Italian Mega Prix. 18: Miles' DNF

A high-pitched ringing drilled through Miles' skull.

His breath was loud inside his helmet, shallow, uneven, fogging up his visor. His fingers twitched on instinct, gripping at nothing.

"What the hell…?" he thought.

The world was spinning, but he wasn't moving.

Blur and fog clouded his head, and the warning lights on his dashboard flashed erratically. As his vision slowly cleared, he noticed his steering wheel was tilted at an unnatural angle, completely skewed from the impact.

The side mirror was gone.

The front wings were twisted. Mangled.

What was once a sleek, million-dollar bodywork of a machine was now torn open, exposing its delicate internals to the rush of the celebratory air at Serpeggiare.

Miles' hearing returned fully, though everything sounded distant like he was underwater.

The air horns still blew loudly, and the announcements were going wild.

"....BANDIERA ROSSA!"