Chapter Six – Singapore Grand Prix #2
“Then let her burn her tyres,” Mac replied.
Lap after lap, the rhythm took over. Brake, turn, throttle, sweat. The steering wheel thrummed under my hands, the edges of my vision trembling with heat and concentration.
Every corner of Marina Bay was a trap, and I was dancing on the edge of it.
I wasn’t thinking about the scandal. Or Ross. Or Archer.
Except I was.
Because every time the lights flashed across the grandstands, I thought of her—Archer. The glint in her eyes, the challenge in her voice. The question I hadn’t answered.
She’d gotten under my skin, and I hated that I could feel her there, flitting through my thoughts even as the world blurred at three hundred kilometres an hour.
Focus.
Focus.
Turn Fourteen. I hit the apex like a heartbeat.
Precision. Power. Perfection.
Just as I was approaching Turn Sixteen of lap forty, the rhythm snapped without warning.
A flash of yellow lights on the gantry. Then Mac’s voice—calm, clipped. “Yellow, yellow. Safety car deployed. Crash in Sector Two. Box this lap. Repeat, box, box.”
“Copy.”
No hesitation. I backed off the throttle and swung toward pit entry, tyres squealing on the painted line. The roar of the race dropped to a growl as I hit the limiter, the floodlights of the lane flickering past like camera flashes.
The Obsidian crew was waiting—black and chrome blurring into motion as my car came to a halt.
The car lifted. Four wheels off. Four wheels on. A perfect stop.
“Go, go,” Mac snapped.
I tore out of the box and back into the pit lane, lights strobing across the carbon fibre. Moretti had stacked behind Kane, and the Hawthorn pit looked frantic in my mirrors. Everyone had jumped at the same opportunity, but I was already through.
Back on track, the safety car loomed ahead, orange lights flashing. I slipped in just before it picked up the leader—me.
“Beautiful stop,” Mac said. “You’re still P1. Both Hawthorns pitted, Vega too. Everyone’s on fresh tyres. Temps look good. Just manage the restart.”
“Copy,” I said, keeping my tone level.
The heat hit harder now that the speed had bled away. The field bunched tight behind me, a ribbon of cars winding through the glow of the floodlights, engines rumbling low and frustrated. I toggled the brake balance forward, coasting to keep the pressures stable.
Singapore was always brutal. The attrition was mounting—five DNFs flashing red on the board. The track gleamed like oil under the street lights, treacherous and slick.
Mac’s voice came back, calm but firmer now. “Safety car in this lap. Mode seven on restart. Everyone’s bunched, so keep yer nose clean through Turn One.”
“Understood,” I said.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, flexed my fingers. The sweat on my palms made the suede slick. My breathing slowed, precise, mechanical.
But underneath it, the thought still itched.
The car felt… different. Too perfect. Like it was reading me before I moved.
The safety car lights blinked out ahead. I rolled to the final corner, building tension through the throttle, waiting for that green light to drop.
Ross’s voice replayed in my head from the debrief days ago.
Leave the conspiracy theories to the internet.
But I couldn’t. Not any more.
The car felt too clean. Too exact. Torque delivery so smooth it bordered on unnatural. I knew the Obsidian engine better than anyone alive. Every vibration, every whine, every heartbeat of it.
And tonight, something was off, despite everything being the same.
The lights above the grandstands blurred as we crawled along behind the safety car. Vega’s car shimmered in the reflections, a streak of colour on black asphalt just behind me. Drake was further down the order, his team radio no doubt full of excuses.
I rolled my shoulders. The heat pressed against me like a weight, sweat soaking through my balaclava, eyes burning with salt.
The safety car peeled away.
I took a long breath.
The doubts, the whispers, the unease—they’d have to wait.
Because when the lights went green again, instinct took over.
The launch was perfect.
The line was pristine.
Every gear shift sharp, every corner alive.
The car was a weapon—and whatever was hidden inside it, I was its trigger.
I glanced in my mirrors. Vega had fallen back. Moretti was behind me now.
Turn Ten flashed past in a blur of light and colour; Moretti darted left, hunting the inside line, but I’d already seen it coming. I braked late, hugged the kerb, and powered out clean. Grip held. The rear twitched once, then bit.
“Moretti’s got DRS, watch your six.”
“Copy.”
I took Turn Thirteen hard and gave the car everything for the straight, Moretti hunched right behind me. But I held him off in Turn Fourteen and by Turn Fifteen, the gap opened. Two-tenths. Three. Half a second.
“Beautiful drivin’, champ,” Mac said in my ear. “Yer clear to push.”
I did.
The car flowed through the corners like liquid metal, sliding from apex to apex with surgical precision. Every vibration sang through the wheel, each shift smooth as a blade drawn from its sheath.
My mirrors showed nothing but distant light.
Moretti had fallen behind, fending off his team mate, Oliver Kane, while the rest of the field fought for scraps.
I caught sight of Vega on one of the big screens—her Stratos sliding slightly wide through Turn Nine, tyres slick with heat.
She was losing grip, dropping pace. Rookie lungs in veteran conditions. Still, she kept fighting it.
Respect.
“Pace is perfect,” Mac said. “Fuel delta nominal. Just bring it home.”
I should have felt elation. Pride.
Instead, all I felt was… wrong.
The car was still too perfect. Its timing, its balance, its obedience. Like it was compensating before I even moved.
I hit the back straight, full throttle. The engine screamed in the humid dark, and for a heartbeat, I swore I heard it—an almost imperceptible shift in the note, like a whisper sliding under the roar.
Then it was gone.
I forced the thought away.
Four laps to go. Focus.
The city glittered on both sides of the track, a wall of light and smoke and human noise. Sweat trickled down my back. The tyres were gone, the air was molten, and my hands were shaking inside the gloves. But the car—my perfect, impossible car—didn’t falter.
Lap sixty-two. Chequered flag ahead.
I crossed the line, engine howling.
“P1, P1, that’s the win, Aleks! You beauty!” Mac’s voice was raw with triumph. “Absolutely flawless.”
Cheers erupted in my ear—Ross, the whole pit wall. My team. My empire.
“Nice work,” I said, voice flat inside the helmet.
Fireworks cracked over the bay as I slowed the car, sparks of gold reflected in the harbour water. The crowd roared; the circuit was alive with noise, light, hysteria.
And all I felt was… empty.
The cool-down lap dragged. I went through the motions—engine mode down, fuel save, radio acknowledgements. Every cheer hit like static.
When I pulled into the Car 1 slot, Ross was behind there, arms wide, that immaculate grin in place. Cameras flashed as he reached through the halo to clap me on the shoulder.
“Brilliant, Aleks! Perfection incarnate!”
I forced a smile for the photographers, raised a fist for the crowd, stepped out of the car. My legs trembled from the heat and the weight of it all.
Moretti’s Hawthorn rolled to a stop beside mine, his team swarming in green and gold. Kane pulled up just behind, two Hawthorns on the podium. The grid erupted around them—cheers, laughter, champagne.
I tugged off my gloves. They were soaked through, the smell of burnt rubber and sweat clinging to my skin.
Somewhere down the pit lane, Vega’s team was celebrating her sixth-place finish. She’d done it—kept her nose clean, brought it home, proved every doubter wrong. I caught a glimpse of her helmet flashing under the lights, lifted briefly in salute to her crew.
That flicker of pride was real.
But the rest of it—the podium, the anthem, the applause—felt like theatre.
Ross’s words echoed in my head as the champagne sprayed.
Leave the conspiracy theories to the internet.
The liquid stung my eyes, cold against my face. I smiled for the cameras anyway.
Because that’s what they paid me to do.