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Chapter Text

Caitlyn Kiramman had spent years perfecting the art of control.

In the cockpit, it meant precision—every apex hit with mathematical accuracy, every braking point timed to perfection. Off the track, it meant poise—calm, measured words in front of the media, an air of undisturbed confidence that let the world know she was untouchable.

She had learned long ago that Formula 1 wasn’t just about speed. It was about survival. And survival required mastery over not just the car, but the narrative.

Today was no different.

As she settled into her seat for the pre-season press conference, she barely heard the hum of journalists preparing their questions. The cameras flashed, the room smelled of stale coffee and warm electronics, and the weight of yet another season pressed against her shoulders.

But Caitlyn was used to carrying weight.

She adjusted her Mercedes-AMG Petronas jacket, listening as the journalists went through their predictable checklist of questions.

"How does it feel going into your fifth season as defending world champion?"

"Do you think Mercedes can maintain dominance against Red Bull and Ferrari?"

"What are your thoughts on this year’s regulation changes?"

She answered with ease—controlled, polished, professional.

Then, the question she had been waiting for.

"Caitlyn, what do you think about Vi joining Red Bull?"

A pause.

She had expected it, of course. Vi was everywhere right now—Red Bull’s golden signing, the F2 champion who had shaken up the junior categories with her aggressive driving. A rookie with a street racer’s mentality, all instinct and fire.

Caitlyn tapped her fingers against the table before responding.

"She’s an exceptional driver," she said smoothly, her tone giving nothing away. "Winning a Formula 2 title in your debut season is no small feat. It takes skill, consistency, and confidence. I have no doubt she’ll bring that same level of talent into Formula 1."

The journalists leaned in, sensing the weight in her words.

"Do you think she’ll challenge you for the title?"

Caitlyn allowed the smallest of smiles. "Red Bull wouldn’t have signed her if they didn’t believe she could. From what I’ve seen, she’s fast, aggressive, and unafraid to take risks. That kind of racing always makes the sport more exciting."

That wasn’t just media-friendly talk.

Caitlyn meant it.

She had watched Vi’s races, analyzed her onboards, studied the way she handled pressure. She saw the raw talent, the fearlessness, the reckless hunger. It reminded Caitlyn of herself—only where Caitlyn had been sculpted by years of strict discipline, Vi was like a wildfire, unpredictable and untamed.

Would she be a threat?

That depended.

F1 wasn’t about raw talent alone. It was about control.

And Caitlyn Kiramman had never lost control.

Vi watched the press conference from the Red Bull garage, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Caitlyn’s voice came through the speakers, smooth as silk, so damn polished it made Vi’s skin itch.

"She’s an exceptional driver."

"Winning F2 in your debut season is no small feat."

"I have no doubt she’ll bring that same level of talent into F1."

Vi scoffed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She hated this.

Hated the way Caitlyn spoke—so cool, so perfectly measured, like she was reading from a script. Hated the way she carried herself, like everything in the world was exactly as it should be.

Hated the way Piltover types always acted like they owned the place.

Caitlyn was the face of that world—the golden child, the perfect champion, the untouchable queen of the grid. Vi had spent her whole life fighting against people like her.

So why did it bother her so much to hear Caitlyn talk about her like she was just another name on the list?

By the time the press conference ended, Vi had made up her mind.

She needed to confront her.

She found Caitlyn near the paddock, slipping past the journalists with effortless grace, looking every bit like the reigning world champion she was.

Vi didn’t hesitate.

"Hey, Kiramman!"

Caitlyn stopped.

Slowly, she turned to face Vi, her sharp blue eyes unreadable. "Vi," she greeted, voice as smooth as ever. "Something on your mind?"

Vi clenched her fists. "Yeah. You can drop the act."

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You don’t have to pretend to be nice," Vi said, stepping closer. "I get it—media obligations, gotta say all the right things, act like you respect me. But let’s be real. You don’t give a damn about me."

Caitlyn blinked once, tilting her head slightly. "Is that what you think?"

Vi scoffed. "I know it. People like you? You don’t actually care about drivers like me. I’m just another rookie, another name Red Bull threw at you. So don’t stand up there and act like you respect me when you don’t."

Caitlyn studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then, she stepped closer.

Vi tensed, expecting some kind of rebuttal, maybe a dismissive remark—something cold and detached, like every other Piltover elite she had dealt with.

But instead, Caitlyn’s voice was softer than Vi expected.

"You think I don’t respect you?"

Vi’s jaw tightened. "I think you’re a damn good liar."

Caitlyn exhaled, a quiet, almost amused sound. "If I didn’t take you seriously," she murmured, "I wouldn’t be watching your races."

Vi’s breath caught for a second.

Caitlyn continued, her gaze steady. "I saw your overtake in Silverstone. The way you defended in Monza. The last-lap battle in Abu Dhabi." A pause. "You drive like you have something to prove. Like you’re trying to fight your way into a world that doesn’t want you."

Vi felt something twist inside her.

Because Caitlyn wasn’t wrong.

But it pissed her off that she had noticed.

"You don’t know anything about me," Vi muttered.

Caitlyn’s lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. "Maybe not." A pause. Then, quieter: "But I know what it’s like to feel like you have something to prove."

Vi hated how that made her feel.

Like Caitlyn wasn’t just some cold, distant champion.

Like maybe—just maybe—she understood.

And that was dangerous.

Vi scoffed, shaking her head. "Whatever. Just don’t expect me to play nice."

Caitlyn’s lips curved ever so slightly. "I wouldn’t dare."

Vi turned on her heel and walked away.

But even as she left, she could still feel Caitlyn’s eyes on her.

And that was the part that scared her the most.

