Chapter Twenty Six – Seoul Qualifying Day
Elena Archer – Han River, Saturday Morning
The taxi pulled away in a rush of tyres and exhaust, leaving me standing alone at the edge of the river.
Some Gavit rose ahead—sleek and modern, its glass facade gleaming pale gold in the morning sunlight.
The floating island sat tethered to the banks of the Han like a luxury liner docked for eternity.
In the distance was the buzz of Seoul waking up—soft engines, the distant bark of a street vendor opening up, a woman in heels clicking down a pedestrian bridge.
But here, on the riverside promenade, it was quiet. Suspended.
The air was cool and damp, touched by mist still lingering above the water. The surface rippled gently beneath the glassy buildings, throwing fragmented reflections up onto the walkways. A few joggers passed me, earbuds in, oblivious. I checked my phone. No signal down here. Of course.
I crossed the wide pedestrian bridge that led to the island, my footsteps echoing on the steel. I felt like I was stepping out of the real world and into something liminal—like the boundary between earth and water, reality and fiction, was thinner here.
At this hour, the floating island was already waking up.
A few early couples wandered the walkways, coffee cups in hand.
A pair of young women took selfies by the curved balustrades.
Inside, sleek cafés and galleries had their doors open, light spilling onto the river-facing terraces.
Classical music floated from hidden speakers, too tasteful to be distracting.
It was the kind of place built for curated serenity—no shouting, no rushing, just gentle wealth and the illusion of safety.
But that illusion was brittle, and I wasn’t here for peace.
I followed the curve of the structure, passing clusters of tables where crisp linen shirts and soft-spoken voices hinted at diplomatic breakfasts or curated networking. I kept my head down.
The note hadn’t given me more than a time and place: Some Gavit. 9am. No café, no room number, no instructions.
I kept walking until I completed a full circuit of the gleaming structure.
There was no sign of my mysterious informant.
I found a quiet nook near the outer edge—one of the curved terraces that overlooked the river.
A shallow bench arced along the glass railing, half in shadow.
No one sat there. It was away from the main flow of people, just far enough to feel tucked out of sight without being isolated.
I perched on the edge and folded my hands in my lap, pretending not to be anxious. Pretending I wasn’t listening for every footstep behind me.
The sun was climbing now, burning off the last of the river mist. It made the water look like molten bronze.
Footsteps approached from behind. Not rushed, not hesitant—just steady. I glanced sideways and saw her.
She was alone.
The same woman who’d brushed against me at the bar last night. Blonde hair tucked behind her ears, no makeup, tailored black coat buttoned all the way up. She looked like someone on her way to a meeting. Effortlessly beautiful.
She didn’t speak. Just sat down beside me on the bench, leaving a polite gap between us. For a few seconds, neither of us said anything. I watched the water shifting below the floating buildings, waiting.
Finally, I turned to her. “So are you going to tell me who you are?”
Her gaze flicked to mine. “Sabine Roth.”
“FIA?”
She nodded.
I wasn’t sure what I expected—panic, nerves, a disclaimer—but she gave me nothing. Just cool, level quiet. Then she reached into her handbag and took out a thick manilla folder. No frills. No words. She placed it on the bench between us.
“I’ve been collecting these for a while,” she said, voice low but firm. She had an accent I couldn’t quite place, German, or Swiss maybe. “Now I’m giving them to you.”
I opened the folder slowly. The first few pages were diagnostic logs—lines of mapping data, dates, session timestamps.
“Are these the download logs?” I asked, my pulse racing.
“Yes. You’ll be able to spot a pattern. Within an hour of qualifying, when they collect data from the car, which they’re allowed to do, they also install the race software, which they are most definitely not.
It’s discreet, but it’s a distinct pattern.
Those are the complete records for the last three seasons. ”
“Thank you, this is exactly what I need.” I grinned, disbelief and the rush of having the proof in my hands making me almost giddy.
“There’s more,” she said, her voice soft, her gaze still fixed on the rippling water.
I flicked through the pages, dozens of them, until the format changed.
“What’s this?” I asked, my finger resting on the next set of pages.
“Scrutineering sign-off logs,” Sabine replied. “Not for the entire paddock. Just Obsidian. Just car number one.”
Aleks’s car.
I flicked through them, each page a record of checks, signatures, timestamps. The same scribbled names over and over. All unfamiliar to me, but one kept repeating.
Klaus Hartmann.
