Hesitation colors Tom's voice. "What aren't you telling me?"
A pause. "We're seeing some anomalies in the electrical systems. Nothing critical yet, but we're monitoring. Just drive your race."
Just drive.As if this circuit allows for anything else. Monaco demands everything—concentration, precision, endurance. One momentary lapse, and the barriers will claim you without mercy.
I focus on building the gap to the trio behind me—Oliver, Kikuchi, and Diego now in a train about fifteen seconds back. Farrant is too far ahead, driving one of those perfect races thateven I have to admire. But second place in Monaco? That's a victory in itself.
Lap 45. The tunnel approaches; the fastest section of the track, a dark blur where the car comes alive with speed. I turn in, and suddenly, everything changes.
The steering dies in my hands.
Power cuts.
Then returns.
Then vanishes completely.
Then returns.
"Tom! I'm losing—"
The car jerks violently, slewing sideways. I catch it through pure reflex before hitting the railings, but I'm slowing rapidly. Alarms flash across my dash—red, urgent, screaming warnings I can't process fast enough. The car limps forward another hundred meters before dying completely, stranded in the middle of the racing line in the turn's exit blind spot.
"I'm stopped in the tunnel! Repeat, stopped in tunnel!"
"Yellow flags are out." Tom's voice is tense but controlled. "Stay in the car. They're showing warnings to the cars behind."
My heart slams against my ribcage. The tunnel. The worst possible place. Blind entry. Fastest section. Narrow. I'm a sitting duck.
"They can't see me coming out of the corner! Tom—"
"They're getting the message, Will. Safety car is being deployed."
But I know how this works. There's a delay between something happening and everyone reacting. The three cars chasing me were fifteen seconds back. At Monaco speeds, that's no time at all.
My breathing accelerates, yet time seems to slow down. Sweat pours down my face inside the helmet. I try to restart the car—nothing. Dead. I'm stuck here, strapped into a carbon fibercoffin in the middle of a racetrack. Can't exit the car because it's too dangerous. Don't want to stay in the car because it's too dangerous.
An image flashes through my mind—another race, another stalled car. Seven years ago. F4 championship. A friend of mine stranded on track after an electrical failure. The car behind didn't see the yellow flags in time. The impact—metal tearing, carbon fiber shattering.
He never had a chance.
And I was the car behind.
"Get me out of here," I whisper, then realize I'm saying it out loud. "Tom, they need to red flag this now. I'm in a dangerous position. No way they’ll see me and move away on time, especially if they’re keeping their delta!"
"Will, stay calm. They're handling it. Everyone knows you're there."
But my body won't listen to reason. My chest constricts painfully. Each breath comes shorter than the last. My vision tunnels—ironic in this concrete tube where I'm trapped. I recognize what's happening but knowing doesn't help me stop it.
"I don't want to die here." The words tumble out between gasps. "Not now. Not like this." Tears leak from my eyes, blurring my vision. "Tom, please—"
The impact comes without warning.
A deafening crash. Blinding pain. My world becomes violent motion—spinning, flying, breaking like a pinball hitting the walls in the tunnel. The front of the car separates from the back, my monocoque torn away like paper on impact. My hand twists unnaturally against the steering wheel, something snapping with white-hot agony.
Then stillness. A moment of perfect, terrible silence.
My ears start ringing. Something wet trickles down my face. Blood or sweat, I can't tell. My hand throbs with each heartbeat.The cars—Kikuchi hit me from behind.I think. A fire flickers in my mirrors. Small now, but growing.
