Chapter Twenty Eight – Seoul Race Day
Aleksandr Volkov – Seoul Grand Prix, Sunday
The roar of the crowd was distant—muted by the helmet, the cockpit, the chaos in my head.
Strapped in. Engine purring beneath me. Tyres hot, brakes twitchy, heart hammering like I’d swallowed a jackhammer.
Where I was supposed to be.
Where I’d fought to be.
Where I wasn’t sure I deserved to be.
Focus.
Mac’s voice crackled through the radio, cutting through the noise like a scalpel.
“Let’s keep this clean, Aleks. Precision. Power. Perfection. Just like we drilled.”
Obsidian’s holy trinity.
I closed my eyes for half a breath.
Precision.
Apexes. Brake points. Tyre management. Forget Elena. Forget Hartmann. Forget the mess.
Power.
Let the car carry me. Trust the engineering. Trust the data. Trust nothing else.
Perfection.
Even when the world was burning behind the scenes… the drive had to be flawless.
My fingers flexed over the steering wheel, gloves damp with sweat. The lights on the gantry above blinked red, one by one.
Five lights.
The storm in my chest stilled.
There was nothing left to say.
Only the drive remained.
The final light blinked on.
I took one last breath.
And let the monster out.
The lights vanished.
I launched.
Perfect clutch bite. Minimal wheelspin. I surged forward with violent grace, every muscle tuned to the machine around me. Behind me, engines screamed and tyres smoked, but they were just noise.
I was already gone.
Turn One came at 290kph. I braked later than was wise, later than was sane—right on the bleeding edge of adhesion. The rear twitched, but I caught it, threaded the needle. The city flashed by in chrome streaks and neon blurs. Seoul’s brand-new street circuit was tight, technical, brutal.
Good. Let it fight me.
I didn’t lift.
By lap three I’d broken DRS range.
By lap five, I was three seconds clear.
Mac was in my ear again. “Gap to Rivers: 3.2. Your pace is surgical. Keep this rhythm.”
Surgical? No. I wasn’t slicing.
I was carving my legacy into the tarmac.
Every corner was a test, and I passed them all. Brake late. Downshift crisp. Ride the kerbs. Use the wall to judge the inch-perfect line. Others flinched at barriers. I kissed them.
Let the track come for me. Let the world think I was broken. Let them whisper that Obsidian made me.
Today I was the blade, not the hand wielding it.
And I would cut.
Mid-race pit stop—tight, clean, efficient. Back out in clear air.
“Everything’s green. You’re untouchable right now.” Mac said, his voice calm and collected.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was too far inside the rhythm. Every cell in my body vibrated to the song of the car—engine pitch, tyre feedback, g-forces like a drumbeat in my skull. This was more than control. This was flow.
This was why I did it.
Not for the podiums. Not for the headlines.
Not even for the titles.
For this feeling.
For the storm and the stillness that came after.
The last ten laps, I barely heard the world.
Not the engine.
Not the radio.
Not even the fear.
I was velocity.
And when I crossed the line—first, dominant, untouchable—I didn’t raise a fist. Didn’t yell. Didn’t whoop.
I just closed my eyes behind the visor and let the silence swallow me.
I wasn’t chasing perfection.
I was it.
Elena Archer – Seoul Grand Prix, Race Day
I watched it from the media centre. Not the paddock. Not track-side. Just a screen mounted too high on the wall, where I had to tilt my chin and pretend I didn’t care. The room was quiet—tense—but I barely registered the commentary. Just the footage. Just him.
He’d driven like he was possessed. Lap after lap, corner after corner, the car responding to him like a creature tamed by nothing but his will.
I’d never seen anything like it. Even the other journalists—jaded, cynical, long past the stage of being impressed—were murmuring about it.
His lines were perfection. His pace was surgical.
He didn’t just win; he dominated. Again.
I hadn’t breathed properly in twenty laps.
I pressed a hand to my chest as the chequered flag fell and the car crossed the line, sleek and deadly. Obsidian black, trimmed in chrome, reflecting the Seoul sunlight like a blade. He was cool and calm in the cockpit. No theatrics. Just that hard, blistering edge of satisfaction.
Tears pricked at my eyes and I blinked them away before anyone could see.
I watched the screen as he climbed from the car. As Mac caught him in a crushing embrace. As the crew surrounded him with fists and high fives. There was joy—but always that razor focus. No one asked questions. No one lingered too long.
With that drive, Aleksandr Volkov had slammed his fist down on the championship table and dared anyone to challenge him. Even Rivers looked rattled. And Moretti—miles behind in P6—had no cards left to play. Aleks was back. And not just leading the standings.
Commanding them.
But it didn’t feel like a triumph. Not to me.
It felt like watching someone disappear into legend. Watching a man become myth—and realising you’d helped shatter the last fragile thing tethering him to humanity.
I gathered my things slowly. I still had to write. Still had to finish the thing that would tear this sport apart. That might tear him apart, even as he was at the height of his glory.
But not yet.
First… I needed one last question.
The paddock was buzzing—cameras, boom mics, and grinning PR girls shepherding drivers from one press stop to the next.
Technicians carted equipment. Champagne was still drying on overalls.
Everyone moved like they were floating on the high of a race well run.
And Aleks… Aleks was gone. Swallowed up by victory and camera flashes.
I wasn’t chasing him this time.
I had someone else in my sights.
I spotted Caroline near a branded backdrop where her crew were wrapping up with Sofia Vega, who had earned every point that came with her seventh place.
