11 Apex Predator

The Monte Carlo simulator flickered to life once more in the Razor GP motorhome, deep in the back lot of the paddock. It was early — before dawn — and the only sound came from the fans keeping the simulator's hardware cool. Luca had been at it for two hours, chasing something he couldn't quite name.

Matteo's ghost was still ahead of him. Monaco in the dry this time. Razor-thin margins. A tenth here, a brush of wall there.

But this wasn't about beating the lap anymore.

It was about understanding the predator's mind.

Matteo wasn't defensive. He didn't protect position. He hunted the track — corner by corner — like it owed him something.

And Luca was learning to do the same.

His line through the Swimming Pool chicane was now surgical. Precision braking into Mirabeau. He kissed the wall at Tabac — once — and it didn't rattle him. It woke him up.

On lap seventeen, he finally matched Matteo's ghost.

Not beat. Not surpass. Matched.

Same lap time, down to the thousandth.

Luca paused. Took his hands off the wheel. Let the silence in.

Then saved the replay.

And shut it down.

Later that day, the paddock buzzed with the usual tension. Media crews, drivers doing walkarounds, engineers sipping black coffee while checking final setup notes. The next Grand Prix was just four days away, but Luca felt distant from it all.

His mind was sharpening, not racing.

Olivia found him beside the Razor hospitality unit, helmet bag in hand.

"You didn't sleep again," she said, brushing imaginary dust from her tablet.

"I slept," Luca replied, "just not horizontally."

She gave him a sideways glance. "I see the lap data. You're getting faster."

He nodded. "Because I stopped chasing the stopwatch."

"Then what are you chasing?"

Luca looked out across the paddock. "Control."

She didn't press further.

The team held their Monaco strategy briefing later that afternoon. The circuit would be dry, but windy — unusual for Monte Carlo. That meant unpredictable handling in the tightest corners, especially the tunnel exit and Rascasse.

Kane sat across from Luca in the debrief room. No words exchanged. No tension either. Just a sense of two wolves sharing the same woods.

Midway through the meeting, Tom stood and pulled up a satellite image.

"There's an irregularity here," he said, pointing to a section near the chicane after the tunnel. "A new surface patch from earlier repairs. It's slick under braking. Avoid taking a defensive line there."

Kane nodded. "Copy that."

Luca studied the map longer than necessary.

Not because he didn't understand.

Because he could already feel the corner in his bones.

He wouldn't avoid it.

He would own it.

That evening, the press storm hit.

Someone — no one on the team claimed responsibility — had leaked footage of the engine failure in Spain. Overlaid with ominous music. Cut with crash footage. Clickbait titles: "Is Razor GP Falling Apart?" and "The Curse of Matteo Returns?"

But worse: one channel aired part of the sim footage.

Matteo's ghost lap.

The perfect lap.

The one Luca had been given in confidence.

He watched it in silence, jaw tight.

Not because it hurt to see Matteo's memory shared.

Because now it was a spectacle — a haunted mirror for the world to gawk at.

At dinner, Tom was furious. Olivia was silent. Kane looked vaguely amused, but said nothing.

Luca stood up halfway through the meal.

"I'm going for a run," he muttered.

He didn't run.

He went back to the sim trailer.

And drove.

The next morning, in final free practice, something shifted.

Luca was quicker than Kane in both sectors.

Not by much — a tenth here, a tenth there — but enough.

Enough to raise eyebrows.

Enough to make whispers start.

Kane approached him in the garage afterward, helmet still in hand.

"Good pace today," he said evenly.

"You too," Luca replied.

They stood there for a beat.

"You don't flinch anymore," Kane said.

"I'm not chasing your approval."

"I didn't say you were."

Kane gave him a subtle nod — not of submission, not of challenge. Just respect.

The kind predators give one another when they both realize they're no longer alone in the jungle.

That night, Luca sat alone in his hotel room, lights off, balcony door open to the salty Monaco air.

He scrolled through telemetry on his tablet. Sector maps. Brake overlays.

But something caught his eye — a new message.

Encrypted. No sender.

Just like before.

This one was only audio.

He hesitated.

Then played it.

A voice — distorted, mechanical.

"You want the truth? Matteo didn't crash because he lost control. He was pushed."

The file ended there.

No context. No proof. Just a whisper, like gasoline poured on already burning thoughts.

Luca stared into the dark.

A storm was coming.

And this time, he wasn't running from it.

He was ready to drive through it.