Ahead, a slower car.

Backmarker. Wrong place. Wrong time.

Hank Rice.

But Rice had raced exceptionally well in this race, so what happened?

Unfortunately, the tragedy of Hank Rice wasn’t that he had become slow; it was that the world had simply become too fast.

Once, Hank was the apex predator of the grid, a man whose name was synonymous with the word success. But the legends he had traded paint with were all gone, retired to history, leaving him as a solitary relic in a sea of agile hyenas.

Now he’s in a slow Audi, and everyone else is faster. Also, his youth had faded, which meant the drive to win and conquer would, too.

He was still the master of the game, his hands moving with a rhythmic, veteran precision that younger drivers hadn’t lived long enough to learn.

But racecraft is a whetstone for sharpening, not the sword itself.

Rice could place his car on the exact millimeter of asphalt to block a line, and he could husband his tires with the patience of a saint, but the stopwatch was an undefeated enemy.

The Audi model seemed to be a generation behind, lacking everything the faster cars of this era had, and that was enough to even make him a consistent P20 finisher if he weren’t Hank Rice.

As the laps bled away in Baku, Rice found himself in the most humiliating position a veteran can occupy: the backmarker.

Though not lapped.

He was just the slowest on average, hitting red in every sector like he wanted to make it five for five like the grid lights.

He was the moving obstacle. The blue flags even flickered on his digital dash, a mocking glow that signaled his irrelevance.

Ahead of him, the track was open, begging for his recovery, but behind him, was the future.

Locked in a ferocious duel were Victor Surmann and Matteo Bianchi.

Hank Rice had been around long enough to tell the difference between a casual fight for position and a duel. To him, it looked like Vic and Matteo were racing for the right to be the next big thing more than just a faster lap time.

And truthfully? They had the machinery to prove it

....Given that Surmann was equipped with a better chassis.

Without the new Ferrari, Hank Rice knew the boy would be no match for Matteo.

***

The so-called boy had the veteran in his crosshairs.

But he didn’t see Hank Rice as an obstacle to swoop pass just like that. He saw him as a tool to get rid of Bianchi before he plummets beneath the Italian’s unquenchable pressure.

Approaching Turn 15, Victor adjusted early. Instead of the optimal racing line, he shifted slightly, positioning his car to influence Hank’s decision. The slower driver, reacting instinctively, committed to the inside.

That was all Victor needed.

By placing the JYX-81 early and aggressively on the center line, Victor forced Rice to commit to this defensive, tight entry into Turn 15. Now, Hank Rice was used as a natural pick, a physical barrier that he cleared with centimeters to spare, but one that left the door slammed shut behind him!

Matteo arrived a half-second later, but the geometry had already shifted against him. Because Victor had forced the Audi into a compromised, slow-speed line, Matteo was trapped. The only choice was to steer wider to avoid a collision.

~FWWOOsH

The turbulence from both cars washed over the Red Bull’s front wing, causing a momentary loss of front-end bite.

"Arh?! No—dammnit," Matteo cussed as he had to delay his throttle through the plague, valuable time slipping away.

And that was all Victor needed.

Now in clean air, he was perfectly positioned on the racing line, and without delay, he dumped his remaining ERS reserve to get away.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

"....And there it is! The move of the race, and quite possibly the move of the season! Look at the replays, because what Victor Surmann just did was nothing short of a masterclass..!"

"...Victor didn’t pass Matteo there. He removed his options. Gap’s up to eight tenths now. And that... that’s race-defining..."

"...If there were any doubts about whether the kid from the Trampos garage belonged in this cockpit, they’ve just been silenced. Unbelievable scenes here in Baku...!"

The silence that descended upon the Velocità garage was choking.

Team Principal Finazzi remained perplexed for a whole minute, the room still busy despite the haunting silence. On one of the monitors, Finazzi’s eyes were glued to where the red dot of Matteo’s car had suddenly stuttered behind a wall of traffic.

"What happened? Why did he lift?"

The lead strategist slumped back, gesturing his hands without direction, a pale look on his face.

"Surmann... he used the Audi as a pick, sir," he said. "He pinned Matteo behind the air on the entry to fifteen. We’ve lost the slipstream. The gap is out to 1.5."

For about 5 seconds, a collective groan rippled through the mechanics.

Just two years ago before this Unrestricted Power Era, the standard RbioL was known to be one of the fastest cars normally. Bueseno Velocità and Red Bull had built a masterpiece of an F1 car, one of the few machines one could call balanced and broad brush, only to watch it get out-maneuvered by a rookie with a street-fighter mentality.

It was an incredulous moment.

Matteo hadn’t been outpaced.

He’d been outplayed.

"Can he recover?" someone asked.

Matteo was put on the radio, and after a rapid-fire exchange of words, they confirmed that he had indeed lost the speed and momentum.

The race would be practically over in a couple of minutes. The only chance of recovery for Matteo would be a mistake from Victor.

So, instead of focusing on their driver, Velocità halved some of their attention and gave it to Victor free of charge.

Mr. Finazzi especially was most curious about the young boy, and his mind had started considering certain possibilities that could see Victor Surmann driving a Red Bull in the near future.

"Update—Surmann approaching Dreyer."

Suddenly, the mood shifted from shock to a desperate, nail-biting vigil.

On screen, Victor closed rapidly. Dreyer, already compromised from earlier contact, struggled through Sector Two. Worn tires. Broken rhythm. He had no chance.

"He’s going to get them," the lead engineer whispered, watching the JYX-81’s purple sectors lighting up the board.

Victor was phenomenal in these closing laps!

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

P10— Victor Surmann ↑

P11— Luis Dreyer ↓

"...AND VICTOR SURMANN IS INTO THE TOP TEN! FROM THE MIDFIELD BATTLE—WHAT A DRIVE THIS HAS BEEN!"

The grandstands erupted, a wall of sound crashing against the concrete barriers of Baku. Trampos flags waved wildly, fans on balconies leaning over railings, shouting into the heat as the Ferrari surged ahead like it had broken free from bondage.

Clean line. Early rotation. Strong exit.

"Pass confirmed."

Moments later—

"Next target: Di Renzo."

Back at Trampos’s pit wall—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

It started small.

Then it built.

Engineers. Analysts. Mechanics. One by one, they rose to their feet, eyes glued to the screen as Victor’s onboard replay flashed across the monitors.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The rhythm grew louder.

Even the specialists’ pit crew were standing now, their eyes glued to the monitors as they applauded the screen as if Victor could feel the vibration of their cheers.

It was one of the best races they had seen.

Inside the cockpit, everything felt different. Victor gripped the wheel so hard his hands probably should’ve cramped, but he didn’t care.

He felt more alive than the car, it started to feel like he was some old veteran who was retiring, and this was his last race.

But that’s the opposite.

This was only the beginning.

From the first time Victor had seen an F1 car tear through a circuit, he thought—

I want that.

Now he had it.

The speed. The pressure. The fight. He was in the game, and he was winning.

As the race blurred, Victor’s smile didn’t go away, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

This was everything he had worked for. It was everything he had imagined.