13 Tension Wire

Monte Carlo didn't sleep, and neither did Luca.

He sat alone on the balcony of his hotel room, the sea whispering below. The carbon fiber fragment from the mysterious package lay on the table beside him, the red tape now peeled back, revealing a serial number etched faintly into the weave.

Too faint to be coincidence.

Every fiber in Luca's body hummed with a tension he couldn't discharge. Not adrenaline. Not fear.

Focus. Hyper-awareness.

The kind of pressure that snapped most people in two — but sharpened others like a blade.

There was a message here, buried in the weave and whispers.

Someone wasn't just watching.

They were involved.

Race day.

The sun rose over Monte Carlo like a spotlight, casting the principality in surreal hues — pastel buildings, white yachts like teeth in the harbor, fans flooding balconies with flags and cameras. The air was electric, thick with history and ego.

The Razor GP garage pulsed with purpose. Engineers double-checked tire pressures. Mechanics tightened wheel nuts with choreography-like precision.

Kane sat in the corner, eyes closed, headphones on. Calm.

Luca stood at the back, suit half-zipped, watching. Not speaking.

He wasn't nervous.

He was waiting.

On the grid, the cars sat like caged predators.

Luca's P2 slot gave him a rare advantage — clean air, sharp angle into Sainte Devote. He knew Kane would defend hard, but Monte Carlo's narrow streets didn't forgive aggression at the start. First-lap collisions were common. Victory often came from survival.

Olivia walked with him to the grid, silent until they reached his car.

Then she handed him a slip of paper.

A name: Delgado, C.

Underneath: Paddock Access – Matteo's F2 season.

"Security caught him snooping near the sim trailer," Olivia whispered.

Luca stared at the name.

Carlos Delgado.

Matteo's former telemetry engineer.

A man who'd quietly vanished after the crash.

He folded the note, tucked it into his glove.

"Is he still here?"

"No idea," she said. "But someone wants you looking in his direction."

Luca nodded once.

Then put on his helmet.

Five red lights.

The tension wire stretched tight across his chest.

Lights out.

Luca launched. Clean. Smooth.

Kane had a strong start, but Luca angled in just enough — not risking the wall, but making his presence known. They screamed into Sainte Devote wheel-to-wheel, Kane holding firm, but Luca tucked in.

The pack thundered behind them — Ferrari, Red Bull, Mercedes.

Into Beau Rivage, Luca stayed close, keeping just inside DRS range.

But Monaco had no mercy for second thoughts.

By Lap 5, Luca was applying pressure. Braking later. Showing the nose. Letting Kane know he was there, every corner, every downshift.

By Lap 12, Kane's radio chatter had spiked.

"He's dive-bombing. I need strategy support."

But the Razor pit wall stayed silent.

Because they saw it, too.

Luca wasn't reckless.

He was calculating.

Lap 18.

Yellow flag — Sector 3.

An AlphaTauri had clipped the barrier and limped to the runoff near Rascasse.

Marshals scrambled. The field bunched.

Luca's voice crackled through the radio.

"Debris in the braking zone. Near the line."

"Copy," Olivia replied. "We're monitoring. Keep tire temps up."

But Luca wasn't just monitoring.

He was watching the exact spot where the track had been patched before.

And there — glinting under the sun — a metallic flicker.

Another fragment?

No.

It was placed.

Small. Precise.

An inch of chaos waiting for the wrong wheel.

Lap 21. Green flag again.

Kane pushed harder, trying to widen the gap. But Luca had already saved his tires. He responded instantly — carving into the lead within a lap.

Then, the voice in his ear again.

Olivia: "Box, box. Undercut possible."

But Luca didn't answer right away.

He was staring at the braking zone ahead.

The flicker.

The message.

The warning.

And then… he saw something else.

A figure on a balcony above the chicane. Sunglasses. Phone raised. Not filming. Watching.

Luca's blood turned cold.

He recognized him.

Delgado.

Still in the paddock.

Still watching.

He hit the radio. "Stay out. I'm not pitting yet."

Olivia: "Why?"

"Because someone wants me to."

Lap 25. DRS disabled. Monaco's tight layout left little room for strategy — but Luca had more than strategy now.

He had intent.

He stayed behind Kane, pressing into his mirrors, forcing him to burn tires early.

Kane's rear end began sliding into La Rascasse. Just a flick — but enough.

Lap 27: Luca braked late into Sainte Devote, holding the outside. Kane squeezed.

Too much.

Contact — light, wheel-to-wheel.

But Kane's line was broken.

Luca slotted inside at Beau Rivage.

And took the lead.

Cheers echoed through the city as Razor's purple streak took point for the first time that season.

But Luca didn't celebrate.

Not yet.

Because he wasn't just racing Kane.

He was racing the past.

Lap 30 through 60 passed in a controlled burn — tire management, brake cooling, threat analysis. A Red Bull tried a late pit-stop push, but Luca responded with pace.

Olivia's voice returned every few laps. Calm. Confident.

But on Lap 64, a new voice appeared in Luca's headset — breaking protocol.

A whisper.

Digitally masked.

"Careful, Luca. Leaders fall hardest."

He froze.

Then it cut off.

He blinked, adjusted his steering wheel.

And kept driving.

Final lap.

Crowd roaring. Helicopters circling.

Luca took Rascasse clean. The roar of the Razor behind him. The pulse of the engine like a war drum.

Out of Anthony Noghes, full throttle.

He crossed the line.

P1.

Victory.

His first.

The team exploded in cheers.

Tom whooping. Olivia silent, then: "That was something else, Luca."

But Luca didn't reply.

Because he knew — this wasn't the finish line.

This was the start.

Of everything else.

Later, in the cool-down room, Kane approached him. No anger. No false smiles.

Just respect.

"You drove like a bastard today."

Luca smirked. "You forced me to."

Kane nodded. "Welcome to the front."

In the shadows behind the podium, a man in a suit watched silently.

Carlos Delgado.

Holding a phone.

Recording.

Waiting.

And in Luca's pocket, the note burned like ignition.

Red flags don't mean stop.

Sometimes, they mean: now it's your turn to start asking questions.