12 Red Flags

The paddock at Monte Carlo was a palace built on pressure — gold-trimmed chaos wrapped in billion-dollar branding. Photographers elbowed each other on balconies. Tycoons laughed over espresso as if the grid weren't an arena of barely contained violence. But inside Razor GP's motorhome, the atmosphere was knife-thin.

Luca sat at the briefing table, posture still, heart pacing like an idling engine.

The encrypted voice from last night rang in his ears:

"Matteo didn't crash because he lost control. He was pushed."

It played on repeat in his mind, whispering beneath every word spoken around him, like a second frequency only he could hear.

He hadn't told Olivia. Not yet.

Not until he was sure it wasn't a prank. Not until he had something to hold.

Outside, the ocean glistened. But inside, the shadows stretched long.

Race day morning came early. Monte Carlo shimmered in the sun like a dream trying too hard to impress. Luca walked the circuit alone, helmet in hand, team cap pulled low. Fans called out his name from balconies, holding signs that mixed admiration with curiosity.

"Luca: The Next Ghost?"

He ignored them.

The walk-through was tradition. A quiet lap before the roar.

But today, he wasn't just walking the circuit.

He was reading it.

Every barrier was a line of poetry. Every painted curb, a wound healed over. Monte Carlo was old — older than strategy. Older than fear.

He stopped at the corner after the tunnel.

The one from the video.

The one in the message.

The surface here had a faint ripple — nothing dramatic, but enough to shift balance under full brake load. The patch was fresh. Too fresh.

He knelt down, ran his fingers along the edge.

Paint.

Underneath: a different compound.

A patch laid recently — maybe weeks ago. Maybe days.

Not in the FIA notes.

He stood slowly, a realization chilling the sun's warmth: whoever sent the message wasn't lying.

Matteo's accident in F2 had happened under similar conditions — wet patch, unexpected loss of grip, high speed, sudden snap.

A small tweak to a surface. Invisible at 300 km/h. Obvious in the wreckage.

Had it been sabotage?

And if so… why?

Back at the garage, the engineers prepped for qualifying. Tires laid in order like dinner courses. Torque wrenches clicking in rhythm. The Razor chassis gleamed in the afternoon light, its purple livery catching gold at the edges.

Olivia approached him quietly.

"You're quiet," she said.

"Focused."

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Something else?"

He hesitated. Then: "Who had access to the simulator data this month?"

"Why?"

"I saw Matteo's Monaco telemetry somewhere it shouldn't be."

Her eyes darkened. "No one outside the core engineering group. And me."

Luca didn't respond.

She stepped closer, voice low. "You think someone leaked it?"

"I think someone wants a ghost story to become prophecy."

She stiffened. "Who?"

"I don't know yet. But I think Matteo's crash wasn't just bad luck."

The silence between them wasn't fear.

It was alignment.

Then she nodded once. "We'll find out."

Qualifying loomed like a razor blade.

In Monaco, there's no room for error. The difference between pole and fifteenth can be a blink. And overtaking is almost impossible — unless someone crashes. Or cracks.

In Q1, Luca went out early, his car light, grip sharp.

He set a purple sector in Sector 2.

Kane responded immediately — a tenth faster in Sector 3.

Q2. The pressure increased. Traffic thickened. Luca found a clean lap and attacked it — brush of the wall at Casino Square, but no damage.

Purple sector. P4 overall.

Enough to make the other teams take notice.

Enough to make whispers start again.

Was the rookie finally ready to lead?

Then came Q3.

The ten fastest cars. The most ruthless drivers.

And a storm building behind Luca's ribcage.

He waited at pit exit, visor down. Static on the radio.

Then came the voice — Olivia's.

But it wasn't the usual calm tone.

"Luca. Listen carefully. There's been a report of irregular tire pressure logging from our last run. Stewards are investigating."

"What?"

"It's not affecting you directly. Yet. Just be clean. Don't give them an excuse."

He exhaled slowly. So that was the play.

Distraction. Doubt. Noise.

Somebody wanted Razor GP looking over its shoulder.

Somebody wanted Luca rattled.

But Luca wasn't rattled.

He was ready.

Green light.

He launched from pit lane, tires screaming warmth into the asphalt. This would be one lap. No traffic. No corrections. Just apexes and belief.

Beau Rivage. Full throttle. Balance.

Mirabeau. Brake deep. Flick the car in — trust it'll hold.

The hairpin. Feathered throttle. Tight hands.

Through the tunnel — the speed, the echo, the light—

Then: the chicane.

The same patch. The painted surface.

He remembered the ghost.

He braked early.

Car stable.

No snap. No crash.

He gained two tenths.

Rascasse. Anthony Noghes.

Final corner.

Full throttle to the line.

He crossed.

P2.

Just behind Kane.

Just ahead of a Red Bull and both Ferraris.

Tom whooped in his headset. "That's what I'm talking about!"

But Luca didn't cheer.

Because now, he knew someone had laid a trap.

And they'd expected him to fall into it.

He didn't.

But Matteo had.

That night, a package arrived at the Razor GP motorhome.

No name. No return.

Just a small box. Inside: a carbon fiber fragment.

From an F2 front wing.

Wrapped in red tape.

And a note.

"You're looking in the right places. But the wrong people."

Luca showed it to Olivia.

She read it once. Then folded the note carefully.

And said, "Someone's trying to turn you into the weapon they couldn't control before."

Luca stared out into the Monaco night.

He was no longer prey.

He was hunting truth.

And whoever had started this?

They were running out of corners.