My Formula 1 System-Chapter 641: Alarm Bells

The German Grand Prix was shaping up to be Trampos' most anticipated of the season. It wasn't just because it was a home event. Inside the team, there was no fear, no friction, and no sense of lacking. It was unarguably the cleanest internal state they had felt all year.

After everything that had unfolded during the interim, was there even room for doubt? The developments, the new machines waiting, and the infrastructural expansion all pointed forward. And beyond the hardware, there was the human element. The growing synergy between Luca and Victor had begun to feel natural and dangerous in the best way. Whatever was coming, Trampos felt ready because of them.

It was during lap drills that Victor clocked his fastest time yet on the HQ's training track, breaking his previous record. While his pace was still six seconds off Luca's benchmark, the progress was tangible.

His lines were cleaner, his throttle application calmer, and his pit-lane entry was smoother than it had ever been, syncing well with a pit crew that was also gaining recognition in the paddock as possibly a 4-star pit crew.

As for Luca, he remained the team's North Star, a reliable boulder of stone that always brushed near perfection in training. There was little to report; he simply set the standard, as always.

One faithful afternoon, with a mild, bright sun, casting an amber glow over the facility, Ms. Vallotton could be seen climbing the concrete steps to the container telemetry about 25 m off the track. Grass and neatly trimmed moss framed the slab beneath. Inside, Mr. Grant sat with the door half open, sipping a cold drink while studying a large, densely texted manual spread across his knees.

"The health department sent this over," Vallotton began, catching his attention. "Victor has been severely overstraining his posterior chain. He's teetering on the edge of a significant muscle tear."

She handed Grant a set of laminated MRIs showing clear signs of growing inflammation.

"They'll have to administer glutathione and NSAIDs to saturate his muscle fibres."

Mr. Grant studied the translucent sheets carefully. He wasn't a doctor, but years in the paddock meant he had seen more than his share of high-G injuries, training his eyes better than the average person's.

"Early detection is everything," he mumbled. "We should be grateful we caught this early."

At this stage, it was reversible. Still, imagine the potential disaster this could have had on Trampos' season if there had been a full muscle tear.

"Tsk. Tsk. That boy," Grant hissed with a crooked smirk. "He's clearly trying to train ahead, to make his body keep up with the JYX-69. Commendable… but reckless."

He handed the laminated scans back to Vallotton.

"Ensure the treatments are discreet. We can't have him thinking he's fragile right before the lights go out."

Ms. Vallotton nodded in agreement, but as she processed his words, she had to slightly disagree with Grant. "I'm not so sure. I don't think Victor is just committing himself to the JYX-69," she said. "He's training like he's expecting to handle the heavier G-loads of the JYX-81."

Mr. Grant looked up with a smile. "Is he daydreaming now? The JYX-81 is reserved for Luca. It's the flagship development."

Vallotton didn't smile back. "Luca doesn't want it," she replied flatly.

Mr. Grant froze. "Pardon?"

Vallotton blinked, genuine surprise in her eyes. She couldn't believe Grant was unaware.

"You don't know? Luca is adamant about keeping his current chassis. He insists the Z24 is the superior platform and only wants modular enhancements, not a total model swap. He's refusing the 81 entirely."

Mr. Grand sat in stunned silence for several seconds, the rustling of the trees beside the container suddenly feeling very loud.

Seeing his shock, Vallotton swallowed and continued.

"He had a meeting with Jeff Roland, where he discussed in detail why the Z24 still has more headroom for him. Roland agreed, at least conceptually. Jeff then told me so I could find a way to relay it to the board without any meltdown."

The explanation did little to soften Grant's surprise. As the seconds dragged on, he realized his shock wasn't actually about Luca's preference for the Z24. That was classic Luca. The young man always had his reasons, and they were usually sound.

What truly gnawed at Grant was the hierarchy of information.

Why was Vallotton hearing this before him?

It was becoming a suspicious pattern. First, it was the early leak regarding the scouting of Denko Rutherford, then a private update on fuel chemistry, and now this.

Why would Roland speak first to his vice on a matter this sensitive, instead of coming straight to him? Worse, he had also tasked her with managing the board's expectations, a job that was strictly Grant's territory.

This smelled like a shift in power, and Grant didn't like the scent of it one bit.

He looked up at Vallotton. She stood there, sturdy and vibrant, seemingly oblivious to the political alarm bells ringing in his head. It wasn't her fault. He knew that.

Finally, Grant nodded, but robotically.

"It's fine," he said, burying the discomfort where it wouldn't show.

~~~~~~~~~

"...In 200 meters, turn right onto Königsallee… continue for 1.4 kilometers..."

"...Turn left toward the private road. Caution: Restricted access…"

"...In 500 meters, your destination will be on the left…"

It had been close to an hour since Isabella landed in Germany. It was drizzling, the world muted and dreamy, the roads glazed. The cold wind pressed through the cracks of the car, sweet in a way that made her sleepy and, annoyingly, made her bladder feel full more often. Still, she was strangely buoyant despite the growing knot in her stomach over the Big P she refused to name out loud.

Following the map's precise directions, the driver eventually pulled up to a set of imposing security gates. Isabella flashed the virtual pass Luca had sent her, and security let them through.

They wound along the snaky, single-lane road that cut through the sprawling estate until the GPS finally announced, "You have reached your destination. Have a nice day."

Isabella stepped out with her single medium-sized box, waved the driver off, and stood there, staring and looking tiny against the backdrop of Luca's success.

"Hmph," she muttered, folding her arms. "I can see wealth is really not a problem for this guy."

The architecture was almost as tall as that dilapidated mansion, and though not as wide, it was still vast. Its edges were clean-lined, still white, and the empty premises were carpeted by real grass. The grass was so perfectly manicured that, despite the dampness, Isabella couldn't resist it.

She lowered herself onto it, lay flat on her back, letting the cool drizzle prickle her face as she stared at the gray sky. For the first time in weeks, she felt safe. Ridiculously safe. Grounded in a way she hadn't expected—here, of all places, on her boyfriend's land.

Oops.

Bladder again.

Isabella shot up and sprinted for the door, which Luca had promised would be unlocked. She burst inside, barely sparing a glance for the interior as she hunted for a toilet.

She finally found a visitor's bathroom and didn't waste a second.

After a few minutes of relief, she took her time washing her hands and splashing cool water on her face. She felt refreshed, ready to finally play the role of exploring her partner's home.

But as she pulled the door open to step back into the hallway, her heart stopped.

Standing directly in her path was a beautiful young woman with striking blonde hair, cradling a quiet infant in her arms.

The two women locked eyes in a suffocating silence, while little Martin peered up at the stranger, his wide eyes mirroring the confusion in the room.