15 Slipstream

The sun had barely risen over Silverstone, but the paddock was already alive — a hive buzzing with energy, engines, and secrets.

Luca arrived early, the weight of last night's revelations heavy in his mind. The gravel crunch of boots and clatter of tools echoed like a soundtrack to his thoughts.

This wasn't just about racing anymore.

It was about survival.

And maybe something darker.

The slipstream at Silverstone was legendary — a place where seconds could be gained by inches, where trust in the driver ahead meant life or death.

But now, the slipstream meant more.

It was a symbol.

Someone was trailing Luca — in every sense.

At the team motorhome, Olivia handed him a tablet.

"Data from last race telemetry," she said.

Luca scrolled through the numbers.

Something was off.

A spike in tire temperature on Lap 18 — right before the yellow flag in Monaco.

But the spike wasn't explained by driving style or track conditions.

"Sabotage," Luca said quietly.

Olivia nodded. "But subtle. Almost undetectable."

"Like everything else with these people."

Luca's mind raced back to Silverstone's old track layout — long straights followed by tight corners, perfect for overtakes but brutal on brakes.

If someone wanted to sabotage a driver here, it would have to be technical. Precise.

Like an artist painting chaos.

Practice session.

Luca strapped into the car, helmet locking tight around his head.

Tom climbed in beside him, tapping the steering wheel.

"You ready?"

Luca nodded. "Let's see what this beast can do."

The car launched off the line, suspension singing over the first curbs. Every input was razor-sharp. Every corner a test of balance and will.

Lap 7.

Luca pushed harder into Copse Corner, feeling the car bite the asphalt.

But something caught his eye.

A flash — a glint on the inside curb.

He slowed just a fraction.

Metal shards.

Small.

Deadly.

He radioed Olivia.

"Debris on inside line at Copse. Possible risk."

She responded instantly.

"Warning sent to race control."

Later, watching the replay, Luca saw it clear — a tiny piece of carbon fiber, strategically placed to unsettle the front wing at high speed.

It was the same signature as the fragment from Monaco.

Someone was sending a message.

Qualifying was intense.

Kane was faster, aggressive, but Luca kept his lines clean, his mind sharper than ever.

He qualified P3 — behind Red Bull's Verstappen and Ferrari's Leclerc.

Not pole, but enough.

The race would be a battlefield.

Race day.

The atmosphere was electric.

Luca's start was flawless — he kept pace, shadowing Verstappen through the first laps.

Behind them, chaos.

A collision at Becketts shuffled the field.

Suddenly, Luca found himself in P2.

But as he pushed, a strange feeling crept in.

The brakes felt inconsistent.

The front end wobbled on corner entry.

He glanced down at the wheel controls.

No warnings.

No errors.

Yet the car's behavior was slipping.

On Lap 20, at Stowe Corner, Luca braked late.

The car locked up.

Not the usual ABS assist — something mechanical.

He saved it — inches from the gravel.

Back in the pits, Tom was already analyzing data.

"There's an anomaly," he said.

"Hydraulic pressure drops on the front-left caliper."

Luca's stomach twisted.

Sabotage again.

Olivia approached, serious.

"We found a paper trail — a bank transfer from Veltrix Performance to a shell company linked to an engineer in your team."

Luca clenched his jaw.

"Who?"

"Still tracing."

The tension inside Razor GP was thick.

Trust was fragile.

Luca knew someone on the inside was leaking.

Race resumed.

Luca's pace was cautious but relentless.

Lap 40.

He closed on Verstappen.

Slipstreamed him down the Hangar Straight.

The roar of engines filled the air.

At Brooklands Corner, Luca made his move — late braking, inside line.

They touched wheels briefly.

Verstappen glanced over, eyes flashing.

Luca held position.

The final laps were a chess game of speed and nerves.

Luca crossed the line P1 — his second win in as many races.

Back at the paddock, Luca's phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

"The pattern is clearer now. But the race is just beginning."

He stared at the screen.

The slipstream was no longer just a racing tactic.

It was a shadow trailing him — relentless, patient.