Sunday morning. The driver briefing room on the second floor of the Silverstone North circuit was a chaotic mess of ego and engine grease.
Roan sat in the back row, his body encased in a crisp black Alpinestars suit—one of several Justin Hill had bought for him. While the other drivers looked like high-performance athletes, Roan just felt like he was back in a high school assembly.
He didn't know how professional pre-race meetings were supposed to go. To him, this just felt like noise.
"Guys! Today is a clash of the gods!" a voice shrieked, amplified by a distorted smartphone mic.
To Roan's front-left, two influencers in neon-green suits were brandishing selfie sticks. A scruffy-bearded guy was leaning into the camera of a meticulously made-up girl.
"I heard the legendary 'Ghost of Silverstone' is in the rookie pool today!" the guy shouted. "Nana, do you believe it?"
"Oh, come on, Cho," Nana giggled. "That's just track marketing. We believe in science, not ghosts."
Roan frowned. He pulled a red can of Coke from his bag and popped the tab.
Pshhh—
The sound of carbonated bubbles bursting grounded him. The cold liquid slid down his throat, washing away the social anxiety induced by the crowded room.
"Excuse me, are you Mr. Hill?" A group of middle-aged men in crisp button-downs cornered Zack. "We're from Sky-High Racing. We were wondering if your driver had any interest..."
Zack's face instantly switched to "Business Mode." He stepped in front of Roan like a human shield, taking their business cards with an elegant, practiced hand, though his eyes remained cold.
"Apologies, we are currently operating as an independent entry," Zack said, his tone perfectly polite but utterly dismissive. It clearly wasn't his first time fending off scouts.
On stage, the Race Director tapped a whiteboard, his voice cutting through the chatter.
"...Today's grid is split. This is the High-Output Two-Stroke division...
...Two 20-minute practice sessions, one qualifying session, and the main event...
...The race is 20 minutes + 1 lap, based on qualifying results, standing start..."
The '20 minutes + 1 lap' rule existed to ensure fairness at the timer's edge. If the leader crossed the line at 19 minutes and 59 seconds, the clock hadn't hit 20, so the race continued. By the time they finished that next lap, the 20-minute threshold was met, making the final lap a true battle to the finish—much like the controversial 2021 Abu Dhabi finale.
Standing starts. No rolling leads. No safety nets.
As the Director droned on about fuel limits and flag signals, Roan felt a rare urge to nap. Finally, the room cleared for practice.
During the two practice sessions, Roan didn't hunt for the fastest lap. Instead, he intentionally drove non-standard lines. In his Mind Palace, he was recalibrating his grip map for every square inch of the asphalt, measuring how the noon sun was changing the track's friction coefficient.
Ten minutes later, qualifying began.
Inside the pit box, the roar of engines was deafening as karts surged onto the track. Roan didn't move. According to his pact with Marcus, he was skipping qualifying. His red Rotax DD2 sat silently on its stand.
"What's the deal? Why isn't he out there?"
"Is the kart broken?"
"Probably scared. Lapping alone is one thing; racing in traffic is another."
The passing mechanics and spectators pointed and whispered. They didn't know Roan. They didn't see the "Black Ghost." They just saw a kid sitting on a folding chair with his eyes closed.
Roan's Mind Palace was running at full capacity. He was simulating the Turn 1 pileup. Twenty karts. Ten-meter track width. Based on standard braking distances, the probability of a collision is 69%. To survive the first wave, I have to abandon the racing line entirely.
"Holy—"
Zack's sudden exclamation made Roan open his eyes. Following Zack's gaze to the timing screen on the wall, Roan felt a slight jolt of electricity hit his spine.
At the top of the qualifying board, a familiar ID was glowing in purple: MV1.
The time next to it: 48.987s.
It was almost identical to Roan's own personal best.
"Looks like the 'noob-stomping' session just got cancelled," Marcus Vance said, leaning against a tire rack with that same cruel, amused smile from yesterday. "The kid couldn't help himself. He actually showed up."
Roan didn't say a word. He stared at the purple numbers. The boredom he'd felt lately—the feeling of racing against thin air—evaporated instantly.
Starting from P20 meant he didn't have to manage his pace. He had to be a predator. There was a machine on his frequency waiting for him at the finish line.
The crowd outside was buzzing.
"49.2? Cho is fast today!"
"Yeah, but look at that MV1 guy. He's back on top."
"I heard MV1 stopped karting years ago. Guess he heard about the 'Silverstone Ghost' and came back to defend his turf."
"Who's gonna win?" someone asked.
Zack couldn't resist. He leaned into the group. "My boy Roan, obviously."
"Roan? You mean the Ghost?"
Before Zack could reveal more, Justin Hill grabbed him by the collar and pulled him away, giving him a sharp look. "Quiet. Let the kid work."
Roan tuned them all out. He closed his eyes again, the name "MV1" etched into his mental HUD. He realized that without knowing it, he had become the target. The "Silverstone Ghost" wasn't just a rumor anymore—it was a bounty.