The air in lbourne didn’t sll like the cold, tallic grease of Silverstone. It slled of eucalyptus, salt water from the nearby bay, and the expensive scent of high-octane fuel that cost more than a family sedan.
Thursday at Albert Park was a strange, vibrating lull before the storm. The sun was bright, glinting off the leaves of the palm trees that lined the lake, but for Leo Kaito, the brightness felt like a spotlight he wasn’t quite ready for.
He stepped off the team shuttle, his kit bag slung over his shoulder. The jet lag was a dull pressure behind his eyes, a reminder of the twenty-four hours he’d spent suspended in the air between London and Australia.
They checked into their hotel, but Leo was so excited he didn’t stay to unpack. They went straight to the track. As he walked toward the paddock entrance, the physical fatigue was overridden by the sheer scale of the event.
The F1 circus was a monster. Massive hospitality units that looked like glass palaces towered over the smaller, more cramped F2 paddock. Thousands of staff, VIPs, and early-arriving fans created a sea of noise. It was a world away from the "Iron Cell" of the simulator pod.
"Keep your head down and your pass visible," Anya said, walking beside him. She looked sharp in her team kit, her eyes scanning the crowd with military precision. "The dia will be looking for a story. Don’t give them one they can use to bury you before the race even starts."
Leo nodded, but it was hard to keep a low profile. As he moved through the turnstiles, he noticed the whispers starting almost imdiately. It wasn’t just because he was a rookie from a struggling team. It was the way he looked.
The simulation hadn’t just rewired his brain; it had refined his body. His jaw was sharper, his posture more upright, and his eyes held a predatory stillness that didn’t belong on a technician.
"Is that the Arcadia guy?" a journalist whispered as Leo passed the dia pen. "He looks like he belongs on a runway, not in a garage."
"Kaito, right? The simulator tech," another replied. "He looks... different from the photos."
Leo ignored them, his "Danger Sense" picking up the flickers of curiosity and envy like static on a radio. He reached the F flickered in his peripheral vision.
『SIDE QUEST: SEASON OPENER DOMINANCE』
『Objective: Finish in the Top 3 in all sessions (Practice, Qualifying, Sprint, Feature).』
『Rewards: 15 Freedom Units.』
『Failure: -5 Freedom Units.』
Leo’s heart gave a steady, heavy thud. Fifteen days. That was a massive haul. It would bring his total to forty-two days, giving him a massive safety net for the mid-season. But the penalty for failure was steep. The system was raising the stakes.
"Leo! Over here!"
A man in a Prema Racing suit was leaning against a stack of tire blankets. He was handso in a polished, effortless way, with dark curls and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. This was Alessandro Rossi, the Italian prodigy and the clear favorite for the title.
"You must be the technician everyone is talking about," Rossi said, his English perfect. He didn’t move to shake hands. He just looked Leo up and down with the clinical detachnt of a king inspecting a new peasant. "The Silverstone test was impressive. Truly. But lbourne is a street circuit. It has walls as you can see."
"I’m familiar with walls, eh... I didn’t catch your na?" Leo said calmly, his brow raised.
"Rossi... Alessandro Rossi for Prema Racing." Rossi chuckled to cover the embarrassnt, a dry, dismissive sound. "As I was saying, simulated walls don’t break bones, Kaito. They don’t cost the team a million dollars in carbon fiber. My advice? Stay out of the way of the real leaders of the tarmac. It’s a long season."
Before Leo could respond, a loud, boisterous group pushed past them. At the center was Oscar Dubois, the local hero. He was surrounded by Australian flags and a dozen caras. Dubois was grinning, soaking in the attention.
"Oi! Watch out for the rookie!" Dubois shouted, winking at Leo as he passed. "Welco to the lion’s den, mate! Hope you brought so spare wings!"
Rossi rolled his eyes. "Australians. So much noise, so little discipline."
From the other side of the path, a driver in ART Grand Prix colors spat on the ground. Rafael Vega, the Spanish hothead known for his aggressive overtakes and even more aggressive post-race interviews, stared at Leo with open hostility.
"I heard you’re fast, technician," Vega sneered. "But I don’t care how many laps you did in your driver’s test. You try to squeeze on Sunday, and I’ll put you in the lake."
Leo didn’t flinch. His SSS reaction speed made Vega’s posturing feel like it was happening in slow motion. He saw the tension in the Spaniard’s jaw, the way he shifted his weight. "The track is wide enough for everyone, Vega. As long as you can keep up... that is."
Vega’s face turned a deep shade of red, but Anya stepped between them. "That’s enough. Save it for the tarmac, gentlen."
Vega stomped off toward the ART hospitality unit, muttering sothing in Spanish. Anya turned to Leo, her expression grim. "You’ve officially been initiated. You’ve got the champion looking down on you, the local hero ignoring you, and the lunatic wanting to crash into you. Feeling at ho yet?"
"I’ve faced worse Anya. These bare muffs are only baring their gums." Leo said, his lips curling in a confident smirk.
They moved toward the Arcadia Racing garage, which was tucked at the far end of the paddock. Inside, the atmosphere was a mix of frantic energy and nervous tension. The chanics were busy with scrutineering, checking every bolt and sensor on the two cars.
Leo’s teammate, Marcus Berg, was sitting on a flight case, sipping a protein shake. He was twenty-seven, an F2 veteran who had been with Arcadia for three years. He was a solid, consistent driver, but he knew his window for F1 was closing.
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