22 Silverstone Burning

Silverstone.

The birthplace of Formula 1. The sacred home of speed. And now — the next battlefield.

The warning still echoed in Luca Rossi's mind.

"Silverstone will be your grave."

He didn't sleep much after Austria. None of them did.

The threat was no longer digital. It was personal. Whoever was behind the sabotage had escalated beyond data corruption or car hacks.

They wanted to destroy him — publicly, if not physically.

Monday – Arrival

The team arrived at Silverstone under a cloud.

Literally.

Low fog clung to the airfield as the trucks unloaded. But the real storm was waiting behind the scenes.

Security was doubled at the gates. Each pass re-verified. All network access rerouted through Olivia's new firewall — dubbed "Cerberus."

"This one bites back," she told Luca. "Anyone tries to breach it again, we'll know where it came from."

He nodded. "Good. But I still want a physical inspection of every component. Fuel sensors, ECUs, even the damn wheel nuts."

Tom grinned grimly. "Paranoid is the new professional."

Tuesday – Shadows in the Paddock

Luca walked past the Veltrix motorhome and felt it — eyes on him.

Voss was seated just inside, head down in a data binder. But beside him stood someone Luca hadn't seen before.

Tall. Well-dressed. Smiling faintly.

A former FIA official. Now a "consultant."

One of the names Olivia had flagged.

Luca met his gaze for a second too long.

Then moved on.

Wednesday – The Meeting

It happened behind closed doors — a "confidential" summit between select teams, FIA officials, and circuit management.

Luca was not invited.

But Olivia managed to sneak a bug into the meeting room's backup projector days earlier.

What they heard chilled them.

One voice, older, firm:

"The integrity of the sport cannot be compromised by personal vendettas. If Rossi continues to push, we will respond."

Another:

"If data goes public, the FIA will be irreparably damaged. Precedents must be... prevented."

And then a final one — quiet, calm, British accent:

"Then make sure he doesn't finish at Silverstone."

Thursday – Threat Confirmed

"Someone just bought access to our tire pressure system."

Olivia burst into the garage waving a printout.

"Fake credentials. Real access. Pirelli's database pinged our server with a mod request — to LOWER front tire pressure mid-race. Just enough to destabilize at high speed."

Luca stared at her. "That could cause a blowout."

"Exactly. At Copse Corner? That's a fatal crash."

They reported it.

To the FIA.

Response?

"Investigating."

No suspension. No action.

Just silence.

Friday – FP1 and FP2

Despite the paranoia, the car was strong. Responsive. Balanced.

But Luca wasn't focused on lap times.

He tested the limit exits on purpose — understeer simulations, heavy braking loads, fake lockups — anything to measure what could be sabotaged.

The data team noticed something strange.

"The telemetry is shadowing itself," Olivia muttered. "Double-pings. Like a ghost version of the car is running in parallel."

"Clone server?" Tom asked.

"Could be."

They didn't like what it meant.

Someone was watching every move.

In real-time.

Saturday – Qualifying Chaos

Silverstone fans packed the grandstands.

Rain loomed, but never fell.

Luca ran a near-perfect Q3 lap. Pole by over a tenth.

Then came the protest.

Filed immediately after the session.

Accusation: "Use of unauthorized mapping sequence during qualifying mode."

No evidence. No witness. Just a claim.

Filed by Veltrix.

When asked about it, Voss shrugged.

"Just procedural," he said, smiling. "We all want a clean championship, right?"

The stewards reviewed the telemetry — no breach found.

But the seed had been planted.

Every camera turned toward Luca with suspicion.

Sunday – Race Day

Silverstone buzzed like a hive.

Luca stood at the front of the grid, helmet off, jaw set. Olivia checked the telemetry monitor one last time.

"All systems clean," she said. "Cerberus is holding. But I still don't trust the power unit."

Tom handed Luca his gloves. "You go full-out, we handle the rest."

The anthem played.

The grid cleared.

Lights out.

The Grand Prix Begins

Perfect start.

Luca held P1 into Abbey. Voss close behind.

Through Maggots and Becketts, the car danced like silk. Every shift, every curve, exact.

Lap after lap, Luca extended his lead.

Then — Lap 17.

High-speed Copse corner.

Flat in seventh.

Suddenly, the wheel pulled left.

A gust? No — more violent.

Luca fought it. The rear snapped wide. He caught it with millimeter precision.

"Olivia! Rear-left actuator just surged!"

"Confirmed — 7% input added to rotation mid-corner. Unauthorized torque vectoring!"

Tom shouted, "That's an illegal command — it didn't come from us!"

Luca gritted his teeth. "They're trying again."

Lap 22

New plan: disable remote actuator responses. Olivia rewrote commands mid-race.

"We're cutting off their line. Manual control only. No assist."

"You'll lose performance," Tom warned.

"Better than losing him," Olivia snapped.

Lap 31

Voss attacked.

Hard.

He dived into Stowe — borderline legal.

Luca countered into Vale.

Side-by-side.

Carbon fiber scraped.

The crowd screamed.

On the main straight, Voss radioed in frustration:

"His car's not even using ERS assist. How the hell is he still ahead?"

But Luca heard every word.

Because now they were using open lines.

Broadcasting intimidation.

Testing fear.

Final Lap

The sabotage had failed.

But the race wasn't over.

Luca defended his lead into Brooklands.

Voss tried one last lunge at Luffield.

Luca held firm.

He powered onto the straight, foot to the floor.

Crowd on their feet.

The roar became deafening.

Checkered flag.

Back-to-back victories.

In front of his home crowd.

In front of the very people who tried to bury him.

Aftermath

In the cool-down room, Voss approached Luca.

No smile this time.

"Someone's using both of us," he said quietly.

Luca nodded. "Took you long enough to notice."

They didn't shake hands.

But there was understanding.

That night, a new message appeared on Olivia's screen.

"You broke the firewall.

Next time, we break bones."

Attached was a photo.

Luca's family.

At Silverstone.

In the stands.

Smiling.

Unaware.

Luca's fists clenched.

This wasn't racing anymore.

This was war.