The Grudge •||• PA17

•||•

27 August, Spa

The Ardennes forest has a way of playing tricks on you.

You wake up thinking the day will be one thing, and by noon, it's something else entirely. Rain turns to sunlight, sunlight turns to mist, wind cuts through your jacket even when the air looks still. At Spa, nothing ever stayed the same for long.

That Saturday morning, though, the sky looked almost benevolent. A pale gold sunrise filtered through thin cloud cover, streaks of light bouncing off puddles that hadn't quite dried from the night before. The paddock, usually tense on a race morning, buzzed with a strange mix of energy, half relief at the weather, half suspicion that it wouldn't last.

I walked in with my helmet bag slung over my shoulder, my stomach tied in knots that refused to settle no matter how many times I sipped water. Sprint races weren't supposed to feel this heavy. But Spa was Spa. Anything could happen here.

And deep down, I knew it wasn't just the race that had me on edge.

...

Our garage was a hive of motion. Engineers hunched over laptops, mechanics rolled fresh sets of slicks into position, the smell of tire rubber and fuel thick in the air. Someone's radio played faint pop music in the background, quickly drowned out by the roar of a Formula 3 car firing up in the next bay.

"Morning, superstar," Kimi called as he spotted me. He was leaning against the pit wall in his race suit, arms crossed, helmet tucked under his arm. His grin was cocky in that infuriatingly natural way.

I rolled my eyes. "You were P2 yesterday. You don't get to call me that."

"Yeah, but you were P3," he shot back with a wink. "Which means you'll spend the whole day looking at my rear wing."

Before I could reply, Paul appeared, hair a little messier than usual, eyes sharp even though he looked like he hadn't slept much. He slung his helmet onto the table with a thud.

"You two should probably stop fighting about who's behind who," he said dryly. "I'm starting P7, so obviously I'll be in front of both of you by lap five."

Kimi snorted. "Right. From seventh? Keep dreaming, Aron."

Paul smirked, and his gaze flicked briefly to me. "We'll see."

Something about the way he said it sent a ripple through me. Like it wasn't just about the race. Like there was a secret thread in his words.

...

By the time we lined up on the grid, the stands were packed. Belgian flags waved beside some other ones, a chorus of cheers rising above the engines idling in formation. I strapped into my car, gloves tight, belts cutting into my shoulders in a way that felt oddly reassuring.

"Okay, Viviana," my engineer's voice crackled through the headset. "Focus on the launch. Reaction time. Don't overthink it."

I exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the five red lights above the track. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kimi's car rocking slightly as he revved, impatient as always. Further back, Paul's helmet tilted forward, visor down, utterly still.

Five lights.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Out.

My car leapt forward, the engine snarling as the tires bit into the still-damp track. I felt the rear twitch, corrected, and kept my foot buried.