Whoosh!
Two Formula 1 cars screamed past in tandem, cameras capturing a violent spray of gravel in their wake.
Ferrari TR: "LIAM, that was way too risky. If Charles hadn't braked—"
Liam TR: "YEP, I KNOW."
Leclerc TR: "F**K, you ****—"
Inside the scarlet-liveried Ferrari, Liam Vance locked his eyes on the strobe-light rain light flickering ahead.
He knew it. Even his normally mild-mannered teammate was cursing him over the radio. That overtake had been reckless beyond measure.
But he couldn't apologize.
Because this was his last chance. His one shot at the Driver's World Championship.
In the history of the sport, no American driver had taken the title in over half a century.
So if—
If he could pull it off—
Just imagining it sent his already dangerously high heart rate spiking further, breaking past 190 bpm.
Turn 7 lay ahead. Clear that, and the DRS zone would open up.
He clamped onto the gearbox of the car in front, threading the DRS detection zone with less than a second's gap.
Whoosh!
The dark-blue Red Bull shot into the nearly kilometer-long straight first. A heartbeat later, the red Ferrari straightened its nose and surged after it.
DRS activated.
Slipstream engaged.
Speed climbed past 200 mph. The gap closed rapidly.
0.6 seconds. 0.5. 0.3...
Damn it. Close, but still not enough to pull alongside.
That Red Bull was just too fast on the straights.
Fifty meters from the braking zone, Liam hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stomped the pedal late, clawing back a few more meters.
Screech!
Massive lateral force shattered the tire's grip limit. The rear stepped out.
Liam had anticipated it. He snapped the wheel left and right in rapid succession, wrestling the chassis back under control and staying glued to the Bull's diffuser.
In that moment, he felt his body dissolve into the machine. Airflow rushed over every carbon fiber surface. Downforce pressed from above. The friction between rubber and asphalt surged through the monocoque. All of it converged into raw data flooding his mind.
"Whoa! What is Vance doing? He's on the throttle before he's even straightened out of Turn 9!"
"Is that even possible? This is insane. He's driving like a man possessed!"
In the Skybox commentary booth, the announcers clenched their fists.
Inside the cockpit, Liam's body jolted with every vibration of the suspension.
'Still have grip. Still in control.'
His bloodshot eyes traced a racing line more extreme than anything he'd dared in qualifying.
He had no choice. If he didn't want to give up the title, he had to bleed for it!
He strangled the wheel and kept his foot planted. Just as the tires neared the edge of adhesion, he began unwinding the steering.
Push! Push!
"Unbelievable! Vance just closed another tenth!"
"Absolutely terrifying! But there are no more overtaking spots left on this lap."
The commentator's voice echoed across the circuit.
Liam heard nothing but the scream of the hybrid V6 and the hammering of his own heart threatening to burst from his chest.
He felt a clarity and power he'd never known before. Next came the flat-out sweepers. Full throttle. Pedal to the metal!
Whoosh!
The two cars blasted through Turns 10 and 11 almost side by side, paint swapping.
As Turn 12 approached, Max Verstappen in the Red Bull prepared to brake and downshift to third. Liam kept his right foot buried.
"Oh no!"
"Is Verstappen really going to yield?!"
The broadcasters sensed the impending disaster.
Sure enough, the instant the red Ferrari's nose edged its front wing ahead of the Red Bull, Verstappen decelerated and drifted slightly left—abandoning the racing line and refusing to hug the apex. His front wing aimed straight at the Ferrari's right front wheel and knifed in.
Thud!
The Ferrari's already late-braking right front tire lost all structural integrity in that instant. A sharp bang and it delaminated explosively.
The Red Bull kept drifting left, plowing into the sidepod of the Ferrari. It lifted the entire red car off the ground.
Under current ground-effect regulations, when the seal between the floor and the tarmac is broken, the loss of downforce is catastrophic. In the blink of an eye, the Ferrari flipped, tumbling violently through the air before slamming into the Armco barrier and coming to a dead stop.
CRASH!!!
80 G-forces.
It was... over.
Liam's head drooped forward slowly, the HANS device catching the weight. His hands finally released the steering wheel he'd gripped for what felt like a lifetime.
2007, Portside Karting Complex
Nine-year-old Liam Vance stood trackside, watching kids several years older than him zip past in go-karts. Despite himself, his mind kept drifting back to the scene of his death in his previous life.
He'd been reborn into this world—similar to his old one, yet subtly different—nine years ago. Even now, he couldn't escape the shadow of that violent end. Standing beside the karting track filled him with an inexplicable nausea.
"Hey! You're Liam, right? Wanna race?" a young voice called out in English, possessing a posh European accent.
The flashbacks in Liam's mind cut off abruptly. He turned around.
Standing before him was a young girl in a pristine racing suit, her long platinum-blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight.
"Louise, he might be shy," came a tall man's voice. Arthur Vance, Liam's father, approached.
"You said you were here for a merger meeting?" Liam asked his father, his tone flat.
"Yes. The conglomerate is planning to enter the motorsport sector."
Arthur showed no reaction to his son's cold demeanor. Ever since the divorce, the boy had displayed a stoicism far beyond his years.
"Why did you have to drag me along?"
Liam kept his back to the track. Karts howled past. Two-stroke engines screamed. Tires shrieked against pavement. Every sound assaulted his brain, triggering phantom pains.
"You've never seemed interested in anything. I thought I'd get you out of the house." Arthur's face carried a hint of helplessness.
His obsession with the firm had cost him his marriage. It had also seemed to turn his young son into this lifeless shell. Though, admittedly, the boy's temperament was a mystery even to him.
"Thanks, but I'm not interested in karts right now."
Liam shook his head. He glanced at the girl in the racing suit, who was now tugging on the sleeve of a woman with matching platinum-blonde hair.
"Is she your partner?" Liam asked.
"Ahem."
Arthur rubbed his temples awkwardly. The kid was too sharp. Still, better to be direct.
"This is Martina Cartabia. She's both a strategic partner for the deal and... someone I'm currently seeing."
Explaining this to his nine-year-old son made even the composed Arthur feel a twinge of embarrassment, so he pivoted quickly:
"The girl who called you earlier is Ms. Martina's daughter—Louise Calabria. She just asked if you wanted to do a few laps."
"Please tell her I'm not interested."
Arthur nodded. He wasn't going to force the issue. Turning back to little Louise with a polite smile, he said, "Louise, he's not feeling up for a drive. Why don't you go set some lap times on your own?"
"Huh? What? Is he scared? Are all you Americans this spineless?" Little Louise spoke without a filter, pouting in displeasure.
She just thought this American boy looked interesting and wanted to show off her skills on her home turf. Why wouldn't he agree?
"Louise! Mind your manners," Martina scolded sharply. She turned to Arthur. "I apologize for Louise's lack of tact."
"It's fine. Kids say whatever pops into their heads."
Arthur brushed it off. The stereotype of Americans being soft or unrefined was common in the European racing circuit. It was normal for a child to parrot what she heard in the paddock.
"Dad, what did she say?"
But then his son's voice cut through from behind him.
And in those few syllables, Arthur heard something he hadn't expected:
Rage.