouts from the pit lane twisted together, echoing under the Silverstone sky.
This version of Ferrari was unfamiliar. They had never presented such a united front, not even during the era of the 'Iron Triangle'. But now, they were experiencing a rebirth because of Kai, transforming step by step and standing firmly united.
Caught off guard, tears breached Stapleton's eyes.
Her tightly wound nerves finally relaxed, and she stood there, crying freely.
It was a strange sensation. She was happy, a smile playing on her lips, joy blooming in her chest, but the tears just wouldn't stop.
She didn't wipe them away. She simply bolted from the grandstands, sprinting toward the podium, the passion in her throat ready to burst.
"Captain!"
Borreipaire turned to look. The Number 22 car appearing at the pit entry was almost unrecognizable. The exposed steel rim looked stark and lonely, the chassis covered in scars—the physical evidence of the battle.
His nose stung.
He looked slightly disheveled. He understood the weight and significance of this race better than anyone. It was entirely fair to say Kai had dragged this victory across the line through sheer willpower alone. Those scars were medals.
Taking a deep breath, Borreipaire composed himself. He stood, turned, and jogged quickly toward the podium. He just wanted to stand beside Kai. He didn't need to say anything; he just needed to show he was standing with him.
The area around the podium was buzzing, a sea of people. The Number 22 car finally arrived, parking in the P1 slot.
All eyes were on it. Almost everyone held their breath.
Yes, Silverstone was Hamilton's territory. Everywhere you looked, there were Kai's rivals, people who would gladly chew his bones and drink his blood. But at the same time, these fans were the most passionate, loyal racing enthusiasts in the world. After witnessing a race with so many twists and turns, no one was more hyped, no one understood the weight of this race better than they did.
Their blood was pumping.
It was a return to the essence, to the primal roots of the sport, rediscovering the passion that modern racing often lacked. Real combat, trading blows, finding the perfect synthesis of man and machine in close-quarters combat, showcasing the true meaning of speed and passion.
The way they looked at Kai began to change.
Under the gaze of thousands, the figure climbed out of the cockpit of Car 22. It looked difficult. When his feet hit the ground, he didn't move immediately. He stood there, swaying slightly, his mental and physical energy completely depleted. He could barely stand.
After a pause, Kai straightened his back and took a step, only for his knees to buckle.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Mekies, Borreipaire, and Lorenzo all rushed forward, but someone else beat them to it.
Sprinting forward, despite still wearing his helmet, the clenched fists and light steps clearly conveyed a joy bursting from within. The red Ferrari race suit identified him as the Number 16 driver. He lunged forward, half-hugging, half-supporting Kai.
The tension in the crowd eased.
Leclerc's voice came muffled through his helmet. "Steady now, old man!"
He opened with a joke, fully supporting Kai's weight and helping him stand straight.
Kai didn't reply verbally; he just gave Leclerc a tight hug and patted his shoulder. "Charles. Hell of a race."
The two helmets looked at each other, and both men burst out laughing.
Despite the thorns, despite the difficulties, the two Ferrari drivers had fought side-by-side all season. Following Shanghai, they had completed another brilliant collaboration. After the slightly disappointing result in Austria, the two young men quickly refocused, overcame adversity, and broke through again.
This Ferrari team was genuinely radiating a different kind of light.
Kai managed to take his helmet off. He was drenched in sweat, his cheeks flushed red, looking as if he had just been pulled from a swimming pool. It was hard to tell what was rain and what was sweat; he was soaked through. The physical toll of this race was easily on par with Singapore the previous year.
A dual test of mind and body, both pushed to the limit.
Yet, Kai's eyes were bright, showing no trace of fatigue. They sparkled like a clear spring catching the sunlight, and a brilliant smile spread across his face.
He bumped Leclerc's shoulder hard, giving him a look, then hoisted his helmet high into the air.
Roar!
The crowd cheered.
Leclerc finally caught on. He pulled off his own helmet and mirrored the gesture, raising it high. He clearly wasn't entirely used to this kind of attention; his expression was slightly shy, his smile a bit reserved.
Roar!
The crowd boiled over.
...
"A race worth its weight in gold. You could even call it season-defining."
"For Ferrari, the 2019 season has undeniably been fraught with difficulties. They've faced incredible challenges, constantly battling their own car's issues while trying to catch their rivals. Three steps forward, one step back—that is not the formula for a championship run."
