Things moved at a breakneck speed that Victor could barely keep up with.

Before he could properly sit with the meetings, the signing, and the shift in how people now spoke to him, the interim week slipped through his fingers, and the scheduled flight to Mexico City was already boarding.

The past week had been a montage of life-changing moments for Victor that felt like they were happening to someone else, and he was merely the spectator. The late-night meetings, especially, were so vivid, framed by wood-paneled rooms where Adílio negotiated terms that made Victor's head spin, and endless sessions with his new legal team where he signed his name so many times his hand started to cramp

And through it all, Victor made sure to stay faithful to his grind to become better.

He'd spent hours in the simulator, trying to master early the infamous low-grip slide of the track, and the rest of his free time refining his reflexes and spatial reaction. Training sessions were squeezed in between his new legal obligations. Sleep came late, and the mornings after came early.

While all that happened, Ms. Lydia coordinated brief press releases concerning Victor's development. In the backroom, she also signalled the green light to sponsors who'd been on the call logs for a relatively long time. In general, Victor's image was actively being refined.

On the flight day, Victor picked out a fabric for new custom suits. Four hours after that, he was in the sky, courtesy of Dubai Airways.

Now, the humid heat of the new country replaced all the stress and fatigue he had endured ten times over.

As he touched down, it hit Victor that this was the 17th race of the season staring him in the face.

Surviving sixteen races that used to make up a calendar before was not a downhill stint, which meant from now onwards, steadfastness and resilience would determine the victors at the end of the season.

This was the first time he would step into the paddock not just as a lucky rookie, but as a businessman with a personal team of his own behind him.

Of course, Vic's team has already begun working for their client beyond sapping him with endless legal talk. They were as good as complete already, and had already proved they were worth every cent.

Victor's only real job had been picking the main man, the manager, Adílio Andrade. Once that was official, it was Mr. Andrade's responsibility to fill the framework of Team Surmann with people he'd trusted for decades. To Victor's surprise, the group was almost entirely men, a circle of grizzled fathers and charming bachelors.

First was Dr. Bert Higgins, the Performance Coach, whom Victor had already gotten indications from concerning his lack of sleep recently and how to remedy it in the coming week.

Handling the nightmare of global travel was Enzo Conti, the Logistics Coordinator. They say Enzo was the kind of guy who could apparently make a private jet or a five-star suite appear in the middle of a thunderstorm with just one phone call.

Victor thought that was the best puffery he'd heard.

Adílio brought in Oliver Eichhorn to handle the media. Oliver is the kind of guy who can talk his way out of a locked room. If Victor crashed the car into a wall, Oliver would have the news reporting that he was just "testing the durability of the barriers."

That's a good trait to have to maintain sovereignty for the driver and the team he's racing for.

Finally, there was Thomas Buckler, the Legal & Wealth Advisor. Thomas doesn't really talk much, but he notices everything. He reads contracts like he's looking for a hidden treasure map, and he usually finds one.

With his bank account nothing much to write home about at this stage, Victor made sure he was very close to Silas.

Victor also liked the fact that they were mostly men.

Because looking at it, this actually wasn't a team built on potential.

It was built on certainty for success.

The arrival in Mexico didn't feel like an arrival. It was nothing like the hectic airport scrambles Victor was used to. This experience felt more handled.

The second the plane rolled to a stop, the team sprang into action, executing everything with commendable supervision. Instead of wrestling with luggage or haggling for a ride, Victor was whisked through a private terminal where Enzo had an SUV waiting. Everything was so seamless, it felt almost eerie.

By the time he reached his hotel, Oliver had already briefed him on the city's local media manners and equally handed him a tablet with pre-written talking points. In the hotel, his room had already been prepped to his preferences. Recovery equipment set. Schedule laid out. Meals timed. Even his simulator window had been coordinated with the team back in Europe.

Quietly, Victor sat on the edge of his bed, watching his team coordinate on their phones, and he genuinely wondered how he had survived this long without them.

How did he manage before this?

Or had things just… aligned now?

Victor didn't dwell on it. There wasn't time.

Within days, he moved again. The destination this time was Trampos' designated base in Polanco.

From the outside, it looked like a private corporate block with lush vines, acute glass designs, and foundational stones. But behind all of that was a race-prep interior for the greatest F1 German team.

Rejoining the main team here felt different.

This time, Victor wasn't just showing up for work; he was arriving with an ambience of respect worthy of a Formula driver.

*********

Despite the win in Baku, something felt… off. Victor noticed it the moment he settled into the Trampos base. As he began preparations, he could sense a weird friction humming at every corner, yet he couldn't pin down what.

When there were no arguments and raised voices, it was difficult to.

Victor believed it had something to do with the administration, and the tension was coming straight from the top.

Bingo—Mr. Grant gave it away.

He looked like he was slightly on the edge of his composure. Constantly on his phone recently, Mr. Grant paced a lot with a scowl that told everyone to stay away. Victor didn't know the details. It could be budget drama or politics. Whatever it was, the energy was sour. Something wasn't aligning behind the scenes.

Then there was Luca.

Luca was around, physically. In briefings. In prep. But slightly… elsewhere. Lately, he was more detached than usual, barely offering more than nods and simple smiles. It didn't feel exactly bad. It was more like he was inwardly focused on something, his attention split across things no one else could see.

Victor didn't take any of these personally.

Racing is a lonely sport, and everyone has their own mess to deal with.

Phases like this passed.

They always did.

So he kept his world simple.

Training. Drilling. Repetition.

Victor wasn't going to let his own energy dwindle. He spent hours in the villa's gym, drilling his body until he could barely stand.

Under the watchful eye of Dr. Bert, he focused on neck-strengthening exercises using a weighted harness to prep for the brutal G-forces of the coming track.

Reset. Go again.

Reset. Go again.

Reset. Go again.

If things around him were shifting, then his job was clear.

Stay ready.

Stay sharp.

And when the lights went out—

Be faster than all of it.