The world exploded in a symphony of screaming V6 engines and vaporized rubber. From my perch on the pit wall, the first corner was a maelstrom of carbon fibre and hope. Enzo, true to his desperate nature, was brutish off the line. He squeezed Kael towards the wall, a reckless, testosterone-fueled move designed to intimidate, to force a yield.
I saw Kael’s micro-correction on the telemetry, a feather-light lift of the throttle for a hundredth of a second to avoid contact. He lost a position, slotting into third behind Enzo and the McLaren. My heart didn't even flutter. It was expected. Enzo was playing a game of aggression; I was playing a game of mathematics.
“Clean start, Kael. Let them burn their rubber. The race comes to us. Just stay in their DRS window.” My voice was level, a calm s
