My Formula 1 System-Chapter 656: Baku, The City Of Fire

Arriving in Azerbaijan was a huge deal for Victor. This was his first actual rookie season, so every flight to a new country felt like opening a gift. As soon as he stepped off the flight, the Baku air hit him, smelling like salt from the Caspian Sea and expensive city dust.

The place was a total trip to look at. On one side, you had these ancient stone walls from the Old City that looked a thousand years old, and right next to them were these giant, curvy skyscrapers made of glass that looked like something out of a futuristic movie. It was like a sci-fi world built on top of a history book. You could tell the city was ready, too—every street was lined with F1 posters and barriers, and you could practically feel the ground vibrating because the whole nation was obsessed with the racing culture.

The nation of Azerbaijan really knows how to make a racing round a spectacle. Up on the hills, the Flame Towers appeared like they were actually on fire against the sky, while the narrow, cobblestone streets of the Old City squeezed right up against the edge of the modern track. It was a nice detour to the more symbolic and fancy portion of F1 racing, where everything felt expensive and high-stakes. The Caspian Sea was sparkling in the sun, and the wind—they call it the City of Winds for a reason—kept everything feeling fresh.

But once the initial tourist excitement died down, the reality of the job started to sink in. Victor ended up spending three straight days trapped in a marathon of sponsor events. It was so packed with stage appearances and meet-and-greets that it felt like the team had prepared a Baku tour just to keep him from having a single second of free time.

Don’t get him wrong, Victor didn’t actually hate the events. He liked meeting the fans and checking out the individual contributions the partners brought to the track. Neither did he entirely hate that he was obliged to participate and act all bubbly—just like Luca had to do back in his rookie season. It’s just that, after a while, he started to notice something that bugged him. None of these sponsors was... his.

Every logo he wore, and every product he smiled next to, belonged to the team as a whole. He was just the face they were using to sell the Trampos brand. As he stood at another gala dinner with a glass of sparkling water in his hand, watching the wealthy guests take selfies with him, he started to wonder. When was he going to start building his own brand? When would a company want to sign Victor Surmann because he was Victor, not just because he was the guy driving a red Ferrari?

It made him feel a little bit like a hollow shell, but Victor knew he had to prove himself on the track to get the big personal deals. These long days of smiling for other people’s money had really started to make him hungry for his own success.

The gala he was at was held in the infamous Heydar Aliyev Center, a building that appeared like a giant silk blanket frozen in mid-air. Inside, the walls were covered in gold leaf and mild lightning, lending the entire hall the opulence of a classic film set. The night was called "Caspian Excellence," and it was hosted by a massive global telecommunications giant. They were one of the biggest silent backers for Trampos and several other teams, so their influence was off the charts. Princes, tech billionaires, and even some famous models were all there.

Victor had been standing near a balcony for a while, just trying to catch his breath. He finally grabbed a glass of sparkling water and decided to head back to his assigned table. His seat was tucked between two other drivers who had become his safest zone in the crazy world of F1: Yokouchi Yūichirō and Mark Derfllinger.

Victor had been lingering near a balcony for a while, just trying to catch his breath while watching some women gossip. He finally grabbed a glass of sparkling water and decided to head back toward his assigned table. His seat was tucked between two other drivers who had become his refuge in the crazy world of F1: Yokouchi Yūichirō and Mark Derfllinger.

The dynamic between the three was actually pretty cool. Even though Yūichirō and Victor were rivals—spending almost every race stuck in the bottom ten and fighting for P15 or P16 like their lives depended on it—they had still built a weird kind of mutual respect. Then there was Derfllinger. Since he hadn’t been fielded to race at all this season, he was the most relaxed of the bunch. He was like the ballast for the other two, keeping them steady when the pressure of the race weekend got too high.

┌──────────────────────┐

│ F1 MONOPOSTO DRIVER CARD │

├─────────────────────┤

│ YOKOUCHI

│ YŪICHIRŌ🇯🇵

│ Alpine Swiss F1 Renault

├─────────────────────┤

│ Experience: 71

│ Racecraft: 62

│ Awareness: 68

│ Pace: 73

├─────────────────────┤

│ Total Rating: 69 ⇑⇑│

└──────────────────────┘

As Victor was settling into his seat, smoothing out his suit jacket, someone brushed right past him, a blur of black fabric. It was Matteo Bianchi, the renowned rookie from Velocità, who was taking over DiMarco’s seat for the race weekend. Matteo was dressed in a sharp black quarter-zip and black pants, moving with a fast but confident energy. Victor started to lift his hand to say a friendly "hey," but Matteo just brushed past him without even a glance, his eyes locked on something across the night’s expanse.

With his hand halfway up, Victor sat there for a second, feeling totally forsaken.

Yūichirō and Derfllinger both let out a little chuckle as they watched his face.

"Don’t take it personally," Derfllinger said, leaning back.

Yūichirō nodded, speaking in his thick, choppy accent. "Do not mind him. Since it is said he is racing now, not Davide, he is trying to... get some confidence. That is why he ignores you. He has big shoes to fill, and he is apprehensive to look left or right."

They shared another chuckle, though Victor’s laugh was a bit more subdued. He wasn’t really offended by Matteo; instead, he was thinking about the man Matteo was replacing. It felt crazy to him that a legend like Davide DiMarco was practically having his career eviscerated right now. Being benched for Baku was a big insult. Victor wondered what was really going on inside Velocità. Sure, everyone knew about the feud between DiMarco and Damgaard, but could it really be that bad? To bench your star driver because of a locker-room fight seemed like a catastrophic move for the team’s points! 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

As Victor was musing on the unfairness of it all, his eyes drifted across the room to where Matteo had stopped. Matteo was talking to a group of older men in expensive tuxedos—probably high-level sponsors. Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted as one of them began to cough.

At first, it just sounded like he cleared his throat, but then it grew louder. It became a hoarse, scrapy sound that echoed off the high ceilings. The man’s face turned a scary shade of purple, and he clutched at his throat.

He was choking.

The high-class atmosphere shattered in a second. People began to panic. A few women nearby began to shriek, and the man’s desperate groans and whistling wheezes instantly captured the attention of everyone in the hall. Matteo stood there, frozen and looking totally terrified, as the man started to slump toward the floor.