The world did not stop after Liam Ferraro died.
It staggered.
For three days, the sport of Formula racing existed in shock. Circuits lowered their flags. Drivers avoided cameras. Engineers stared too long at telemetry screens, wondering which number would one day be theirs.
By the end of the week, mourning turned into fear.
And fear turned into urgency.
Flashback – One Day After Liam Ferraro's Death
The Formula Sport Federation headquarters stood like a steel coffin in the heart of the capital—tall, cold, and windowless. Inside its highest conference room, the air felt heavier than gravity.
A long oval table glowed with holographic projections.
At its center hovered the frozen image of destruction:
Liam Ferraro's Formula car.
Carbon fiber peeled apart like broken bones. The survival cell cracked. The halo twisted—bent, but not broken.
Proof that even the strongest armor could fail.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then—
"This is catastrophic."
A man in a dark suit finally broke the silence. His voice was tight, controlled, but his hands trembled.
"Ferraro wasn't just a driver. He was a symbol. Sponsors are already pulling back. Broadcast partners want reassurance."
Another voice cut in sharply.
"Reassurance?" a woman snapped. "We've lost our global advantage. Italy is accelerating their junior programs. Germany's military-backed engineering division just announced a five-year pipeline. Britain has three prodigies under sixteen."
A murmur spread across the table.
"They're moving fast."
"They were waiting for this."
"They smell weakness."
An older executive slammed his palm onto the table, the hologram flickering.
"We can't afford a gap! Formula racing doesn't forgive hesitation!"
Someone shouted from the far end:
"Then we create a successor!"
The word hung in the air like a sin.
"Not a replacement," another added, voice rising."A weapon."
Eyes turned instinctively toward the far corner of the room.
A man sat there alone.
Silver hair tied back neatly. A face carved by years of sun, speed, and disappointment. His posture was relaxed—but coiled, like a predator resting before a kill.
Rintaro Akagi.
Principal of APEX Academy Head Driving instructor.Former race strategist.Talent executioner.
The man who had molded champions—and buried failures.
"Akagi," an executive said, leaning forward. "You've trained our best drivers. You understand development better than anyone. Tell us how we recover."
Akagi didn't answer.
Another man cleared his throat nervously.
"We expand APEX. Double intake. Triple it if we must. One hundred new students. Raw talent, street racers, karting prodigies—anyone with potential."
The room came alive.
"Yes, numbers!"
"Probability favors scale."
"More candidates means higher odds!"
Akagi's eyes finally lifted.
Cold.
Unimpressed.
"Idiocy."
The word cut through the room like a blade.
Silence crashed down.
Akagi stood slowly, hands resting on the table.
"You think champions are born from volume?" he said. "You think Liam Ferraro was a statistical accident?"
No one answered.
Akagi continued, voice low, controlled—but burning.
"You could recruit ten thousand children. You would still fail."
A representative snapped back, face red.
"Then what do you suggest, Akagi?! We can't sit still while the world overtakes us!"
Akagi turned his gaze toward him.
"Sit still?" he repeated."No."
He straightened.
"We hunt."
The room stiffened.
Another executive leaned forward, voice dropping.
"We don't care how you do it. Break them if you have to. Push them. Destroy them. We want results."
He raised one finger.
"Give us the number one driver in the world—before another nation does."
Akagi stared at that finger.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he turned toward the exit.
"You don't understand Formula racing," he said without looking back.
His hand rested on the door.
"F1 isn't about winning or losing."
He paused.
"It's about time."
The executives frowned.
"How much time you're given," Akagi continued, "and what you're willing to sacrifice inside it."
He opened the door.
"You want a predator?"
A thin smile touched his lips—dangerous, almost cruel.
"I'll give you a generation of them."
The door shut behind him.
Present Day – Three Weeks Later
Kai Hayato wiped grease from his hands, the hum of his apartment broken only by the ticking of cooling metal. His car sat half-disassembled beside him—scarred, imperfect, alive.
His phone chimed.
Unknown sender.
[APEX ACADEMY – CONFIDENTIAL NOTICE]
Kai frowned.
He opened it.
The silver hawk emblem unfolded across the screen.
His breath caught.
APEX Academy.
His pulse spiked.
"…This has to be a joke."
But the words burned into him.
You have been selected as a candidate for the APEX Project.
His hands trembled.
Street racer.No license.No backing.
Yet—
Ferraro's crash replayed silently on the TV.
The world wanted a successor.
Kai clenched his fist.
"If this is a hunt…"
A grin slowly spread across his face.
"…then I won't be prey."
Later That Night – FSF Private Wing
The corridor lights were dim. The building had emptied. Outside, rain tapped softly against reinforced glass.
Akagi stood alone, staring out at the city.
Footsteps approached.
"You're really doing this?"
A woman stopped beside him.
She wore a tailored FSF coat, her dark hair pulled back sharply. Her eyes were sharp—analytical, but not blind.
Miyako Shinohara.
Director of Youth Development.And the only one in the room who knew Akagi personally.
"The letters went out," Akagi said calmly.
Her eyes widened slightly."…All of them?"
"One hundred."
Miyako exhaled slowly. "Karting dropouts. Discarded talents. Kids with no safety net."
She turned to him.
"Are you sure about this, Rintaro?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he said quietly, "No."
That startled her.
He finally faced her, eyes darker than before.
"I'm not sure at all."
Miyako clenched her jaw. "Then why—"
"Because my friend would've wanted this."
Her breath caught.
Liam.
Akagi's voice hardened.
"He died chasing the limit. Not comfort. Not safety. The limit."
He looked back out at the city.
"If this destroys students' lives—if it crushes their dreams—then so be it."
Miyako's voice trembled. "That's cruel."
"Yes," Akagi agreed. "Formula 1 is cruel."
He turned fully toward her now.
"Come on. You and I both know the truth."
She stayed silent.
"We can't produce a number one driver overnight," he continued. "It will take at least five years. Minimum."
He stepped closer.
"But those five years?"
"They'll decide everything."
Miyako swallowed. "And the ones who fail?"
Akagi didn't hesitate.
"They become prey."
His eyes sharpened.
"F1 isn't about talent alone. It's about what you're willing to do with your time."
A pause.
"Do you sharpen yourself…"
"…or do you get consumed?"
Miyako closed her eyes briefly.
"…You're creating monsters."
Akagi turned away.
"No," he said.
"I'm revealing them."888888⁸