By the 30th lap, Luca had received three consecutive system warnings about an approaching rival. The advisory urged him to disclose their identity.
[3rd Position closing in]
A fourth warning flashed on his HUD, finally forcing Luca to tear his gaze away from Max's rear wing and check his side mirrors. For several laps, he had been positioning himself directly behind Max, trying to gain an edge from his slipstream. However, the gap between them was just slightly too wide, and Max's defensive weaving disrupted Luca's stability.
It was only now that he realized another driver had been using his slipstream the entire time, stealthily closing the distance. Intrigued, Luca's grip tightened on the wheel. With Ansel and Miles out of the race, the pool of top contenders had significantly narrowed. Moreover, Aaronson had started at the back of the grid, so he must be still in the midfield. Could it be someone he had underestimated?
He expected to spot the familiar blue-and-white colors of Bueseno Velocità Jnr in his mirror, assuming it was Walding. But as he glanced over, a flicker of violet caught his eye. Luca's brows furrowed as recognition dawned—it wasn't Walding after all.
Oliver Kristensen had made his move, overtaking Walding during the long straightaway of the previous lap. Now, the violet Dallara was squarely in contention, creeping closer to Luca's position.
[Analyzing 3rd Position's distance from host and Dallara (F2 04)...]
[3rd Position is 3 sec away, host.]
[System's prediction: that value might remain constant or increase in your favor.]
--------------------------------------------
Ansel stood up and left the paddock as the safety car was deployed. Some team members, especially the older ones, patted his back in quiet support as he passed through the garage and toward the escalator. The younger crew, however, avoided even offering a word of encouragement, their gazes firmly elsewhere.
He moved through the maze of corridors before entering the cool-off room. Unbeknownst to him, Ms. Vallotton had been watching from the viewing post. The moment he exited the paddock, she stood abruptly and followed, the sharp clicks of her heels echoing on the polished floor as she trailed him.
Ansel entered the cool-off area and headed straight for the dressing room. He slumped onto a bench, his shoulders sagging. A few cleaners in the room exchanged glances, surprised to see a participating driver back so early. One look at his expression told them all they needed to know, and they quietly resumed their tasks.
Moments later, Ms. Vallotton appeared in the doorway, her presence commanding attention. Ansel's gaze flicked toward her.
"May I ask what you're doing here?" she said sharply, her arms crossed. "The team is still out there, and the Featured Race is ongoing."
Ansel shrugged as he bent down to remove his race boots. "I'm not part of the race anymore, am I?"
"I knew you'd say something so flimsy," she snapped, her glare drilling into him as he unzipped his suit. Her words stung more than he cared to admit, but he refused to let it show.
"And why," she pressed, stepping closer, "are you no longer part of the race? What did you do?"
Ansel's head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing. 'Where is she headed with this?' he wondered. Was she playing ignorant just to force him to admit fault?
"I'll answer that for you, Han," she continued, her tone colder than ice. "You messed up. That's what you did."
"I… messed up?" Ansel echoed, her accusation hitting like a hammer driving a nail.
"Yes," she replied bluntly.
Ansel opened his mouth to retort but quickly realized he had no words to defend himself.
Val rubbed her temple and sighed in exasperation. "We're thirty-three points above my former team, Velocità. Right now, Max is holding onto 25 points, and Walding, sitting at 4th, is set to claim another 12. If this keeps up, we can kiss the Constructors' Championship goodbye before the final GPs even begin."
Ansel swallowed hard, his chest tightening as Val's words cut through him. When she finished, he finally found his voice. "You gave us this strategy. My job is—was—to be a threat in the upper midfield, wasn't it?"
"Threats don't make reckless, dumb moves, Han! They make smart ones," Val snapped, her voice rising. "That was the first freaking lap! There was no need to attempt overtaking Bellingham. You had straights for that—not a tight bottleneck!"
Her words hung in the air like a slap and Ansel fell silent. It hurt Ansel because she was indeed telling the truth. Right at that moment he made for a slot through Miles' side, he was really ambitious for position. Most drivers would have held back, staying in the slipstream to deploy DRS on the straight. But not Ansel. He'd gambled, hoping the turns would favor him. Of course, he had witnessed it happen many times, that's why he pushed his car for that upper edge. Miles, however, was a no-nonsense opponent, and maintained his line instead of giving Ansel some space.
"Now we can only imagine how difficult things will get for Luca," Val continued, sighing as she placed her hands on her hips. "He's the only one left in red out there—a bright, easy target. We'll discuss this more after the race and in the coming days. For now, Grant and I don't want you brooding. As you can see, your assailant also crashed out."
"I'm not brooding," Ansel shot back, his voice sharper than he intended.
"Good." Val's eyes narrowed. "Then grab a Trampos cap and head back to the paddock. How do you think Luca will feel if he charges into the box for a pit and doesn't see you there?"
Ansel exhaled heavily, running his fingers through his hair. He glanced at the cleaners nearby, who had paused to listen intently to their exchange. Their sudden interest annoyed him, but he let it slide.
"Fine," he said. "I'll be there in two. I just need a moment."
"Thank you," Val said curtly, spinning on her heel. Her heels clicked against the tiled floor as she strode out without another word.
The distant roar of the crowd erupted moments later, thundering through the corridors.
Ansel froze, the deafening cheers cutting through his thoughts. The energetic cadence of the commentators' voices filtered through, their excitement unmistakable. Something major had just unfolded on track.
He sighed, dragging his focus back to his own reality. The clash with Miles replayed in his mind like a haunting loop. Shaking it off, he pulled the Trampos crew uniform over his shoulders, forcing himself to move forward.