The Grudge •||• PA17

•||•

28 August 2022, Spa

The morning didn't feel like race day. It felt like a warning. The forest loomed, tall and dripping, clouds swollen and bruised over the Ardennes. The air carried that metallic dampness that always comes before the skies split open. Spa wasn't a circuit, it was a living entity. One that punished arrogance and swallowed mistakes whole. That morning, Spa felt hungry.

The paddock was alive with tension. Cameras flashed, fans waved, ponchos clinging to soaked clothing. Mechanics hustled, engineers hunched over laptops and tire gauges, hands shaking despite years of experience. And then there were us, drivers, hearts thudding to the rhythm of the storm, helmets under arms, eyes flicking to the sky, noting every hint of rain intensity.

Kimi muttered beside me, squinting through the gray horizon. "Feels like a storm."

"It is a storm," I replied, tugging my jacket tighter, teeth clenching.

Paul walked a step ahead, silent, helmet bag over his shoulder. His shoulders were tense, jaw tight, every part of him coiled like a spring. He didn't need to speak. His tension alone said everything.

The silence lasted only a heartbeat. Spa was never still for long. Forests held their breath, waiting for the next roar of engines. Clouds sagged with rain that hadn't yet fallen. My jacket clung to me, soaking through.

Mechanics prepped the cars with meticulous care. Every panel, every nut, every bolt mattered more than usual. Tires were inspected as if they were delicate glass. Wings adjusted in fractions of degrees. My engineer leaned into the cockpit as I strapped in.

"Track temp's low, rain inbound," he said. "This one's about survival. No heroics."

I nodded, but the word "heroics" felt like a curse. Heroics here got you killed.

...

The formation lap was... something. Tires sent spray into the air, droplets striking my visor and clinging like tiny stars. The car in front of me wasn't a car, just a blur of red taillights and mist. Eau Rouge rose ahead, slick and menacing, curbs glinting under drizzle, corners distorted into illusions by the wet surface.

"Grip report?" the pit wall crackled.

"Barely there," I murmured, throat dry.

Kimi's voice cut through, calm. "Manageable if you don't push too hard."

Paul remained silent. The crackle of his radio confirmed he was still present.

We lined up on the grid. Heart thudding, hands clenched until knuckles turned pale. Five red lights glowed above us. They blinked out. The world erupted.

The launch was chaos. Wheels spun, water sprayed, the roar of engines a single deafening wall. My car jolted forward, biting into slick asphalt, skidding, catching, spinning into rhythm with the storm.

Kimi surged ahead, cutting through the rain with surgical precision. I fought to hold my line, elbows out against rivals trying to force me wide. Spray blinded me half the time. I drove half on instinct, half on fear.

By the end of the first lap, I was P4. Alive. Still in it.

Paul was buried in midfield but climbing, relentless. P7, P6. My stomach twisted at the sight of him weaving through the spray, daring the limits of traction.

Lap after lap blurred. Spray, rain, corners snatched from fog. Eau Rouge again and again, a mountain in the mist. Fans were shadows waving in the distance, drowned out by the storm.

"Good pace, Viviana," my engineer said. "P4. Stay focused."

I tried. I really did.

Lap 10. Rain thickened into sheets, track a mirror. Water pooled in, braking zones turned into landmines. Tires skated, twitching with every correction. My hands cramped, shoulders locked in tension.