"And yet, they've done it."
"No one knows exactly how, but they found a way. Through sheer determination, they carved a path, and here at Silverstone, in Hamilton's backyard, they've suppressed Mercedes for the first time this season."
"This wasn't just a Grand Prix; it was another milestone in the season."
"Following the British Grand Prix, Kai claims his third winner's trophy of the year, closing the gap to Hamilton's five. Mercedes remains strong, holding onto the top spot in both the Drivers' and Constructors' standings, but Ferrari and Kai are closing in. They refuse to surrender!"
"Ferrari is not giving up on this season, just like Red Bull. But Ferrari has taken it a step further, completely upending the landscape at Silverstone."
Crofty took a deep breath and held it, watching the scene on the track. The noise, the madness, the excitement. That tiny speck of red, so small yet so bold, lit up all of Silverstone, burning quietly like a flame.
The world was at Kai's feet.
Almost instinctively, Crofty turned to look at Brundle.
So this was why Brundle had stepped away from the die-hard Hamilton camp and planted himself firmly in Kai's corner?
It wasn't just about winning.
From Brundle to Sky Sports, to the Silverstone circuit itself—the core forces that had always defended Hamilton were slowly shifting.
And what about himself?
Brundle noticed Crofty's gaze. Assuming his partner just needed him to pick up the commentary, he regained his composure and smoothly continued the analysis.
"For Mercedes, they need to make some changes..."
Crofty looked at the calm and collected Brundle and chuckled to himself. Was he the one overreacting now, lost in shock and awe?
Smiling, Crofty turned his attention back to the celebration.
Could Silverstone be the turning point of the 2019 season?
Despite himself, Crofty felt a surge of anticipation. He still hoped Mercedes and Hamilton would come out on top, but above all, he loved the sport of racing. He wanted more of these epic duels.
Amidst the roaring crowd, Kai finally walked over to his team, opening his arms to hug everyone. When he reached Borreipaire, he leaned in and whispered something in his ear before pulling away.
Roar—roar—
Nappi and the others cheered and teased nearby. Borreipaire laughed along, looking like he was taking the ribbing in stride, but his mind was already racing.
Kai had reminded him to check the car's weight.
It was then that Borreipaire understood why Kai's cool-down lap had been so slow. He was intentionally keeping the pace down to avoid damaging the floor or dislodging any remaining pieces of the front wing. He couldn't risk shedding parts and failing the post-race weigh-in. He had to ensure they passed the parc fermé inspection.
Borreipaire kept a straight face, but as soon as he turned around and Kai distracted the team, he found Binotto, and the two immediately got to work.
Good thing they were quick.
Shortly after Binotto and Borreipaire got into position, personnel from Mercedes began hovering around Car 22. Their intentions were obvious.
If Kai was disqualified, the win went to Hamilton.
The victory was secondary; the real prize was that if Kai 'disappeared' from the results, Mercedes would take first and third, reclaiming their advantage in the Constructors' Championship and continuing to suppress Ferrari.
Mercedes would stop at nothing. They wouldn't miss a single opportunity.
But Ferrari weren't pushovers. They weren't about to roll over and take a beating. The protest they had just filed was already on the FIA stewards' desk, and they were actively fueling the media narrative.
Before Mercedes started pointing fingers, maybe they should look in the mirror. Hamilton's driving today had been completely erratic. His reckless, regardless-of-the-consequences collisions not only threatened his own race but also attempted to drag Kai down with him. His dirty tactics in Abu Dhabi last year hadn't worked, and now he was trying them again?
Ferrari had filed a formal request demanding the FIA reinvestigate the contact at Turn 17, Club Corner. They called for a severe penalty for Hamilton to serve as a deterrent, perhaps even disqualification, to warn other drivers against mimicking such dangerous behavior.
Was the race over?
Technically, the on-track action had concluded, but the off-track political warfare was in full swing. Mercedes and Ferrari were arm-wrestling, battling it out from the FIA stewards' room to the court of public opinion. Both teams were out for blood.
The tension wasn't dissipating; it was escalating.
Even Kai's every move remained under the spotlight.
Approaching him was none other than the third son of the LVMH group, Arnault. He approached with a wide smile and open arms, pulling Kai into a big hug and joking, "Looks like someone is eager for a new helmet design."
