Chapter Six – Singapore Grand Prix
MARTY: Good evening, motorsport fans around the world, and welcome to Singapore. The humidity is thick, the lights are blazing, and the tension down there on the grid could cut glass. Tara, if Melbourne was a warm-up, this is where the real season begins.
TARA: You can feel it, can’t you? That mix of nerves and adrenaline. And let’s talk about qualifying—because the usual script just got shredded. Aleksandr Volkov might be on pole again, but it wasn’t a walkover this time.
MARTY: Not by a long shot. Sofia Vega—yes, that Sofia Vega—put the Stratos car on the front row.
The first rookie to do it in over a decade, and of course, the first woman in history to do anything in this sport every time she hits the throttle.
You could feel half the paddock blinking in disbelief.
TARA: She’s calm, sharp, and she’s not here to play nice. You should’ve seen the look on Luca Moretti’s face when she out-braked him into Turn Five during practice—pure Italian despair.
MARTY: Meanwhile, over at Obsidian, it’s not all champagne and chrome. Volkov’s still the man to beat, taking first place in yesterday’s sprint race, but his team mate Callum Drake… well, let’s just say qualifying didn’t go to plan. Fifteenth on the grid, nearly a second off Volkov’s pace.
TARA: And you could feel the tension in that garage. Volkov stormed straight past the press pen, Ross looked like a man who’s under pressure, and Drake looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. That’s not harmony, Marty—that’s a PR powder keg.
MARTY: Speaking of tension, the midfield’s getting spicy too. Jax Rivers and Matteo Ramos nearly came to blows in the paddock last night over Rivers cutting Ramos off in Q2. Tempers are running hotter than the track surface.
TARA: Which, by the way, is currently thirty-nine degrees. Tyre degradation’s going to be brutal tonight. The FIA has issued a weather warning for the heat, but the radar looks like it’ll stay dry.
MARTY: The idea behind moving this race to earlier in the schedule was supposed to combat the punishing heat and humidity, but we’ll have to see how the drivers feel afterwards, because so far it doesn’t feel any cooler.
TARA: Quite right, Marty. Strategy will matter as much as speed. But if anyone thrives in chaos, it’s Volkov. He’s clinical, unshakeable, a machine in human form.
MARTY: Unless, of course, someone finds the off switch. And judging by how restless the paddock’s been this week—certain journalists sniffing around, rival teams whispering in corners—I’d say not everyone believes the Obsidian rocket ship is running clean.
TARA: You just love trouble, don’t you?
MARTY: I call it journalism, Tara. Either way, grab your popcorn for sixty two laps of tension. Lights out in twenty minutes, and under these neon skies, anything could happen.
Aleksandr Volkov – Singapore Night Race
The air was thick enough to drink.
Singapore’s heat didn’t just press—it suffocated. Every breath felt heavy, humid, tainted with rubber and petrol. Even with the fans blasting down the grid, sweat crawled under my fireproofs. Two hours in this furnace would strip three kilos off me, maybe more.
The floodlights turned the street into daylight. Rows of cars lined up under the glare, liveries gleaming like jewels—red, blue, silver, gold. Obsidian’s machine sat at the front of them all, black and chrome reflecting the chaos like a blade. It looked the part. It always did.
Mechanics moved around me, unplugging cooling ducts, checking tyres. Somewhere in the noise, Ross was shaking hands with a sponsor. Callum stood further down the grid, pretending to study the car’s wing but clearly simmering.
I unclipped my helmet and set it on the nose of the car, tugged off the stifling balaclava and ran a gloved hand through my hair. Sweat dripped down my temple. Mac was kneeling by the front-left tyre, double-checking the pressures. His eyes flicked up.
“Track’s slicker than it looks,” he said quietly, just loud enough for me to hear over the engines. “Don’t get greedy out of Turn Five.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He gave me that look—half challenge, half concern.
I didn’t answer. The crowd’s noise rose—chants, horns, the distant crackle of fireworks somewhere above the marina. The whole city pulsed like a live wire.
Movement beside me drew my attention. Stratos crimson and navy sat in grid slot two, gleaming under the lights. Sofia Vega climbed out of her cockpit, peeling off her gloves, her dark hair slicked back as she removed her helmet. She adjusted her earpiece, scanning the grid with sharp rookie focus.
I stepped closer before I could talk myself out of it. “Turn Thirteen,” I said, nodding in the tricky turn’s general direction. “The inside line bites. Take it wide.”
She blinked, taken off guard. “Advice, or a trap?”
I almost smiled. “Depends how much you listen.”
Her eyes narrowed—just a flicker of suspicion—and she gave a quick nod, turning away as her engineer called her back to the car.
Pride and mistrust. She’d fit in fine.
