Marco didn't sleep. He tried, but every time he closed his eyes he saw the loose steering bolt, imagined the wheel coming off mid-corner, pictured the crash that could have been.
At 4 AM he gave up, got dressed quietly so as not to wake Yuki, and went for a walk around the facility. The track was dark and empty, the pit lane silent. In a few hours, this place would be full of people who could make or break careers with a single decision.
He found himself at the fence overlooking turn three, the corner where he'd made his statement overtake on Dominic weeks ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
Marco turned. Amélie was walking toward him, hands in her jacket pockets, looking as tired as he felt.
"Too much in my head," Marco admitted.
"Yeah. Me too." She joined him at the fence. "You know what's funny? I've been training for this my whole life. My father started me in karts when I was six. I've had professional coaching, sports psychologists, nutritionists, everything. And I'm terrified."
"You'll do great. You always do."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'll choke when it matters most." She glanced at him. "But you? You've got something none of us have. You've got nothing to lose."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true. Dominic has his father's expectations. I have my family's legacy. Carlos has sponsors who've invested in him. But you? If this doesn't work out, you go back to exactly where you were before. That freedom—that's powerful."
Marco thought about Giuseppe, about the garage, about the life waiting for him if he failed. "It doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like desperation."
"Sometimes those are the same thing." Amélie smiled slightly. "Come on. We should get some breakfast. Long day ahead."
The academy dining hall at 6 AM was already buzzing with nervous energy. Most of the cohort was awake, nobody able to sleep, everyone processing what today meant.
Valentina appeared at 7 AM sharp, clipboard in hand.
"Good morning. Today is evaluation day. Four F3 team principals are arriving at 9 AM: Simon Price from Apex Racing, Katherine Walsh from Velocity Motorsport, David Chen from Titan Racing, and Marcus Anderson from Phoenix F3." She paused, letting the names sink in. "Each of you will participate in three sessions. First is qualifying simulation—one flying lap, maximum attack. Second is race simulation—ten laps with full field. Third is individual assessment where team principals can request specific drivers for one-on-one observation."
The weight of it settled over the room. Three chances to impress. Three opportunities to earn a professional contract or prove you weren't ready.
"Your cars are being prepared now. Inspection begins at 8 AM. You'll each verify your equipment with your assigned mechanic." Valentina's eyes found Marco. "We've implemented maximum security protocols. Every car has been inspected overnight and will remain under supervision until the sessions begin."
At 8 AM, Marco stood in the garage staring at car number 34. Phil the mechanic was there, along with two others Marco recognized.
"Walk through it with me," Marco said. "Everything."
They went through every system. Steering column—properly torqued, locked, verified. Brake system—fluid levels good, lines intact, pads fresh. Engine—compression tested, sensors checked, data logging active. Seat belts—inspected, proper mounting, no cuts or wear.
It took forty-five minutes. The other drivers had already finished their inspections and left. But Marco couldn't afford to miss anything.
"It's good," Phil said finally. "I promise you, this car is safe. I checked it myself three times last night."
Marco wanted to believe him. Had to believe him, because in an hour he'd be driving this car at racing speed in front of people who controlled his future.
The team principals arrived in expensive cars wearing expensive suits. Marco watched from the garage as Valentina greeted them, led them to the observation tower with the best view of the track.
Simon Price was maybe fifty, gray hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing. Katherine Walsh was younger, maybe forty, with the confident posture of someone who'd fought to reach her position. David Chen looked relaxed and friendly, chatting easily with the others. Marcus Anderson was the oldest, probably sixty, and carried himself like racing royalty.
These four people would decide if Marco's sacrifice had been worth it.
At 9:30 AM, the qualifying simulation began. One lap. One chance. Drivers went out in reverse championship order, which meant Marco would go ninth out of ten.
He watched the others on the monitors in the garage. Maya went first—solid lap, clean, nothing spectacular. 1:18.9. Michael was next—slightly faster but made a mistake in the final sector. 1:18.6. The middle pack all ran similar times, 1:18.2 to 1:17.9.
Then Henrik ran a 1:17.6. Carlos went faster—1:17.4. Amélie was brilliant—1:17.0.
Dominic's turn. Marco watched him on the screen, watched the perfect lines, the textbook technique. The lap was mechanical precision translated into speed.
1:16.8.
Marco's turn.
He climbed into the car, ran through his pre-drive checklist. Steering wheel secure. Pedals responsive. Mirrors adjusted. Breathe.
The warm-up lap felt good. The car was balanced, responsive, no strange sounds or feelings. Maybe it really was safe. Maybe Phil had done his job.
