8 Broken Lines

Rain.

It didn't fall so much as settle — an endless mist that turned the Silverstone circuit into a blur of slick asphalt and ghostly reflections. From the garage roof, droplets ran in narrow rivers, dribbling off the edge like nerves unraveling. The sky above was heavy, the kind of gray that never lifted.

Luca stood just outside the Razor GP garage, helmet under his arm, fireproof balaclava still hanging loosely around his neck. The hum of generators and distant commentary echoed faintly beneath the patter of water. He watched the marshals scurry about in rain gear, the grid being slowly formed with cautious precision. A helicopter buzzed far above the clouds, broadcasting this mess to millions.

His first proper race — and the sky had chosen war.

Tom stepped up beside him, checking a weather radar on his tablet. "We're starting on wets. Forecast says light rain easing after lap ten. Possible switch to inters if the wind picks up."

Luca didn't take his eyes off the pit lane. "And if it doesn't?"

"Then we suffer."

Olivia appeared, pulling her Razor GP cap low against the rain. "This isn't your moment to shine. It's your moment to survive. Wet races don't favor the brave — they reward the smart."

Luca finally looked at her. "I didn't come here to tiptoe around puddles."

She sighed. "You came here to make it to the finish line. Don't forget that."

The formation lap was a different kind of hell. Cold tires, poor visibility, and a constant mist thrown from the car ahead — it was like driving blindfolded through a wind tunnel.

Luca kept the car tight, feeling every twitch of hydroplaning under him. There was no grip, just rhythm. Trust the car. Trust the rain line. Trust yourself.

As the five red lights appeared above the grid, his heart slowed — not in fear, but focus.

Then: lights out.

The Razor launched well, traction control dialing in perfectly as he slipped past one, then two cars before turn one. P6 to P4 before they'd even reached Village.

In the cockpit, he grinned. This is where I belong.

But the track had other ideas.

Turn three was chaos. A driver from Red Arrow Racing locked up ahead, skidding wide into the runoff. Another darted left, avoiding contact, unintentionally blocking Luca's path. He had a split second to react — he braked, flicked the car right, and felt the rear slide.

The car was sideways for less than a second, but it felt like falling. His vision filled with gray spray and red lights.

He caught it. Barely.

"Car 89, warning for track limits," came the race director's call.

Luca didn't respond. He was already resetting his rhythm, back in P5.

By lap six, the rain lightened. The radio crackled: "Box this lap. Switch to inters. Drying line forming sector two."

Luca dove into the pits.

That's where it went wrong.

The left-front mechanic fumbled, the tire rolling slightly out of alignment before it clicked into place. A one-second delay — not much, but in F1, it was a wound.

He rejoined the track in P7, livid. "What happened in the pit?"

Tom's voice stayed even. "Small delay, nothing terminal. You're still in this. Focus forward."

And Luca did. He pushed hard. Too hard.

He found pace, carving through two drivers with aggressive, precise overtakes. At Copse, he left just inches between his rear tire and the grass. At Stowe, he out-braked a veteran with twice his experience.

By lap 14, he was in P4.

Ahead of him, Nathan Kane.

Luca stared down the delta time on his screen. 0.8 seconds.

"This is your gap," Olivia said over radio. "You want to pass him? You'll only get one shot."

Kane was smooth. Conserving tires. Playing the long game.

Luca didn't care.

On the Hangar Straight, he made his move.

DRS opened. He was gaining, fast. Kane took the racing line, but Luca dived inside — late on the brakes into the Vale chicane.

Too late.

The car locked slightly, and Kane, not expecting the move, had to shift wide. Their tires kissed — not a crash, but a brush, like the edge of a blade against skin.

Luca's front wing cracked. One flap came loose.

The car's balance shifted instantly. He struggled to keep it straight through the final corners, limping across the line in P7.

Kane finished fourth.

In the paddock, the air was heavy. The rain had stopped, but the storm wasn't over.

Luca returned to the garage, peeling off his gloves slowly. His knuckles were white.

Tom met him without anger. Just tired eyes.

"You took the shot," Tom said. "You missed."

"I had him," Luca muttered.

"You had the gap," Olivia snapped, approaching. "But not the timing. If that wing had snapped fully, you'd have spun into the gravel."

Luca opened his mouth, then closed it. He knew she was right.

Kane walked past behind them, calm as ever. "Nice move, rookie. But try not to take both of us out next time."

It wasn't sarcasm. It was a challenge.

That night, Luca sat alone in the motorhome.

He replayed the moment — the lunge, the contact, the sudden imbalance. The applause of the crowd when he'd made the move. The silence when it cost him.

He wasn't just racing others now.

He was racing his own instincts.

And they were just as dangerous as the rain.