Page 56 of Until The Lights Go Out

I held my ground.

By the time we reached the braking zone, there was barely enough room for two cars, let alone four. The force of braking shoved me forward against the belts as I dropped through the gears, turning in just late enough to square off the corner. A Belen Racing car tried hanging around my outside, but I carried better traction through the exit and slipped ahead before we reached Turn 2.

“Great launch,” Angel’s voice came through the radio. “You’re up to P6.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

“I know.” The engineers always laughed when I answered like that. It wasn’t arrogance. The steering wheel told me everything before they ever could. Delta times, positions, tire temperatures—they were all dancing across the display in front of me.

The opening stint settled quickly. Dirty air rolled off the cars ahead, making the front end skate across the faster corners, but the balance underneath me felt good. The Kaz wasn’t the quickest car on the grid, but today it was predictable, and predictable was all I ever asked for. A predictable car could be pushed. An unpredictable one bit back.

By lap ten, I had closed onto the rear of a three-car train fighting over fourth place. They were slowing one another down, each driver more concerned with defending than actually making progress. I stayed patient, watching them through the sweeping final sector, memorizing their habits. Racing wasn’t just about bravery. It was about observation. Every driver had tells. Some protected the inside too early. Others hesitated getting back to the throttle. Some became impatient under pressure.

“Battery looks healthy.”

“I know.” There was a sigh over the radio.

Coming onto the main straight, I stayed tucked close enough to catch the tow. The rear wing ahead of me snapped open as DRS activated. Mine followed a heartbeat later. The engine note climbed higher as the drag disappeared.

He defended the inside exactly as I expected. I stayed wide.

We braked almost side by side, but carrying the wider line let me straighten the exit sooner. I was able to get back on the power earlier, and by the time we reached the next corner, I was already half a car length ahead.

“Nice move. That’s P5.”

The pass had barely registered before I was searching for the next one.

There was never time to celebrate in Formula One.

“You’ve got degradation starting on the fronts,” Angel said a few laps later. “We’re thinking Plan B.”

I flexed my fingers around the steering wheel, feeling the grip that still remained.

“They’re fine.”

“Our numbers disagree.”

“Your numbers aren’t fucking driving.”

Silence.

The race shifted on lap twenty-four. Yellow flags appeared on the dash before the call came through.

“Safety Car. Safety Car,” crackled through the radio.

The field slowed almost immediately.

“Box this lap.” Fresh tires under Safety Car were worth more than any strategy debate.

The pit stop was clean. Mechanics swarmed the car, each movement rehearsed thousands of times until it became choreography rather than work. In just over two seconds, I was released back into the fast lane, rejoining in fifth with fresh medium tires while several drivers ahead stayed out. Now we had a race. The restart was always where people forgot how to think. Cold tires made everyone overconfident or overly cautious, and both usually ended badly. The Safety Car peeled into the pit lane, and I kept weaving gently, trying to build temperature into the fronts.

Green flag.

The car ahead spun its rear tires for just a fraction of a second. Just enough for me to take advantage. I pulled alongside before Turn 1, carrying momentum around the outside while he defended the inside line. For a moment, we were completely level, neither willing to yield. The grip arrived exactly when I needed it. His didn’t, and he had to lift.

“P4. Beautiful work.”

I exhaled slowly, finally allowing myself to settle back into rhythm. The closing laps became a chase.