Marco positioned for his flying lap. In the observation tower, four team principals were watching. In the garage, Valentina and Sarah were watching. Somewhere, Richard Ashford was probably watching.
And in Castellana, maybe Giuseppe was checking results online, watching his son chase the dream he'd forbidden.
Green flag.
Marco attacked turn one harder than he'd ever attacked it, braking impossibly late, trusting grip that might not be there. The car held. Turn two came up fast and Marco was already committed to a line that looked wrong but felt right.
Through turn three using every centimeter of track. Turn four with the car rotating perfectly on entry. The back straight with his foot flat, willing the engine to give him everything.
Turn seven—the key corner. Marco let the car slide, used the rotation to change direction, aggressive to the point of recklessness but somehow, impossibly, in control.
Final sector. Turn ten perfect. Turn eleven aggressive. Turn twelve on the absolute limit.
Checkered flag.
Marco glanced at his dash.
1:16.4.
Four-tenths faster than Dominic. Fastest lap of the session.
The radio crackled. "Provisional pole position, Venturi. Excellent lap. Bring it in."
Marco's hands were shaking on the wheel as he drove the cool-down lap. He'd done it. One lap when it mattered most, and he'd been fastest.
In the garage, he climbed out to find Phil grinning. "That was insane. I've never seen anyone drive turn seven like that."
"Did they like it?" Marco asked, gesturing toward the observation tower. "The team principals?"
"No idea. But they were definitely watching."
The race simulation started thirty minutes later. Ten laps, full field, starting from qualifying positions. Marco on pole, Dominic second, Amélie third.
This was it. Not just one lap—sustained pace, racecraft, decision-making under pressure. Everything that separated fast drivers from complete drivers.
The formation lap felt eternal. Marco's heart hammered as they formed up on the grid. Dominic's car sat beside him, white bodywork gleaming, factory-perfect preparation.
Lights out.
Marco got a decent start but Dominic's reaction was faster. They were side-by-side into turn one, Marco on the inside, Dominic on the outside. Neither giving an inch.
Through turn one wheel-to-wheel. Marco held the inside line for turn two. Dominic had to back out or risk contact.
Marco led lap one.
Behind them, chaos. Amélie was battling Carlos for third. Henrik made a lunging move that didn't work. Someone—Michael, maybe—went wide and lost positions.
Lap two. Dominic was right on Marco's gearbox, pressuring every corner, looking for a mistake. Marco defended smartly, positioning his car to make overtaking difficult without being unfair.
Lap three. Dominic tried the inside at turn seven. Marco defended. They were side-by-side through turn eight, both on the limit. Marco had the better exit and held position.
In the observation tower, team principals were taking notes. Making judgments. Deciding futures.
Lap four. Marco's pace was consistent but Dominic was relentless. Every corner was a battle. Every straight was spent checking mirrors.
Lap five. Halfway through. Marco's tires were starting to lose grip, the consistent pressure taking its toll. Dominic was still fresh, his factory-perfect driving style preserving his equipment better.
Lap six. Dominic dove inside at turn three. Marco defended but Dominic had commitment and skill. They were side-by-side, no space to breathe, both drivers at the absolute limit.
Dominic had the inside line for turn four. Marco was on the outside—the compromised position.
They went through turn four together, so close Marco could have reached out and touched Dominic's car. The crowd of academy staff watching from below gasped.
Marco yielded, gave Dominic space to complete the pass cleanly. No point risking contact.
Dominic led lap six.
Four laps left. Marco was now the hunter. He studied Dominic's lines, looking for weakness, searching for opportunity.
Lap seven. Dominic was defending perfectly but leaving the outside of turn ten open. Not intentionally—just a byproduct of protecting the inside.
Lap eight. Marco set up the move. Braked late for turn nine to get a better exit. Carried more speed down the short straight.
Turn ten. Marco went for the outside—the long way around, the line everyone knew was slower. But Marco had more momentum, and Dominic was positioned for inside defense.
They were side-by-side through turn ten. Marco on the very edge of the track, using every millimeter, his tires screaming in protest.
Turn eleven approach. Marco had the inside line now, had stolen it back by taking the aggressive outside in the previous corner.
Marco was ahead.
Two laps left.
Dominic tried everything. Dived inside at turn three—Marco defended. Tried the outside at turn seven—Marco positioned perfectly. Attempted a switchback at turn nine—Marco saw it coming.
Last lap.
Marco drove it clean, consistent, focused. Defensive but fair. Fast enough to prevent passes but not so aggressive he risked mistakes.
Checkered flag.
Marco had led eight of ten laps. Had won the race simulation. Had proven he could handle pressure and defend position against the best driver in the cohort.