“I don’t think you’ve ever offered me advice,” Callum muttered as he passed behind me, voice low but edged. “Careful she doesn’t beat you with your own tips.”
I turned. “Drake, you hit the breaks like a tourist in Q2. That’s why you’re fifteenth.”
He stopped, jaw tightening. “Yeah, well, some of us don’t have a car that drives itself.”
I stepped forward before I could stop myself, closing the space between us. “We’re driving the exact same car.”
“Sure,” he said, voice steady but venomous. “Keep telling yourself that, champ.”
The grid noise dimmed around us—engines idling, mechanics pretending not to hear. For a heartbeat, it was just the two of us and the roar in my chest.
He leaned in, eyes sharp. “You don’t win three titles by luck. Or just by talent. If there’s something under that engine cover you’re not telling me—”
“You’re out of line,” I cut in, low enough that only he could hear.
“Yeah,” he said, a small, cold smile curling at his mouth, “but maybe I’m right.”
I took a step forward, and Mac’s hand landed on my arm before I could say something I’d regret.
“Save it for Turn One,” he said. “Helmet on.”
I exhaled sharply, restored my balaclava, picked up the helmet, and slid it over my head.
The sound sealed away—the crowd, the heat, the tension—leaving only the hollow thump of my own heartbeat.
I climbed back into my car. Belts tightened.
Hands clamped my shoulders, securing them in place.
The tubes of my cooling vest digging into my ribs.
The car hummed beneath me—alive, patient, deadly.
Mac’s voice crackled in my ear now. Calm. Steady. “Plan A is one stop. Keep temps under control. You know the drill.”
“Copy,” I said.
Out of the corner of my visor, I saw Sofia’s car in the next slot, her helmet tilting slightly toward me as the lights glared overhead. A nod—barely perceptible. A challenge.
The grid cleared. The air shimmered under the floodlights.
I led the formation lap, snaking the car side to side, testing the handling and feeling the hum of the engine around me. On returning to the grid, my heart was steady. I slid into my grid spot and set my gaze on the lights.
Precision. Power. Perfection.
One light.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
And then—black.
The lights vanished, and the world detonated.
Twenty engines screamed into the humid dark, the sound crashing off the glass walls of Marina Bay and back again until it felt like the air itself was tearing apart. My tyres bit, rear twitching once, twice, before locking in. I launched clean.
Turn One came at me like a blade.
Sofia Vega’s Stratos darted alongside, white, navy and crimson ghosting in my peripheral vision, audacious for a rookie but clean. I tightened the line, gave her a metre, no more. She took it. Smart girl.
Behind us, chaos bloomed. A yellow flare of sparks—someone clipping the wall. The roar of the crowd rose, echoing through the concrete canyon.
“Good launch,” Mac’s voice cut through the static. “Point five second gap on the entry. Keep it tidy, track’s green.”
“Copy.” Focus.
Turn Five shimmered ahead under floodlight glare—slick, treacherous, exactly as he’d warned. I braked late, trail-balanced through, feathered the throttle. The car twitched, righted. The G-force punched me into the seat. Every muscle in my body screamed, sweat already beading inside my gloves.
Sector Two was a furnace. Tight, narrow, unforgiving. The engine temp spiked; I felt it vibrate through the steering column.
“Rear temps rising,” Mac warned. “Cool the tyres through Ten to Twelve.”
“Copy,” I said through clenched teeth.
In the mirrors, Vega’s Stratos stayed sharp—steady, disciplined, not folding under pressure. The rookie had guts, I’d give her that. A flash of respect—or irritation—burned through my chest before I crushed it flat.
The city blurred around the circuit—skyscrapers like towers of molten glass, the harbour reflecting every light. Neon flashed by in a blur. The air inside my helmet was a storm. I could smell fuel and sweat, taste iron and adrenaline.
Lap three.
I caught a glimpse of Drake’s car on one of the big screens as I streaked down the straight. He was late into Turn Six. Too deep. The back end snapped and kissed the barrier, a spray of carbon sparks lighting up the corner.
“Yellow flag, Sector Two,” Mac reported calmly. “Callum’s kissed the wall. Keep pace, no debris line.”
Figures.
I gritted my teeth. He’d blamed the car, but his driving wasn’t prize-winning even on his best day. But a tiny part of me wondered if my car was too perfect.
“Mac,” I muttered, “torque delivery feels… early.”
Static, then his voice, neutral. “Telemetry looks fine.”
“Doesn’t feel fine.”
“Eyes forward, Aleks. You’ve got Vega closing half a tenth.”
I adjusted, downshifted, felt the chassis bite back into place. The sound from the Stratos behind me changed—overrev on the corner exit, a rookie push, too eager. I smiled.
“She’s overdriving,” I said.