"Hey," I say, nudging him. "You're not even nodding your head to the music. Since when do you stand still?"
Felix blinks, coming back from wherever his mind wandered. "Just drained. Some of us don't have anything to look forward to, you know?"
I do know; that’s why I brought him with me to the concert.
"Come on. Get in the pit with me. Let it out. I have your back."
"I'll pass." He steps back, clutching his beer like a lifeline. "The last time I was in one wasn't by choice. Too claustrophobic."
"That's the point. You can't breathe, can't think, can't worry about—"
I stop myself before saying what we're both thinking: his career up in the air, the fact that Baretta Racing dropped him, and that no team picked him up.
"About what?" His eyes narrow.
"Anything." I shrug. "That's why it works."
"I prefer to appreciate the music without breaking my nose, thanks."
"That's because you're getting old, man. All those years sitting pretty at Baretta made you soft."
"I'd rather appreciate the technical skill you say they have without some sweaty dude's armpit in my face, thanks."
"Purist."
"Masochist."
For a brief moment, a flash of the old Felix appears—the quick-witted driver who could out-banter anyone in the paddock. But it fades quickly, replaced by that distant look again.
"Your loss," I tell him, backing up toward the pit. "Nothing clears the head like letting go in a mosh pit."
"Well, don't expect me to call your boss saying her star driver has a broken nose before testing," he says as he walks to the bar stool in the far back of the small club.
I give him the finger as I continue to walk backward.
He almost smiles.Almost."Go get your ass kicked, William. I'll wait here like a civilized human."
I turn and plunge into the swirling mass of bodies, but part of my mind stays with Felix. I’m intimately familiar with what he's feeling—that spiral of doubt, the suffocating pressure of an identity built entirely around something that's been taken away.I've been there.The difference is, I clawed my way back out, because I’m a stubborn bastard. Felix was always an amazing driver. I reckon he never imagined he’d be without a drive until he retires, so this is hitting him hard. He’ll turn things around as well; I believe in him. And if I can, I’ll find something for him to do. He’s too talented to be stopped for a full year, or longer.
The pit swallows me whole. Bodies slam against mine from all directions—elbows, shoulders, the occasional head—as we all surrender to the primal rhythm enveloping us. The drummer hits a blast beat that sounds insane, and the crowd responds, transforming from individuals into a single, writhing organism running in circles. I let go completely, letting the current take me where it will. My body instinctively takes over as my mind shuts off.
Push.
Pull.
Brace.
Release.
It's like hydroplaning at 300 km/h in Eau Rouge—you can fight it and crash, or you can ride it out and survive.
A guy with liberty spikes nearly impales my cheek as he spins past. I sluggishly duck, pivot, and crash into someone else—a blur of tattoos and sweat. We both laugh through the collision.There's an understanding here that doesn't exist anywhere else in my life. We're all consenting to this beautiful violence, this controlled chaos. No judges, no stewards, no penalties—just pure, physical release.
The vocalist screams something unintelligible about death, anxiety and rebirth.Fitting.Each impact kills something in me—the pressure, the expectations, the constant awareness of being William Foster, F1 driver. Even the lingering fear of having my arrangement with Violet uncovered. Each impact births something simpler—just a body in motion, anonymous and free.
The lights strobe faster—disorienting and perfect. In the fractured visibility, everything becomes a series of snapshots: a girl with half her head shaved, throwing herself backward, a massive grin on her face while living her best life. A shirtless guy with FUCK YOU tattooed across his chest, moving like a human battering ram. A wall of bodies surging left then right.
The music builds to another crescendo as the crowd tightens, compressed by the growing intensity. We're packed in like sardines now, the impacts harder, faster.