Caroline wore her usual heels, hair tamed for the camera, and a tailored jacket—bright-eyed, perfectly poised, like Seoul’s heat didn’t touch her.
The cameraman beside her was already detaching his rig, but I moved fast.
“Caroline.”
She turned at once, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Elena. You look like a woman on a mission.”
“I am. I need one question. To Ross.”
Her brow lifted. “You want me to give you one of my post-race questions on camera?”
“I need it captured. Clean. Broadcast-ready. He won’t stop for me. But he’ll stop for you.”
Caroline tilted her head, calculating. Then she gave a sly little smile. “Fine. But you owe me.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Oh, I’ll collect.” She turned to her cameraman. “Liam, we’re back on. Get the rig up again.”
He blinked. “What—now?”
“Now.”
She turned back to me. “You’ve got fifteen seconds when I cue you. Don’t waste it.”
We didn’t have to wait long. Ross was making his way up the paddock lane, flanked by Obsidian staff, shaking hands and offering tight-lipped smiles. He looked like a man who’d already declared the weekend a success and was ready to fly home first-class.
Caroline stepped into his path, all easy charm and microphone-ready polish. I merged with her crew, waiting for my moment.
“Norton—congratulations. Got time for a quick word?”
He slowed, recognised her, and relaxed a fraction. “Of course.”
Cameras on.
“This was a huge bounce-back weekend for Obsidian—pole, victory, championship lead. How important was this win for team morale?”
Ross gave her a gracious nod, the kind that said I’m in control here.
“Very important. We’ve had a challenging few weeks, but the team stayed focused. We believe in our drivers, in our strategy. Today, that belief paid off.”
Caroline smiled. “And speaking of belief—would you mind if I passed the mic to a colleague for just one question?”
Ross hesitated, but nodded. “All right.”
She stepped aside.
I stepped in, taking her mic.
“Mr Ross,” I said, my voice crisp and carrying. “Can you explain why FIA scrutineer Klaus Hartmann has signed off Volkov’s car in twenty-five of the last twenty-nine races, despite not being officially assigned to Obsidian?”
His smile faltered.
The paddock didn’t go silent—but it tightened. The tension cut through the background noise like a snapped chord.
Ross’s jaw clenched. He blinked, once. His PR handler stepped forward, but he lifted a hand, holding her off.
“Elena.” His voice was controlled. Almost… impressed. “You always did have a gift for drama.”
“This is a question of transparency, not theatre,” I said, keeping my tone steady, eyes locked on his. “Fans deserve to know how scrutineering rotations are handled. And whether any teams have been granted preferential treatment.”
Ross offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The FIA’s internal processes are not for public discussion. But I can assure you, all procedures have been followed to the letter. If you have evidence to the contrary, I suggest you submit it through the appropriate channels.”
“I have,” I said, holding his gaze. “And I will.”
He gave the camera a final nod. “No further comment.”
Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
I let the silence hang. Just long enough for Caroline to give me a raised eyebrow and a muttered, “Well, shit.”
Liam slowly lowered the camera.
“That good enough for you?” Caroline asked.
“Perfect.” I exhaled.
The footage would speak for itself.
Ross had just looked the world in the eye… and blinked.
The smoke curled lazily from the centre of the table, warm and fragrant, tinged with garlic and charcoal. A strip of pork sizzled softly on the grill, golden at the edges. I flipped it with the tongs, mostly for something to do with my hands.
Across from me, Graham poured himself another soju, eyes never leaving my face.
“You looked like a damn assassin out there,” he said finally. “Remind me not to cross you.”
I smirked and reached for my water. “She said she’d call in a favour later. Caroline.”
He nodded. “She will. But it’ll be a fair one.”
“She didn’t even flinch. Just stepped aside and let me gut Ross on live TV.”
Graham tilted his head, lips quirking. “What else is television for?”
I let the silence stretch between us. The restaurant was half-full, mostly locals chatting in soft bursts of Korean. No one here cared who I was. No one was watching me weigh the end of my fling with Aleks against the truth I was about to publish.
“You read it?” I asked, voice low.
“All of it. Twice.” He gave a low whistle. “You’ve got something here. Solid, terrifying, career-ending something.”
I swallowed. My throat was dry, nerves scraping against the back of it like sandpaper.
“You’re not going to try to talk me out of running it?”
“Hell no.” He leaned in, dropped his voice. “This is the kind of thing we all say we’d publish. And you’re actually doing it. It’s brave as hell.”
I nodded, tight-lipped.
I slid my chopsticks into the bowl of rice, stirring without eating. “It’s not too much?”
“It’s exactly enough.” His tone left no room for argument. “Clean, sharp, devastating. You stuck to the facts. You let the evidence speak. And the way you framed Volkov...”
I winced, staring down at the grill.
“You didn’t crucify him, Elena.”
“I know. But it’s still going to hit him like a punch to the gut.”
“He’ll survive. And maybe... it’ll be what saves him.” Graham leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “You’ve always been the kind of journalist who gives people the rope. Whether they climb or hang is on them.”
“I care about him,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s not in the article, but... it’s in every word.”
He gave a soft exhale, not quite a sigh. “You’re allowed to care. It doesn’t make the story any less true.”
“I just hope he sees that.”
“He will. Eventually.” He raised his soju glass. “To the truth. And the hell it drags behind it.”
I clinked my water against his glass. “To the truth.”
We drank in silence, the air thick with smoke and something else—weight, tension, relief. The meat on the grill hissed and spat, but neither of us moved to eat.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
But tonight, I had a friend, a table, and the quiet certainty that—for better or worse—I’d done what I came here to do.