Three hundred and ten kilometers per hour is a physical assault.

Even with the greatest endurance ever known to an F1 driver, Luca could testify for that.

White light. Screaming carbon. Screaming fans. The car was going so fast, it felt like it was about to explode. The wind hammering the chassis, the engine so loud, it hurt the ears.

Luca sat low behind the wheel, tearing through Mexico. Starting at pole was a double-edged sword. On one side, he had the advantage of clean air, the first choice of line, and the command of the opening moments. On the other side, he bore the weight of the greatest pressure in the pack.

Everyone behind technically hunted one man.

Him.

WHAM!

That was the sound of a gear changing, and it felt like getting kicked in the back. Following that was a loud WHREEEE like a room filled with a hundred faulty radios. Luca’s focus could barely stay on one thing, nor could his head stay straight from the wind.

Mr. Ruben occasionally had technical words to share, but his words were almost buried by the loud noise from thousands of people in the stadium section of the circuit. Luca couldn’t agree more that this track was totally different from the ones he had raced several times. The track was a test of cooling and patience, with the long straights punishing engines and the tight, twisty middle sector demanding surgical precision from the brakes.

One more gear. One more breath. The championship was on the line, and Luca wasn’t going to have anything ruin his clean victory.

Despite his dominance mid-campaign, too many contenders still remained alive this late in the season. Any race could turn the tide, so every single point was a lifeline. A win here would swing more momentum for the Mazerunner and his team against their rivals. As for the rest, these latter races were merely scrambling for survival in a sport that rarely gave second chances.

By the 4th lap, the luxury of a lead had vanished for Luca, and directly behind him came one of the most dangerous men possible.

Buoso Di Renzo.

Close enough to taste slipstream. Close enough to threaten every braking zone.

The mirrors showed flashes of silver as Di Renzo placed his nose left, then right, asking questions without yet demanding answers. Starting at P3, he had launched well, overtook Luigi, settled quickly, and now sat within striking distance of the leader before the third lap had even ended.

**Gap behind 0.6. Buoso in DRS range next lap if this holds**

The radio stayed dead. Luca didn’t even breathe. His <Spatial Awareness> was so sensitive now that it felt like Di Renzo was licking his ear.

VROOOOM!

The engine was a high-pitched scream right against his back as he hit 314. The long Mexico straight looked like a white-hot runway stretching into forever. Behind him, the 97 was a predatory shape in the mirrors, growing bigger and bigger like a monster chasing its lunch.

But then, through Sector 2, the race changed.

Luca had navigated the openings with grace, as expected of a pole sitter under siege. However, the complexities of the Hermanos’s middle sector demanded patience more than heroics. Luca gave it just that as he approached the quick transition of Turn 7. From his system display, the turn was just the right corner that could create breathing room. If he was sharp enough, Luca could turn Di Renzo’s chase against him.

By taking the outside slice of the corner and brake testing the rival Ferrari, Luca could force his pursuer to hesitate for half a second, then launch cleaner toward the next sequence.

SNAP.

The wheel jerked in the right direction. So did the front tires.

Luca was ready to launch, ready to turn the corner into a slingshot—and then his brain just....screamed.

[Spatial Awareness +1!]

A cold, electric jolt bypassed Luca’s eyes and hit him straight in the gut.

YANK.

He didn’t think. He didn’t check the mirrors. He just killed the throttle and ripped the wheel to the left. *SCREECH—*the tires protested as he forced the Z24 onto another line.

The split-second correction caused a momentary stall in his momentum. The Ferrari’s rhythm broke, and for a hunter like Buoso Di Renzo, it was an open invitation.

Di Renzo lunged into the gap, his car roaring past with opportunistic violence. By the time they hit the technical sequence of T8 and T9, the lead had swapped.

P1– Buoso Di Renzo ↑

P2– Luca Rennick ↓

"WOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

Flags flew. Fans leapt up from their seats. The stadium section thundered with approval as Buoso Di Renzo emerged ahead.

"...DI RENZO TAKES THE LEAD...!"

"...What a move! What pressure! What racecraft from Buoso Di Renzo...!"

"...He stayed on the gearbox for three laps and forced the error from Luca! That is the heart of a future champion right there...!"

Within minutes, the global broadcast had glazed Di Renzo in butter and gold, painting him as the tactical genius of the afternoon. Screens replayed the overtake instantly, analysts praising persistence, nerve, and championship hunger.

