Ailbeart Moireach was satisfied.

The pit exit at Baku is a long, claustrophobic funnel of concrete that spat him back onto the vibrating asphalt. The stop had been fast and clean, as expected from his crew. Ailbeart felt more confident the moment the car dropped off the jacks and surged forward again, the fresh tires cooperating immediately, and the car’s balance scrumptious.

Races like this, on streets like Baku, were not only won by speed but by execution, and so far, everything around Ailbeart Moireach had been executed to perfection by Haddock Racing.

**Fantastic stint, Ailbeart**

**Clean exit**

**Heads up: Rennick is on the start-finish straight now. Full deployment. He’s going to be right on your gearbox into Turn 1**

**You’re defending on cold boots—watch the inside line**

"Copy. Tires are like ice. I’ll make the car wide."

For some reason, Ailbeart smirked slightly beneath the helmet.

A sublime race.

This was the kind of race Ailbeart Moireach lived for as an F1 driver who raced for the passion of the game. Precision. Patience. Intelligence. Challenge. It wasn’t a simple lights-to-flag domination, but a layered fight. It was the kind of race that refined a driver rather than just rewarding him.

As he accelerated down the pit exit, the walls flashing close beside him, time seemed to slow in the way a driver’s mind expanded in critical moments. Meters away, the scarlet rival screamed down the better half of the main straight. Luca.

Ailbeart’s mind drifted to the enigma of the paddock.

To the analysts, Luca Rennick was described as the anomaly of this era, a driver who seemed to thrive when the car was broken, finding lap time in the wreckage of mechanical failure.

Ailbeart had been watching Luca all season while keeping a distance not so close and not so far, too.

While Luca was said to be a driver with superpowers, Ailbeart Moireach did not fear him. In fact, Ailbeart Moireach was not the kind of driver who feared other drivers. He had raced champions, beaten veterans, fought wheel-to-wheel with the most aggressive names on the grid. Fear was not part of his craft.

But neither was underestimation.

The pundits didn’t lie. The glazing was authentic.

Rennick is indeed a monster.

The grid had many fast drivers. What made Luca different was something harder to measure. He learned too quickly. Adapted too quickly. Every race, he arrived with something new—not always visible, not always obvious, but always there.

Better tire usage one weekend. Better defensive positioning the next. Better race pacing after that.

Rennick was a problem that kept evolving, and very soon, he could outgrow the competition. And that was dangerous. But Ailbeart also saw something else when he watched Luca race. There was a faint sense that Luca was always walking a thin line of self-destruction. Drivers like that are their own ruin.

So Ailbeart did not fear Luca.

And he did not take him for granted.

He simply acknowledged him.

As a rival.

As he exited the pit lane and the blend line ended, the city opened back into the racing line, the Rotterbad’s note rising as he pushed the throttle down harder.

And there, thundering down the straight, was the Ferrari.

The gap closed rapidly.

Fresh tires versus warm tires.

They met sooner than Luca expected.

By the time Luca came screaming down the straight and into the opening sector, he was already on the rear wing of Ailbeart Moireach. The asphalt of the avenue was a blur of sun-bleached grey as Rennick closed the gap.

The difference in momentum was obvious. Ailbeart, fresh out of the pits, was still bringing temperature into his rubber, still searching for grip. By the time they reached the braking zone for the first sequence of corners, Luca was already tucked into the wake of the Renault’s rear wing, the nose of his car practically tethered to its gearbox. Through the sector, it became a nose-to-tail chase almost instantly, Luca’s front wing filling Ailbeart’s mirrors before the sector was even complete.

Ailbeart them realised he was in the hot soup. He’d rejoined. But not safely ahead. Not fast enough ahead. And now Rennick was there.

It was difficult to tell what he was doing at first. Was he defending? Or was he weaving to bring the temperature into the tires?

From Luca’s cockpit, it looked like both.

Ailbeart’s car moved slightly on the straights, not enough to block, but enough to break the tow. Into corners, he placed the car perfectly—apex to exit, always just far enough toward the racing line that Luca had to hesitate. The Renault looked incredibly planted through the corners, despite the cold tires, and was stable over bumps, wide on exit, always taking up space.

And that was the real problem for Luca. The space.

The R.S.25 was so rigid, it took up every available inch of the racing line, and the Baku streets were far too narrow for Luca to attempt a high-risk lunge that might end both their races against the unforgiving TECPRO barriers. Every time he considered a move, the track pinched, the wall appeared, the angle disappeared.

Corner after corner, Ailbeart’s pace was below Luca’s, slowing him, and attracting.potential trouble from behind.

But not all racing was blood and panic. Formula 1 was oftentimes a game of patience, a cold war fought at three-digit speeds. Luca recognized the situation quickly. Thus, he fell dormant.

Instead of dive-bombing and prowling further, he dropped back just enough to keep his front tires from overheating in the dirty air, while watching his rival a second ahead. With his system, he stopped looking only at the rear wing and started looking three corners ahead, mapping the track, remembering where the circuit allowed opportunity and where it punished ambition.

Through the technical sections.

Through the castle.

Through the medium-speed bends. Two professional racers on cue.

[Straightaway ahead!]

The opportunity finally materialized at Turn 16, the fast left-hander that leads onto the infinite main straight.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!" the crowd roared as the cameras caught Luca’s lunge into action.

Both cars straightened out. The DRS flap on the Ferrari snapped open.

"...Rennick has the run! He’s pulling out of the slipstream! Into the sun, to go side-by-side with the Hammer..!"

[DRS BOOST!]

The engine screamed, the slipstream pulled The Mazerunner forward, and the Renault ahead grew larger rapidly.

Luca moved slightly to the left.

He held the inside line, the vibration of the car rattling his vision as he surged past the caramel sidepod.

Halfway down the straight, Luca pulled alongside.

Three-quarters of the way, he was ahead.

P5– Luca Rennick ↑

P6— Ailbeart Moireach ↓

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!" The grandstands erupted, a wall of sound that even the V1 Core couldn’t drown out. It was a breathtaking execution! Luca felt a sense of absolute control wash over him.

"...And the Rennick makes it look easy! Back in the top five...!"

At Trampos’ pit wall, everyone felt a spike of thrill. Usually, an overtake at this stage from Luca meant a clean sweep through the rest of the grid to claim P1.

Luca had to admit he felt like he was just as capable of doing so.

Meanwhile, behind him, Ailbeart watched the Z24 pull away and allowed himself a small, knowing smile inside the helmet.

Luca had just proven something to him.

Ailbeart Moireach knew he couldn’t defend there. Not on cold tires. Not on that straight. But he still tested Luca by deliberately taking the space, the lines, the corners, and slowing him down. Ailbeart did it just to see what kind of driver Luca would be. Ailbeart wanted to see if the young driver would let his ego take the wheel, grow impatient, and break his rhythm early just to advance more quickly.

Impatient drivers made mistakes in Baku.

Impatient drivers hit walls.

Impatient drivers lost races.

But Luca Rennick had waited.

He had chosen the right place.

And as Ailbeart accelerated out of Turn 1 behind him, The Hammer came to a simple conclusion.

’He will be the greatest of all time.’