Kai feigned surprise. "Wait, don't tell me you aren't prepared and have to design one from scratch right now? I didn't realize you had so little faith in me. I'm a little hurt."
The quip made Arnault smile even wider.
Silverstone wasn't just the heartland of motorsport; outside of Monaco, it also boasted the highest concentration of top-tier sponsors and elite VIPs.
Today, they had watched Kai conquer Silverstone. A race this dramatic and thrilling naturally caused a stir. Seeing Arnault's reaction, everyone present started doing the math in their heads.
If Arnault's appearance was expected, Fernando Alonso's presence was completely off the radar.
Since announcing his retirement last season, Alonso had distanced himself from the paddock. He seemed to be enjoying the quiet and leisure of retirement. This was his first time back at a race.
His presence in the paddock wasn't that strange; his network and resources were still strong. He was, after all, a living legend of the sport.
But Alonso personally seeking out Kai to congratulate him, and doing so in front of everyone? That was surprising.
It was very un-Alonso-like.
It wasn't personal; it was purely about his competitive nature. Alonso's desire to win and his obsession with beating his rivals always burned bright. As a two-time World Champion and one of the most senior figures in the paddock, he had his pride. He rarely went out of his way to congratulate a rival.
So, what was this about?
Had retirement mellowed him out? Had age cooled his fiery temper?
Furthermore, this was his first time back. Watching an incredible, mind-bending race from the sidelines, without the chance to fight on the track, served as a stark reminder that his era was over. Yet here he was, applauding a young, brash rival?
It all felt off.
Wait! Was Alonso... planning to pull a Niki Lauda?
Joining a team as an advisor or director, returning to the paddock to stay close to the action and feel the speed again?
Alonso not only congratulated Kai but also chatted with him amiably for a few minutes. The atmosphere between them was clearly relaxed.
Later, reporters asked Alonso about the exchange.
"What an incredible race," Alonso replied. "I was just paying my respects. Who could say no to a race like that?"
...That was it?
The reporters didn't buy it, but when they pressed him, Alonso refused to elaborate. However, judging by his relaxed posture and light steps as he walked away, he was in a great mood.
Alonso was being honest—to an extent.
It had been a true duel. Hamilton and Kai had given it everything. From the torrential rain to the sweltering heat, through all the crises, they had emptied their toolboxes. It wasn't just about beating each other; it was about pushing the limits.
Since retiring, Alonso had felt a void. He tried different things to distract himself, to fill that black hole, but nothing worked.
Until today.
He felt a long-lost sense of fulfillment. The passion he thought had died was reignited, his blood boiling in a way it hadn't in a long time.
In his final season in 2018, his interactions with Kai had been limited. He barely remembered them.
Even when Kai burst onto the scene and won the World Championship, the impact on Alonso had been minimal. Hotshot rookies were a dime a dozen. He had been one; Hamilton had been one; Vettel had been one. To Alonso, Kai's championship was partly skill, partly luck. Nothing to get worked up over. He hadn't paid much attention.
To Alonso, Kai was just another kid.
But today was different.
Watching the race from the outside, Alonso felt something new. The youth, the energy, the audacity, the edge. He thought he had been in the paddock too long to ever feel that way again. The excitement of his rookie year, the precarious early days of his career, the races where he fought for his life—it was all just memories.
He never expected that energy to return. It burned in his veins, radiating from deep within his soul. He could barely suppress it.
It felt as though time had rewound nineteen years, back to 2001, when he first drove a Minardi around Albert Park.
It was so foreign, yet so familiar. The urge pulsed in his chest.
And so, in a rare move, Alonso stepped forward to applaud Kai.
Leaving the reporters behind, Alonso walked away but couldn't help pausing to look back at the mixed zone. He watched Kai, surrounded by the press, completely exhausted and dripping with sweat. He could practically feel the raw energy radiating from him.
"Looks like the fire is still burning," Kai had said to him moments ago.
It was a small joke, but Kai's open gaze left Alonso with nowhere to hide. The feeling that had been quietly waking up inside him was caught red-handed.
It reminded Alonso of their encounter after the donuts in Abu Dhabi last year. The same Kai, the same humorous banter.
It wasn't malicious; it wasn't a provocation. It was a challenge.
Alonso... felt an itch.
Thinking back, he hadn't really gone toe-to-toe with this kid in 2018. Back in the day, he and Hamilton had fought tooth and nail. Now, faced with the even younger Kai, had he lost the drive to arm-wrestle the new generation?
