Chapter Ten – Suzuka Race Day
Aleksandr Volkov – Suzuka Race Day
The lights went out and I launched off the line like I had something to prove.
Which I did.
But not to the right people.
The first corner came up fast, and I squeezed Kane just wide enough to make him think twice. P2 was mine to hold. But my lines were too aggressive. My throttle application too eager. I was chasing something that wasn’t there—and the car could feel it.
Lap five. Still P2. The radio crackled with data: “Tyres are good. You’re on target. Just keep it steady.”
I grunted back. Steady wasn’t in me today.
She kissed me. I kissed her back. I fucking meant it. And then I lied to my Team Principal, my engineer, and maybe even myself.
Lap nine. I missed the apex at Spoon. Half a second gone in a single heartbeat. My hands tightened around the wheel. I could feel my pulse in my gums.
Ross’s voice echoed from memory: You're paid to drive. Not think.
Lap twelve. I clipped the kerb too hard on the exit of Turn Nine. “Watch track limits,” came the warning from Mac. I didn’t respond. I wasn’t listening any more.
Elena's voice was in my head instead: I know about the mapping. I know about the fuel level. I have proof.
I just drive the car.
But did I? Or was I just the idiot strapped in while someone else rigged the system?
Lap sixteen. I pitted early. Not on the plan. I made the call.
“Box now,” I barked.
“Negative—”
“Box. Now.”
The tyres weren’t ready. I lost three seconds in the stop. Came out into traffic. I knew it was the wrong move, but I needed something—a reset, a break in the noise.
It didn’t work and I lost two places because of it.
“Get your head in the game, Aleks,” came Mac’s rough instruction.
I managed to pass Ramos and make up one of the places I’d lost but every lap felt like a battle I couldn’t win.
Lap forty-three. Contact. I went for a move that wasn’t really on, locking up into Turn Eleven and bumping the rear of Kane’s Hawthorn. Minor damage. No penalty, but I dropped three places on the recovery.
I stopped counting.
I was driving like a rookie with something to hide. Because maybe I was.
Lap fifty. I was in eighth. Tyres fading. Confidence gone.
“Head down, Aleks,” Mac urged over the radio. “You can still recover. Still points to gain.”
But points weren’t the problem.
I’d lost my edge. Not because of guilt. Because of doubt. And doubt was more corrosive than any headline Elena Archer could write.
Final lap. I crossed the line in P8. No celebration. No radio cheers. Just silence, static, and the distant roar of other people’s victories.
I pulled into the pit lane behind the race leaders and killed the engine. The world felt far away. Like I was underwater. Pressure without oxygen.
I climbed out of the car and stripped off the helmet, sweat soaking the collar of my race suit. Cameras flashed. Reporters waited. But I didn’t speak.
I didn’t look at anyone.
And I especially didn’t look for her.
Because I knew if I saw her right now, I’d either break…
…or burn everything down.
F1 Pulse Broadcast: Post-Race Chat, Suzuka
MARTY: Well, Suzuka delivered—and not the way Obsidian hoped. Moretti takes the win for Hawthorn, Rivers slides into second for Nova, and Kane scrapes a podium. Thoughts, T?
TARA: Moretti looked dangerous today. Controlled, aggressive, every move calculated. Hawthorn nailed strategy. That final stint was chef’s kiss.
MARTY: Agreed. And Rivers? Classic Nova drama—big moves, big risks, big result. That lunge into the chicane on lap 38? Ballsy.
TARA: Kane surprised me, though. He’s been quietly solid this season. I was ready to write him off, but maybe the old dog’s still got a few tricks.
MARTY: Meanwhile… Obsidian. Yikes. Volkov drove like he was haunted. Early pit call, contact with Kane, all over the place. P8? That’s not champion behaviour.
TARA: He looked rattled. You don’t usually see that from him. Wonder if there’s more going on behind the scenes.
MARTY: And Callum Drake? Nowhere. P12. Out of the points, out of the conversation. And yet, that’s his best position so far this season.
TARA: He’s got the pace, but not the presence. Still in Volkov’s shadow.
MARTY: And shout out to Vega—solid qualifying but fell short in the race. P11. Stratos will be disappointed.
TARA: It’s still early days, but if I’m Ross at Obsidian, I’m not sleeping easy. That bulletproof image? Starting to crack.
MARTY: And the rest of the grid smells blood.
Elena Archer – Post-Race, Suzuka
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but the words refused to come.
The room was stifling. Not in temperature—it was comfortably cool—but in size. The walls felt closer than they had this morning. Or maybe it was just the deadline. Or the guilt.
I chewed on my thumbnail, glaring at the blinking cursor.
Come on, Archer. You once broke a doping scandal from a hotel lobby with no Wi-Fi. You’ve filed copy while being chased off a paddock by security. This should be easy.
But it wasn’t.
Because somewhere out there, Aleksandr Volkov was racing. And I wasn’t watching.
I’d made the choice. No distractions. No glancing at live timings or letting the broadcasters colour my thoughts. I needed the article to speak for itself—to hold up under scrutiny. Which meant no emotional indulgence. No replays. No excuses.
Except, of course, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
He said he didn’t know. And I believed him.
But belief wasn’t evidence. And this story demanded proof.
I dragged the USB stick from my bag and stared at it. The mapping file. Fuel anomalies. All of it handed to me by a source who’d refused to give their name, slipping the stick into my hand after a brief, whispered conversation in Melbourne. It was solid. It was real.
But it wasn’t enough to pin on anyone. Not yet.
I drew in a sharp breath and began typing.
What if the world’s most dominant F1 team isn’t playing fair?
What if the perfect machines, the perfect drivers, the perfect races—weren’t?
It wasn’t an accusation. Not quite.
But it was close enough.
I walked the line carefully, naming no names, but laying out the inconsistencies, the data, the implications. I noted Obsidian’s refusal to comment, the FIA’s silence, the whispers among insiders who wouldn’t speak on the record.
I didn’t name Volkov.
I wanted to. I wanted to call him out. Or clear him. Or… something. But instead, I left him as he was: the centre of the storm. The eye. Silent. Untouchable.
And maybe—just maybe—blameless.
The article clocked in at 1,486 words. I reread it twice. Trimmed a paragraph. Reworded a line that sounded too much like a grudge. Then I attached the USB file to a separate email with a short note:
For context. Not publication. Yet.
Then I hit send.
17:59 local time. One minute to deadline.
I slumped back on the bed, letting out a long, shaky breath. It was done. It was out of my hands. I might be flying home tomorrow, tail between my legs. Or I might have just cracked something massive.
Either way, it was too late now.
I reached for the remote and flicked the TV on, tuning into the international broadcast just in time to catch the podium ceremony. I sat up straighter when I realised who wasn’t on it.
Moretti. Rivers. Kane.
No Obsidian.
My heart sank.
The feed switched to race highlights. There was Volkov, diving down the inside of Kane on lap one—too aggressive. Then footage of his early pit stop, the commentators puzzled. A clip of him locking up into Turn Eleven and bumping Kane’s car. He looked… out of control.
Not the machine I’d seen in Melbourne. Not the ice man from Singapore.
The camera caught him climbing out of the car post-race, face blank, jaw tight. He looked straight through the cameras. Straight through everyone.
Something had broken.
I pressed the remote slowly and turned the TV off. The silence roared.
Had I done that? Had I made him doubt himself?
I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my chin on them.
I was chasing truth. That’s what this was about. Always.
But truth had teeth. And this time, they’d sunk into something I wasn’t sure I wanted to bleed.