He’d signed off Aleks’s car in Bahrain. Then Monaco. Then Austria. Then Monza. Again and again. Out of twenty-four races last season, his name appeared on twenty. This season, he’d signed off every single one so far.
“Klaus Hartmann,” I read aloud.
She nodded slightly. “He’s officially assigned to Zone C, but he’s been conveniently reassigned or ‘borrowed’ by Obsidian more times than the rules technically allow.”
“And no one’s flagged that?”
“No one vants to flag zat.”
Sabine sounded bitter now, her accent flattening under pressure. For the first time, she looked at me properly.
“There are people trying to clean things up. But it’s slow. Political. Dangerous. A lot of careers tied to Obsidian’s dominance. Including some in the FIA.”
I turned the page, scanning another list of weekend rotations. More of the same. Hartmann again.
“Is he the one manipulating the map?”
“He signs the car off. That doesn’t mean he’s doing the programming. But… if you’re looking for someone who lets things slide, he’s the one holding the pen.”
“Do you have anything on him?”
Sabine shook her head. “No proof. Just patterns. He keeps his nose clean, doesn’t gamble, doesn’t drink. But he’s been working in motorsport for almost thirty years. He’s too careful. Which is why you’re more useful than I am right now.”
I snapped the folder closed and placed it in my lap, gripping it tighter than I meant to.
“This is big,” I whispered. “Why are you helping me?” I asked, finally meeting her eyes.
Sabine’s expression didn’t flicker. But her voice softened just a fraction.
“Because someone should.”
“What’s your role in this?”
“Off the record?”
“Sure.”
“I supply them with extra seals to cover their tracks. I’ve helped cover this up. My conscience no longer allows it.”
“What can I offer you to go on the record?”
“Nothing.” She stood abruptly. “I was never here. You never saw me.”
She walked away without looking back.
I sat alone for a long time, folder clutched tight to my chest, the city waking louder around me. I felt like I was holding a match to a fuse I didn’t know the length of.
And Klaus Hartmann’s name was already burning.
F1 Pulse Broadcast: Seoul Grand Prix, Post-Qualifying Coverage
MARTY: Welcome to the first Korean Grand Prix since 2013, folks!
TARA: Hard to believe it’s been over a decade—and this time we’re not at the Yeongam circuit. Seoul’s all-new street circuit is giving us a completely fresh challenge.
MARTY: Brand-new layout, no historical data—everyone started from zero this weekend. If there were any doubts about Obsidian's dominance this season, Aleks Volkov just smashed them into the tarmac. Fastest in all three sessions today and clinching pole with a monster lap time of 1:38.208.
TARA: He looked untouchable out there. Smooth, clinical—like he had the whole track mapped in his head before he even turned a wheel. I don’t know what they’ve done to that car since Shanghai, but it’s humming again.
MARTY: And meanwhile, Luca Moretti will be starting from P5 tomorrow. Not a disaster, but definitely not what the Hawthorn camp wanted after last weekend’s fireworks.
TARA: You could feel that tension paddock-side today. A lot of people were watching closely—wondering how the reigning champ and his most vocal rival would behave after that explosive clash last weekend. But both played it straight. No drama on track. Just pure performance.
MARTY: Exactly what the sport needed. Let’s call it a reset. But make no mistake—Volkov’s not just gunning for wins. He’s gunning for legacy now.
TARA: And Moretti? Starting fifth puts him on the back foot. He’ll need an aggressive launch, smart strategy, and maybe a bit of luck to claw his way back into contention.
MARTY: Luckily, he’s got all three in spades when he’s on form.
TARA: All right, let’s check in with Jamie in the pit lane—he’s been speaking to key figures from across the paddock. Jamie?
JAMIE KAVANAGH: Thanks guys. I’m down here at ground level where, frankly, the mood is confident.
Calm, even. Volkov just climbed out of the car looking as cool as ever, and the Obsidian crew are all business.
No fist bumps. No theatrics. Just a quiet sort of…
satisfaction. Actually—here’s someone we don’t often get on the mic.
Norton Ross, Team Principal at Obsidian. Norton—can I grab you for a second?
NORTON ROSS: Sure, Jamie.
JAMIE: Norton, congratulations on a five star qualifying for Volkov. Any thoughts heading into tomorrow?
NORTON ROSS: We’re pleased with the result, of course. But pole position is just the start. We’ve got a long race ahead of us.
JAMIE: Volkov looked particularly sharp today. Have you made any changes behind the scenes?