From a distance, Kai didn't notice him, but Alonso kept his eyes fixed on the young driver. This kid who had upended the paddock brought more than just a championship; he brought a spirit, an attitude that shattered the established rules. It reminded Alonso of Formula 1 fifteen years ago.
Chaotic, lawless, wild, rough, but possessing a fierce, primal vitality.
He didn't want to miss out.
The idea took root.
He paused, slightly surprised, but not panicked. On the contrary, everything became clear. The emptiness in his chest was filled with warmth, making his body feel lighter. A weight he hadn't even realized he was carrying vanished.
He wanted to come back. Retiring was a mistake. His career wasn't over. He craved the competition, the fight, the desire to beat every driver on the grid. Most importantly, he craved the speed.
It didn't take long for rumors of Alonso seeking a seat to spread.
At first, people brushed it off. Rumors of 'returns' and 'retirements' popped up every other week. Half the time, the media just made things up for fun. If Alonso was spotted at a gym, people started writing comeback stories. His appearance at Silverstone naturally fueled the gossip mill.
However, as the summer break approached, the rumors didn't die down; they intensified. Soon, various team executives confirmed the news.
Fernando Alonso, retired for less than six months, was officially preparing for a comeback.
He was currently looking for a seat, and several teams had expressed interest.
For one, his talent was undeniable; he was still a top-tier driver. For another, his marketability in Spanish-speaking countries was unmatched. Sponsors loved the legend.
Furthermore, Alonso had influence within the FIA, something no other active driver possessed. For a team, that was a major bonus point.
Sure, people complained about his political maneuvering within teams, especially as he got older and his raw pace dipped slightly from its absolute peak. But complaints aside, when teams sat down to do the math, Alonso always made the shortlist. His value wasn't easily dismissed.
If Alonso returned, the driver market was going to undergo a massive reshuffle. The paddock was already on edge. There was more than one driver sweating over their seat.
It was going to be a bloodbath.
But that was all in the future. Everything started at Silverstone.
More accurately, it started with Kai.
After finishing his interviews, Kai headed to the cool-down room. He ran into Binotto, who flashed a rare smile and joked in Italian, "Since when are you friends with Fernando? Be careful, he doesn't make friends in the paddock. Real friends, anyway."
Kai smiled back. "Mattia, I think Fernando might be coming back."
Binotto had just been making a joke, but the news caught him off guard. "Who said that?"
Kai didn't answer; he just kept walking.
Binotto stood there, momentarily stunned. If it was true, he wasn't entirely surprised. And he was pretty sure he knew the reason why.
Kai.
This kid had a knack for energizing the entire paddock.
Ricciardo. Verstappen. Bottas. Hamilton. Leclerc. All of them. They all felt the heat and the fighting spirit because of Kai. They were all showing it on the track in their own ways, breaking limits and pushing themselves, breathing new life into the sport.
And now, add Alonso to the list.
Binotto was certain he wouldn't be the last. Who would have thought the entire sport would be turned upside down by one driver?
Creak—
Pushing open the door to the cool-down room, Kai stepped out of the noise and into the quiet. It was almost too quiet. The air felt frosty.
Looking up, Kai met Hamilton's eyes.
Expressionless, calm. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but behind the calm, a fire was burning.
Hamilton watched Kai silently. He didn't look away, didn't speak. Just a calm gaze devoid of obvious emotion. Just... watching.
But the stare was piercing, locking onto Kai, making the skin on his arms prickle. It was silent, yet more powerful than words.
Hamilton was clearly on the offensive.
Since Monaco, Hamilton had completely ignored Kai's existence, even in public. No talking, no eye contact, no interaction. No anger, no confrontation—just completely erasing Kai from his world.
Silence was its own statement. It was Hamilton's way of retaliating, a stark contrast to Kai's actions in Monaco.
A silent war of words.
But today, Hamilton changed his strategy. Or perhaps, under the pressure of Kai's relentless pursuit, he was forced to acknowledge him.
The silence remained, but this time, it had teeth. It targeted Kai directly, carrying the scent of blood.
Was this an accusation? Did Hamilton believe Kai was to blame for the contact? Did he think Kai should be disqualified?
Kai didn't care. He wasn't curious, and he certainly wasn't bothered.
If this was Hamilton's idea of an attack, it was completely painless. Literally.