10 Smoke Signals

The Spanish sun was a silent interrogator. No noise, no mercy—just a dry, blistering intensity that cooked the tarmac at the Razor GP test circuit outside Zaragoza. This wasn't a race weekend. No grandstands, no cameras, no commentary. Just telemetry, engineers, and the dull, constant drone of jet dryers clearing dust off the back straight.

Luca stood in the shadows of the temporary garage, zipping up his suit. The fabric, fireproof and precise, felt heavier today. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the message.

He hadn't told anyone about the video.

The clip from Matteo's last F2 race was still burned into his mind — not the crash, but the moment before it. The slight lift, the hesitation, the knowledge that it came too late.

Luca had been walking that same edge.

And someone knew it.

"Car's ready," Olivia called, not looking up from her tablet. Her voice was flat, professional. "Remember, it's a systems test. You're not here to break records."

Luca nodded, slipping on his gloves. "Copy that."

Tom gave him a long look before strapping him in. "You look like a guy who didn't sleep much."

"I didn't," Luca muttered.

The cockpit sealed with a hiss. Silence. Focus. The outside world melted away. Just the hum of the engine system waking up, the deep throb of power beneath his seat.

Five green lights on the dash.

He launched.

The Razor roared to life, wheels slicing through the heat haze as Luca accelerated down the main straight. The track wasn't complicated — two long straights, a high-speed corner, and a tight chicane to simulate energy recovery zones. Perfect for the techs. But for a driver?

Boring. Monotonous. Repetitive.

And yet… revealing.

Luca's mind went into a strange rhythm. Not meditation — more like surgical attention. He felt every vibration, every gear change, every minor resistance in the wheel.

The car was alive today. Sharp on turn-in. Stable on exit.

First lap: green sectors. The team was watching.

Second lap: minimal brake fade. MGU-K operating at 94%.

Third lap: Luca relaxed his hands, letting the car run free.

Then came the fourth.

As he accelerated through the high-speed left-hander, a sudden jolt hit him — a shudder in the rear.

Smoke. A puff first, then more.

"Smoke from the rear," Luca said calmly into the mic. "Engine or gearbox?"

Silence for a second.

Then Olivia's voice snapped through. "Oil pressure drop. Shut it down. Now."

Luca didn't hesitate. Throttle off. Clutch in. He coasted into the runoff area, flipping switches. Fuel shutoff. ERS neutral. Battery isolation.

The smoke thickened. Not a fire — not yet — but the stench of scorched oil filled the cockpit.

Marshals scrambled in the distance, yellow flags waving half-heartedly.

Luca sat still for a moment, the heat radiating into his helmet, sweat soaking through the back of his suit.

It wasn't fear. It was something else.

He'd felt it before — watching Matteo's crash footage. The sensation of almost.

Not the disaster itself. But the prelude.

The car was towed back in silence. Engineers surrounded it instantly, stripping the rear bodywork, speaking in clipped Spanish and English.

"Looks like a seal in the turbo housing blew," Tom muttered, scanning the charred components. "Oil sprayed right into the exhaust. Could've been worse."

Luca stepped out of his suit slowly. "You think it was just wear?"

"We'll run a metallurgical analysis. Could be fatigue. Could be heat cycling. These power units aren't built for love, Luca."

He nodded but didn't answer.

Because deep down, he didn't think it was just the engine.

Something was off.

That evening, Razor GP held a team debrief at the hotel. Kane joined by video call. The conversation was dry — tire temps, drag coefficients, brake wear.

Luca barely listened.

His thoughts kept returning to the message. The crash video. The timing. Why now?

After the meeting, Olivia approached him on the rooftop terrace where he'd gone to be alone.

"You're not sleeping," she said simply.

"I'm driving better."

"That's not what I asked."

Luca didn't respond.

She leaned against the railing beside him, looking out at the flat Spanish skyline, tinged with the deep violet of oncoming dusk.

"You know," she said, "Matteo used to come to me before races. Not for strategy. For silence. Just… presence."

Luca's jaw tightened. "He was good at carrying everything himself."

"He didn't carry it. He buried it."

They stood there for a while.

Then Olivia pulled something from her jacket — a small USB drive.

"Here. Matteo's old sim telemetry from Monaco. His last full week in the sim. He asked me to delete it. I didn't."

Luca hesitated, taking it slowly. "Why now?"

"Because you're not chasing him anymore. You're starting to walk beside him."

She paused.

"But whoever sent you that video? They don't want you to walk. They want you to fall."

Luca's eyes flicked toward her. "You think it was sabotage?"

"I think it was a message. And I think messages like that mean someone's afraid of what you might become."

He nodded slowly, closing his hand around the USB stick.

This wasn't just racing anymore.

This was something else.

Smoke signals, warnings, ghosts from the past — and somewhere in the middle, Luca, teetering on a knife edge between obsession and control.

Back in his hotel room, Luca plugged the USB into his laptop. The files opened without resistance — graphs, maps, input overlays.

He clicked the Monaco file.

The ghost car appeared again. Matteo, in all his digital grace, sliding through the tight walls of Monte Carlo like he belonged there.

Luca watched.

Then reset the sim.

And drove.