By Lap 40, the circuit had transformed into a cooker. The temperatures had risen by 4 degrees, turning the track into a shimmering wavy strip with paint, zone marks, and flags. The Azerbaijan Grand Prix had done nothing more than expand into a more suffocating race.

From the coast to every spot surrounding the track, the atmosphere was electric. It was hard to count, but an estimate of 45,000 fans were on-site, turning the streets of Baku into a Roman colosseum. Balconies. Roofs. Terraces, and patios. It didn’t matter where. All eyes were glued to the cycle of the Formula 1 cars. The race had become everything that was promised—and more.

On the asphalt, disharmony eventually emerged again. Some strategies had exploded.

During the second round of stops, many teams didn’t want to compromise as they had earlier. Drivers who had stretched their first stints before, didn’t even attempt it this time. This created a frantic ten-minute reshuffle that threw the leaderboard into a blender as almost all four cars successively headed into the pit lane at once in four consecutive laps.

Positions shifted rapidly simply because of timing and pit delta, making the race results unpredictable—even with Luca claiming the lead.

This was going to be Luca’s second race of making a single stop and he was determined to accomplish it. If he’s successful, 1st place could be his, because at P1, there was no one stopping him from making it to the finish line first.

[Wear Control: 20]

[Congratulations! You’ve maxed out a car skill!]

[Rewards pending...]

While Luca played the long game, a second stop was inevitable for Victor.

But here in Baku, for the first time, Victor didn’t dread it.

Today, the pit lane wasn’t a place of anxiety. It was a sanctuary.

The specialist crew Trampos had brought in were delivering stops with surgical precision. Fast. Clean. Efficient. Every visit to the pitlane felt less like a gamble and more like a calculated gain. For a rookie, that kind of reliability was priceless!

The presence of these specialists had changed the psychological landscape for him. Victor felt it: Confidence. It was the kind that let you push harder on track, knowing your team would not fail you off it.

And he wasn’t alone in that feeling.

Somewhere else in the midfield, Matteo Bianchi felt the same.

Velocità’s pit crew was just as adept and efficient. Bianchi loved them.

As an Italian poster boy, he carried the same passion as the Tifosi, so he treated the Velocità’s pit crew as an extension of the team’s greatness, and something to be immensely proud of.

But you would wish Matteo Bianchi were exaggerating or just being egotistical.

When Matteo peeled into the pit lane, the difference was immediately visible.

The Velocità crew stood ready—not as masked strangers, but as a unit forged through years of repetition, pressure, and identity. When Matteo boxed, they serviced him like a robot with twenty arms. They swapped the tires so fast you’d blink and miss it. It was a magic trick, not a pit stop.

1.87 seconds.

Luca’s record will soon be broken. It was just a matter of time.

And where Trampos were not the best, Squadra Corse, Velocità, and Jackson Racing’s crew that set the 1.80 in the first place, were the best contenders to set a new benchmark.

The other teams were great, but the Velocità crew was the gold standard of the paddock. Despite having the third fastest stop with 1.84 s, they had the fastest stop on average: 2.3 seconds. Their reputation was built on decades of heritage, a lineage of mechanics who were often the sons and grandsons of the men who had serviced legends. They were the "Old Money" of engineering, elite and untouchable.

To compare them to the specialists Trampos had hired was like comparing a Royal Guard to a Tier-1 Spec-Ops unit. One was traditional and institutional, the other was modern and depended a lot on technology.

When Victor hit his own marks, the ERT crew swarmed him.

1.98 seconds.

The car hit the ground with a thud, and Victor was gone, the torque of the JYX-81 pinning him into his seat.

Victor and Matteo had ended up pitting on the same cycle, but Victor was slightly ahead. Matteo followed shortly after. The Ferrari man was released first. The Red Bull followed seconds later. They rejoined the track like two bullets fired from the same chamber, but the safety of the pit lane vanished the moment they hit the transition to the live circuit.

Traffic.

That was the killer in Baku. Not just slow cars—but badly positioned cars, cars at different tire phases, different pace, cars fighting their own battles while faster drivers tried to carve through.

Victor exited the pit lane into a cluster that was already at speed, and immediately he was forced to defend into Turn 1 instead of attacking. Matteo, rejoining just behind, had similar problems. As they tried to find grip and warmth early on, some drivers outright humiliated them.

Into the braking zone at Turn 3, Di Renzo forced Victor to take a tighter entry, compromising his exit and allowing Denko Rutherford to slip past on traction. Matteo, right behind, tried to follow Victor through the gap, but another driver, Derstappen, shut the door late, forcing him to brake and lose momentum onto the straight.

Hank Rice overtook Matteo down the long straight using DRS, simply powering past before the braking zone. Matteo tried to fight back on the inside, but the outside line became the inside for the next corner, and he had to yield again to avoid the wall.

Victor had it slightly better, but not by much. Rice, now ahead of him executed a perfect defensive line through the castle section, leaving no space anywhere. Victor couldn’t risk a move there. No one could, unless they were desperate or stupid!

So the positions settled.

Now, they were bumper-to-bumper, isolated from the points and left with nothing but each other.

P14— Victor Surmann

P15— Matteo Bianchi

**Tires are coming up to temperature, Vic. P14. Matteo is 0.5 behind**

As they exited the final corner and accelerated onto the main straight, Victor checked his mirrors.

A Red Bull. Unmistakable.

Victor’s eyes sharpened slightly as he acknowledged the threat to his race.

As for Matteo, he was thinking the same thing.

’So it’s you...’

Two ambitious rookies. Same part of the track. Same tire phase. Same moment in the race.

This wasn’t just traffic anymore. This was a duel forming.

There isn’t enough room for two prodigies in the same sector.