In the pit lane, he climbed out of the car feeling like he'd run a marathon. His neck was sore, his hands cramping, his mind still processing every corner, every decision, every moment of that battle.
Marcus Webb was there immediately. "Excellent racecraft, Venturi. Smart defending, aggressive when it mattered. That was textbook racing."
Dominic pulled up beside Marco's car. He didn't get out immediately, just sat there, helmet still on. When he finally climbed out, his face was flushed, his jaw tight.
"Good race," Marco offered.
Dominic stared at him for a long moment. "This isn't over."
"I didn't think it was."
The individual assessment sessions were less structured. Team principals could request specific drivers for one-on-one observation, ask them to run specific exercises, test particular skills.
Marco was requested by all four team principals.
Simon Price from Apex Racing wanted to see Marco's wet-weather pace. They dampened a section of track and Marco ran five laps showing how he adapted to changing grip levels.
Katherine Walsh from Velocity Motorsport wanted to see technical knowledge. She asked detailed questions about car setup, tire management, race strategy. Marco answered as best he could, admitting when he didn't know something rather than guessing.
David Chen from Titan Racing wanted to see consistency. Ten laps at 95% pace, holding within two-tenths every lap. Marco delivered nine laps within one-tenth, one slightly slower when he backed out of a corner that felt wrong.
Marcus Anderson from Phoenix F3 just wanted to talk. They sat in the garage while mechanics worked on other cars, and Anderson asked about Marco's background, his motivations, what he wanted from racing.
"I want to be the best," Marco said honestly. "Not for money or fame. I want to prove that talent matters more than where you come from."
Anderson smiled slightly. "That's a young man's answer. Idealistic. The sport will try to beat that idealism out of you."
"Maybe. But what if I don't let it?"
"Then you'll either change the sport or it'll destroy you trying." Anderson stood, extended his hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Venturi. You're an impressive driver. We'll be in touch."
By 4 PM, it was over. The team principals left in their expensive cars, taking their notes and judgments with them. The cohort gathered in the dining hall, exhausted and wired with nervous energy.
"How'd everyone do?" Carlos asked, though he was really asking how everyone thought they'd done compared to him.
"I crashed in the wet-weather session," Maya admitted quietly. "Lost it in turn seven. Nobody was hurt but... that's probably it for me."
"You don't know that," Marco said. "One mistake doesn't erase everything else."
"Easy for you to say. You were fastest in qualifying. Won the race. Got requested by all four teams." Maya's tone wasn't bitter, just resigned. "Some of us are here to make you guys look good."
Dinner was a subdued affair. Everyone was in their own head, replaying sessions, second-guessing decisions, wondering if they'd done enough.
Valentina appeared at 7 PM with an announcement.
"Team principals will be making decisions over the next week. Some of you may receive offers quickly. Others might hear nothing for several days. Try not to read too much into timing—it's not always about driver quality. Teams have budgets, existing rosters, specific needs. A team passing on you doesn't mean you're not good enough. It might just mean you're not the right fit for their particular situation."
"When will we know?" Henrik asked.
"Offers typically come within three to five business days. Be patient. And regardless of outcome, remember—you've all accomplished something remarkable just by being here. Ten drivers selected from hundreds of applicants. That itself is an achievement."
That night, Marco lay in bed staring at his phone. No messages from team principals, but he hadn't expected any yet. A message from Luca celebrating Marco's performance—apparently the academy had posted highlights. A text from Elena asking how it went.
And one from his father: I watched the stream. You drove well. I'm proud of you.
Marco read that message five times, each time feeling the weight of words Giuseppe had never said before. I'm proud of you. Not "good driving" or "nice work." Proud. The word Marco had been chasing his entire life.
He typed back: Thank you, Papa. That means everything.
Across the room, Yuki spoke into the darkness. "You did good today. Very good. Whatever happens now, you proved you belong."
"We all proved that."
"Maybe. But you proved something extra. You proved people like us can compete with people like them." Yuki paused. "Is important. Thank you for showing this."
Marco didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Just lay there thinking about the day, about the laps, about four team principals watching him chase a dream that had seemed impossible six weeks ago.
The sabotage hadn't stopped him. The threats hadn't stopped him. The politics and pressure and fear hadn't stopped him.
He'd driven fast when it mattered most. Had proven his talent was real, was sustainable, was worthy of professional attention.
Now all he could do was wait.
Wait to see if the world would give a mechanic's son from nowhere the chance he'd been fighting for.
Wait to see if Giuseppe's pride would be justified or if this had all been for nothing.
Wait to see if dreams really could triumph over money, or if Richard Ashford had been right all along.
Three to five days, Valentina had said.
Marco closed his eyes and tried to quiet his mind enough to sleep.
The waiting had begun.