NORTON ROSS: Aleks is a driver who thrives under pressure. He does the work. He trusts the system. When those two align, results follow.
JAMIE: And any comment on the fallout from last weekend?
NORTON ROSS: We’ve moved on. The team is focused on performance. That’s all I’ll say.
JAMIE: Fair enough. Best of luck tomorrow.
TARA: Well, there you have it—tight lips from Ross as always. But it’s clear something’s shifted inside Obsidian.
MARTY: Oh yeah. That car’s purring again. And Volkov looks like a man with something to prove.
TARA: Race day’s gonna be fire. Stay with us—we’ve got exclusive access, behind-the-scenes coverage, and full analysis right here on Pulse.
Aleksandr Volkov – Post-Qualifying Press Conference, Seoul
The overhead lights were too bright.
They always were. They were designed to make us look good for the cameras, but they left you blinking like a stunned animal as you walked out onto the stage.
I settled into the middle seat on the curved white sofa, the same one I always took when I qualified on pole.
Jax dropped into the spot on my left, stretching his arms across the back like he owned the place.
Mason Hale sat on my right, the Falcon Edge driver still damp with sweat and as stoic as ever, cool and collected.
We waited. Cameras clicked, the low murmur of journalists settling into their chairs filled the air. Water bottles were passed out, and I twisted the cap off mine just to do something with my hands.
I looked around the room for Elena but there was no sign of her.
Richard Haversham took the stage, tablet in hand and an easy smile on his face.
He’d been the FIA’s press conference host for as long as I’d been in the sport—late fifties, silver hair, tailored navy suit.
He knew how to handle a room, how to steer questions away from dangerous territory without looking like he was doing it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the post-qualifying press conference for the Seoul Grand Prix. Joining me on the sofa this evening, our top three qualifiers. In third, Mason Hale for Falcon Edge. In second, Jax Rivers representing Nova Dynamics. And on pole—Aleksandr Volkov for Obsidian.”
A polite smattering of applause followed. Cameras flashed. Still no Elena. Where was she?
I shifted in my seat.
“Let’s start with you, Aleks,” Richard said, smooth as ever. “That final lap was something special. Where did it come from?”
I leaned forward, microphone already in hand. “We found good balance in the car this morning. The team made a few small changes after FP3 that gave me confidence to push. The lap was clean.”
“Simple as that, huh?” Richard smiled.
I gave him the smallest hint of a shrug. “When the car feels good, you drive it fast.”
Jax let out a quiet chuckle beside me—I’d stolen that line from him and he knew it. Mason nodded with approval.
Where was she?
It wasn’t like Elena to miss this. She never missed the pressers if she could help it. My chest tightened, just a fraction. I told myself she was probably writing, or chasing a lead, or holed up somewhere where the signal was crap. But the unease was there, gnawing at the edge of my focus.
“Jax, you’ve had a strong weekend so far,” Richard continued, turning to him. “Second on the grid, only a tenth off pole. Can you challenge Obsidian tomorrow?”
Jax grinned. “I think we’ve got the pace. If I can stay in Aleks’s mirrors after Turn One, anything’s possible.”
“Got your elbows sharpened?” Mason asked, smirking.
“Always.” Jax replied.
I smiled faintly at the exchange, but my mind was still drifting.
If she’d changed her mind about the story, if she was pulling away from me, she wouldn’t do it like this. Not silently. Not after everything last night.
Richard fielded a few more questions—tyres, strategy, how Seoul compared to other street circuits. I answered on autopilot. Jax said something about the trickiness of Turn Twelve, and Mason made a self-deprecating joke about almost binning it in Q2. The room laughed.
I didn’t.
Eventually Richard looked down at his watch and gave a nod to the room.
“All right, folks, we’ll leave it there. Thank you, gentlemen. Good luck tomorrow.”
The lights dimmed slightly and the camera crews backed off. We stood, posed for the usual lineup photos—arms around each other’s shoulders, easy smiles for the broadcasters—and then we were done. The drivers’ media rep began herding us towards the next round of appearances.
I peeled off before they could corral me. I pulled out my phone the second I stepped backstage.
Still nothing from Elena.
No texts. No calls. No updates.
My gut twisted.
I knew she could take care of herself. She was sharp, relentless. Braver than most people gave her credit for. But still—I couldn’t shake the sense that something had shifted. That I was missing something.
And I hated that feeling more than anything.