[DATA DISPLAYED IN REAL TIME:
-Operational Status: 15% (Critical)
-Breathing: Drastically Spiked
-Distance covered: 286,000m
[Car Speed: 0km/h (Tumbling)]
The last thing Luca remembered was the crunch of carbon fiber, his car vibrating beyond normal, all controls failing before a sharp, heavy pain rammed into his side.
[Pain Index: 92% (Severe Trauma Detected)]
He was yet to understand how it had happened, but he did know why. He had the free lane after blocking Ansel. And just like Max Addams to Miles Bellingham, Ansel Hahn pushed forward despite Luca's car still retaining the lead.
"...Oh my goodness! Rennick tumbles!"
Now, he had lost complete control of his car. He was simply a mannequin inside a single-seater, tumbling uncontrollably down the track and toward the tunnel. But what troubled Luca the most wasn't the collision, nor the violent tumbling, nor even the impending crash—it was the excruciating pain in his right side, where Ansel's front wing had driven into his chassis and penetrated the cockpit.
"...This might be it for him!"
Mr. Moritz tried to speak to Luca over the radio, but the system was damaged as well, and his words only came through as crackling static.
[Operational Status: 8% (Failure Imminent)]
"...Ansel Hahn and Luca Rennick, two teammates of Trampos Racing, have just delivered one of the most shocking moments in F2 racing history today! A collision in one of the season's most dramatic moments—on the final lap of this Saudi Arabian Grand Prix!"
"...Luca Rennick is still spinning violently down the track, his car suffering severe damage! Ansel Hahn's front wing punctured Rennick's chassis—Hahn's front wing is gone—and Rennick might be facing a far more horrible fate!"
Luca's single-seater flipped repeatedly, his control completely lost, the night world spinning in a chaotic blur—twisting metal, his system's interface flashing erratically, and the blinding floodlights of the street circuit all blending together in a disorienting kaleidoscope. His breathing was ragged inside the cockpit, which now felt like a coffin. Ansel's car had crushed into his, compressing Luca like cat food in a can. Every gasp he took dragged sharp pain from his right side, and his helmeted head bounced violently up and down. His legs were trapped, pressed uncomfortably into the confines of the crumpled chassis.
In the pit lane, the Trampos crew stood frozen, hands on their heads, watching in horror as Luca's car tumbled toward the side of the tunnel, barreling toward an inevitable crash. Ansel's car, on the other hand, had come to an immediate stop, his telemetry showing catastrophic front suspension failure—his car was finished, completely immobile. Both Trampos drivers were out of the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. No one could believe it—not the commentators, not the fans, not even their rivals.
[Host is capable of surviving crash and leaving coherently due to high Attribute points—Strength & Endurance]
Luca braced himself. His hands hovered over the wheel, unsure where to place them in the cramped cockpit that had practically folded him in. He had learned during training that the best way to handle a crash was to keep the body as compact as possible—limbs together, nothing flailing. He wanted to claw at his restraints, to crisscross his forearms for better stability, but there was no space. He was smashed like tinfoil.
His car took one final, violent bounce—then it launched nearly ten feet into the air, missing the gaping tunnel entrance by mere inches before slamming into its side, wedged between the steel barriers.
[Operational Status: 0% (Complete Failure)]
The impact struck him like a freight train. His helmet slammed against the side restraint, his neck absorbing the brunt of the force, while his arms—still gripping the wheel—nearly bent at an unnatural angle.
"...LUCA RENNICK HAS COME TO A STOP!"
The announcement of red flags rang out immediately. Marshals rushed forward, frantically waving the crimson flags, their presence amplified by the blaring sirens and the flashing emergency lights around the Riyadh Zenith Circuit.
[DATA DISPLAYED IN REAL TIME:
-Operational Status: 0% (Complete Failure)
-Breathing: Drastically Spiked
-Distance covered: 286,000m
"Oh, fuck," Luca whispered to himself, his head pounding as a sudden headache crashed into him. His ears were ringing, but beneath the static noise, he could make out the radio's futile attempts to relay Mr. Moritz's frantic voice—or someone else's. It didn't matter now. Far in the background, the wail of sirens grew louder, accompanied by the hurried thud of marshals' footsteps nearing his crash site.
Luca let out a shaky breath, his body trembling as he took quick inventory. His arms and legs—intact. That alone felt like a miracle. But his side? It throbbed with unrelenting, sharp pain, each breath making it worse.
"Could've been worse," he muttered, leaning back slightly against the crumpled remains of his car's chassis. The system's interface flickered, the only source of light in the overwhelming darkness. Smoke thickened around him, stinging his nostrils with the acrid scent of burnt rubber and fuel.
"What's that?" he muttered, his voice hoarse from the pain.
He barely had time to react before the inevitable happened.
A streetlight, damaged from the crash, gave way and toppled. It slammed down with brutal force onto the already mangled wreck of his car, sending a violent jolt through the ground. The impact rattled Luca from his pounding head to his core. He instinctively shielded his face—although he had a helmet—as shards of glass and jagged fragments of metal scattered in every direction.
"Jesus Christ!" Luca hissed, his heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he didn't move, half expecting another part of the world to come crashing down on top of him.
He could hear the marshals approaching now, shouting orders, waving their arms frantically to signal the safety team.
"...OH MY GOODNESS! The marshals are rushing toward Luca Rennick! We haven't seen movement after the fall of the light—we can only hope!"
Down the track, before the tunnel, Ansel remained silent in his lifeless car. His hands were still locked onto the wheel, his fingers clenched as if the duel was still ongoing. His eyes stayed fixed on Luca's wrecked Dallara, on the flickering streetlight above it, on the marshals in orange swarming the scene.
He tried moving his car again. Nothing. It didn't budge—as if it were nothing more than a dead toy now. But what was the point? Even if he could move, what then? Rejoin the race? After this?
This wasn't a 10-second penalty. Not even a 20-second or 30-second one.
Penalties for something could be severe—starting from the very back of the grid in the next race, P30. Or worse… a one-race ban.
Slowly, Ansel released his grip on the wheel. His breath caught as he saw the marshals finally pulling a body from the wrecked Dallara.