14 Burn Pattern

The champagne spray was still drying on the team overalls when Luca disappeared from the paddock.

No press conference.

No post-race debrief.

He left his laurel wreath hanging on the mirror of his driver's room and slipped out the back of the Razor GP motorhome, helmet bag slung low, eyes focused.

This wasn't victory.

It was proof.

Proof he was worth watching — and now, finally, they were watching back.

Carlos Delgado had been spotted twice since the anonymous message — once at the simulator trailer, again during the race. But the real trail was colder than carbon fiber after a DNF.

Olivia pulled what records she could. Delgado hadn't worked officially in motorsport since Matteo's crash in F2 the previous year. His FIA license had expired. No team had hired him since. On paper, he didn't exist.

And yet… he was still here.

Still watching.

Still interfering.

Luca studied the carbon fragment under the light of his hotel desk. The serial number wasn't from Razor, nor any of the top F2 suppliers. It was private manufacture — likely a test component.

A custom order.

That narrowed the list of possible creators to five or six independent firms. Only one of them had worked with both F2 and F1 teams: Obsidian Dynamics.

Small. Quiet. Expensive.

Used by teams looking to develop experimental aero outside official scrutiny.

He called Olivia.

"We need access to Obsidian's client records."

"That's industrial espionage."

"It's also survival."

There was a long pause. Then: "I know someone."

Three days later, they were in a garage in Nice, off a side street behind a fake bakery front. The interior smelled of resin and secrecy.

A man named Jax greeted them — tattoos, grease under his nails, half of his beard burned from a soldering incident.

He didn't ask who they were.

Just nodded at the carbon fragment.

"Obsidian finish. Mid-2023 batch. Limited run. Five units produced."

He tapped it gently.

"Low-resonance weave. Not legal for race use. Not really designed for endurance. You put this on a car? You're hoping it breaks."

Luca felt the chill again.

"Who bought it?"

Jax smirked. "You didn't get this from me."

Then he handed over a torn invoice. Half-burned. But a name survived:

Veltrix Performance Ltd.

A dummy company, but Luca recognized the address.

Basingstoke.

Matteo's hometown.

Olivia drove the rental. Luca sat in the passenger seat, the UK countryside rolling past like a slow-motion blur. His thoughts burned too fast for the speed limit.

"Why Basingstoke?" Olivia asked.

"Matteo's father ran a karting track here. Matteo always swore he'd never come back once he made it to F2."

She looked sideways at him. "Maybe he didn't. But someone else did."

They arrived just after dusk.

The karting track was abandoned. Chain-link fencing bent. Weeds through the tarmac. But one shed still had light flickering behind a dirty window.

They approached slowly, Olivia holding a thermal scope she'd "borrowed" from the Razor ops truck.

"Two people inside," she whispered. "One standing, one sitting. Looks like they're arguing."

Luca moved to the side, peering through a crack.

Carlos Delgado stood over a desk, gesturing angrily at someone seated — a woman in her 30s, sharp jaw, dark hair, military posture.

"Who is she?" Olivia asked.

"No idea," Luca whispered.

Then Delgado raised his voice.

"I told you, the Razor kid wasn't supposed to survive Monaco."

Luca's heart stopped.

The woman didn't flinch.

"He adjusted. That's what good drivers do."

"He adjusted to our patch," Delgado hissed. "He's seen the data. He's chasing us."

"Then run faster."

They both froze as the shed's door creaked open behind them.

Too late.

What followed was fast — not violence, not capture — but confrontation.

Delgado stepped out, spotted Luca, and didn't even pretend to be surprised.

"You should've stayed in your car, Rossi."

Luca didn't blink. "You should've stayed banned."

The woman stepped forward, calm and composed.

"You're smarter than Matteo," she said. "But not faster."

"What did you do to him?"

Delgado rolled his eyes. "We didn't kill him. We tested him. He failed."

"You built a setup to break him," Luca snapped. "You designed failure."

"No," the woman said. "We designed proof."

She stepped closer.

"Racing isn't about fairness. It's about thresholds. Matteo wasn't a racer. He was a story. You — you're something else. You saw the patch. You adapted. You survived."

Luca clenched his fists. "Is that what this is? Some trial by sabotage?"

"No," she said. "It's a recruitment."

Luca blinked.

"What?"

She extended a hand.

"We want you to race for us."

Luca laughed. Bitter.

"You rigged crashes and now you want me on your team?"

"We're not a team," she said. "We're the pattern behind the grid. The data between the numbers. We place pressure. We measure response. We build champions. Quietly."

Luca stepped back. "You're manipulating the sport."

"We're preserving its edge," she replied. "F1 is rotting in comfort. PR packages and safety nets. We restore danger. Only the ruthless rise."

Delgado smirked. "Your win at Monaco? You owe us. You were never sharper until you knew someone was behind the curtain."

Luca stared at them both. Then:

"You tested Matteo. He crashed. You tested me. I won."

He took a breath.

"Now I'm testing you."

Then turned and walked away.

Back at the car, Olivia sat silent, fingers white on the wheel.

"They're not going to stop," she said.

"I don't want them to."

She looked at him.

"I want them to keep pushing," Luca said. "Because I'm not here to survive them."

He looked at the stars above Basingstoke.

"I'm here to burn through them."