They didn’t see Luca’s lift. They didn’t see the phantom danger that had forced his hand. To the world, it was a clean, dominant overtake.

Back in the cockpit.

**Stay with him, Luca. Long race ahead. Good pace, good pace**

**We can get it back on the next DRS zone**

Trampos’s engineers tried to sound composed, supportive, and practical. But beneath that calm, their disappointment was a bitter chasm.

They knew Luca’s prowess. Luca didn’t just "lose" corners like that. He must’ve choked or something.

However, Luca was barely thinking about losing the lead at all. His heart was still hammering against his ribs from what he had felt. Glancing back toward 7 in his mirrors, Luca confirmed that his <Spatial Awareness> had never lied to him.

Another dangerous patch, more dangerous than the one at T4.

Had there been more hazards than reported?

"Didn’t Vic say the issue was T4?" Luca said into the radio.

**Affirm. That was the note passed earlier, yes. Focus forward now**

"No," Luca replied sharply, eyes fixed ahead. "I nearly lost the rear completely at Turn 7." 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Silence in the garage.

"There’s an unscrubbed patch there," he continued. "Off the loaded line but reachable on alt entry. Zero grip. Nothing there."

******

The radio channel crackled with a new, sharper sense of urgency as the data from Luca’s near-disaster was relayed across the garage.

"Victor, update. Be careful Turn 7. Repeat, Turn 7 has a low-grip patch on alt entry."

Though surprised, Victor responded calmly.

**Copy. Keep reminding me if anything changes**

Mr. Colt nodded to no one in particular.

"Good lad."

Afterwards, a collective sigh of relief swept through the garage. The telemetry had shown the terrifying dip in traction, indicating a total loss of lateral force in the same T7 Luca reported.

Thank God he had felt it.

Luca always did, and Trampos didn’t know how much they owed him for that.

Some drivers reacted to incidents, but their own star sensed them before they even manifested. This trait alone had saved races, chassis, morale, and entire weekends more than once. Now it had done so again.

In the corner of the command center, Mr. Moritz, who had a rigid sense of sporting ethics, stood up abruptly, his face slightly pale.

"We have to alert the stewards," he insisted, reaching for the comms station that linked to the Race Control tower. "That’s a safety hazard. If a car hits that patch at full tilt without the warning Luca had, they’re going into the barriers. We need a yellow flag or at least a localized warning."

Before his fingers could graze the console, a hand reached out and firmly but calmly gripped his wrist.

Moritz looked up to see Mr. Ruben.

Ruben met him with a steady, knowing gaze that said everything before words did.

"Our drivers know," he said quietly.

Moritz hesitated. "But the others—"

"Have radios too."

The younger man understood immediately.

In Formula 1, and perhaps the world, information is currency.

Warnings were not charity.

If other teams discovered it late, they would pay for that delay in lap time, confidence, and maybe position. Trampos had earned the knowledge through Victor’s kindness and Luca’s unrivaled awareness.

Why hand it away for free?

Ruben released Moritz’s wrist and returned his eyes to the monitors.

"As long as our boys stay clear of it," he murmured, "not our problem."

And if the roles were reversed, Ruben knew very well most rival teams would play this card too.

******

Victor’s mind flashed back to the whirlwind of the previous day.

Q1, where he stunned the paddock by finishing P1 outright.

Q2, where he proved it was no fluke by advancing in P7.

Then Q3, where he held himself together under real pressure and locked in a top-ten start.

P9.

Not bad at all.

In truth, these were milestones Victor had not expected to reach this early in his Formula 1 career. Points fights, yes. Occasional flashes, maybe. But topping a qualifying session, then starting among established names? That belonged to a future version of himself.

Yet here he was.

And now, in the race, he was running P7. Partly earned, partly fluid.

Autodromo Hermanos was notorious for these easy switches, where a single slipstream or a late brake could shuffle the order like a deck of cards. But as Victor navigated the middle sector, his thoughts weren’t on the cars behind him—his thoughts were on the warning about Turn 7.

He couldn’t help but wonder about Rogelio and co.

Had they simply forgotten to mention that area? Had they assumed he’d discover it himself? Or had they only known about Turn 4?

Poor track preparation was not unheard of in motorsport, so Victor’s bet was either the first or the third.

Whatever the reason, the circuit had secrets in this race. And he intended to survive all of them.