The Kiramman estate had always been too quiet for Caitlyn’s liking.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy, suffocating kind—the kind that settled into the walls like an expectation, like a weight no one could shake off. Even as she walked through the grand halls, passing old family portraits and polished gold accents, she felt like she was stepping into a place she didn’t quite belong.

She had been away for months, traveling from country to country, circuit to circuit. The sound of roaring engines, the smell of burnt rubber on asphalt, the rush of speed—that was her world now. Not this.

And yet, here she was, sitting at the long mahogany dining table, facing the same battle she had been fighting for years.

Dinner had barely begun before her mother dropped the inevitable question.

"When are you planning to retire from this dangerous sport?"

Caitlyn took a slow breath, setting down her silverware with practiced patience. "Mother," she said, her voice steady, "we’ve had this conversation before."

"And we will continue to have it until you come to your senses," Cassandra Kiramman replied, dabbing her lips with a napkin before leveling Caitlyn with a sharp gaze. "This is not a sustainable career. You are risking your life every time you get in that car."

Caitlyn clenched her jaw. She had known this conversation was coming—it always came—but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

"It’s not a gamble," she countered, "when you’re the best at what you do."

Her mother scoffed. "No one stays at the top forever."

A muscle in Caitlyn’s jaw twitched. "I’ll worry about that when I get there."

Across the table, Tobias Kiramman sighed quietly. Caitlyn could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he hesitated before speaking—as if he knew nothing he said would truly change the outcome of this discussion.

"Caitlyn," he said, voice softer than Cassandra’s. "Your mother is only worried about you."

Caitlyn knew that.

She understood that, deep down.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t make her feel trapped every time they had this conversation—like she was still fifteen years old, still arguing with her mother about why she didn’t want to be a politician, still being told that her life’s purpose had already been decided for her.

And now, years later, despite everything she had accomplished, despite proving over and over again that she was meant to be in Formula 1, her mother still refused to see it.

"I have been doing this for years," Caitlyn said, her voice sharper now. "I have won four world championships. I have trained, I have calculated, I have fought for every victory. Hadn’t I proved myself enough?"

Her mother’s expression was unreadable. "This isn’t about proving yourself," she said coolly. "It’s about knowing when to walk away before it’s too late."

"Nothing has happened to me," Caitlyn snapped. "And I refuse to live my life in fear of something that might happen."

For a brief moment, silence settled over the table.

Then, Cassandra set down her wine glass, folding her hands together. Her next words made Caitlyn’s stomach twist.

"You are the Kiramman heiress, Caitlyn. This is not just about you."

Caitlyn’s breath hitched.

The words felt like a chain being tightened around her throat.

Her mother continued, her voice firm. "The Kiramman name carries responsibility. Your father and I have built this family’s legacy, and we expect you to honor that. You cannot waste your life chasing something so—so temporary. You belong in Piltover, not on a race track."

Caitlyn pushed her chair back slightly, her fingers curling into fists beneath the table. "So that’s what this is about?" she said, voice dangerously quiet. "You don’t care that I could get hurt. You just care that I’m not doing what you want me to do."

Cassandra’s eyes flashed. "I care that you are throwing away everything we have built for you."

Caitlyn let out a short, bitter laugh. "Built for me? You mean decided for me."

"You have a duty to this family."

"No," Caitlyn said, standing up now, her chair scraping against the marble floor. "I have a duty to myself. And I am not giving up my career just because it doesn’t fit into the perfect little future you imagined for me."

Cassandra’s expression remained unshaken, but Tobias shifted uncomfortably. He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Caitlyn, your mother just wants you to be safe."

Caitlyn turned to him, her anger faltering for just a second.

Tobias had never been as forceful as Cassandra. He had supported Caitlyn, in his own quiet way, even when he didn’t fully understand why she loved racing.

But he had never stood up to Cassandra.

"Safe," Caitlyn repeated, shaking her head. "That’s what you think this is about?"

She exhaled harshly, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose before looking back at both of them. "I am not retiring anytime soon. You both need to accept that."

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. "You say that now, but things change, Caitlyn. You will change."

Caitlyn met her gaze, her expression cold. "If I ever retire, it will be my decision. Not yours. And certainly not because you decided I should."

A tense silence stretched between them.

Finally, Cassandra sighed and picked up her glass again, taking a slow sip of wine. "We’ll see," she murmured.

Caitlyn clenched her fists. That tone. That condescending, knowing tone—as if she was just waiting for Caitlyn to fail.

Her mother had never truly believed in her. Not when she was a child, sneaking out to the outskirts of Piltover to watch underground races. Not when she first picked up a kart, gripping the wheel like it was an escape rope out of a life she didn’t want.

Not when she had fought her way into Formula 1, becoming a champion, proving to the world—and to herself—that she was exactly where she belonged.

And after all these years, Cassandra Kiramman still thought this was a phase.

Caitlyn couldn’t stand it.

Her jaw tightened. "Thank you for dinner," she said curtly, stepping away from the table.

She turned on her heel and strode toward the door, her pulse pounding in her ears.

She had fought for everything she had.

And she would be damned if she let anyone—even her own family—take it away from her.

Qualifying Day – Bahrain Grand Prix

The Bahrain International Circuit shimmered under the floodlights, the desert heat still lingering in the air as the crowd roared in anticipation.

Caitlyn Kiramman sat in her Mercedes, fingers flexing over the steering wheel, as she listened to her race engineer’s voice through the radio.

"Alright, Cait, standard Q1 plan. Two runs, soft tires. Let's get a clean banker in."

She exhaled steadily. Another season. Another fight. Another battle for pole.

Only this time, there was a new challenger.

Q1 – Setting the Pace

The engines roared as cars filtered onto the track, the first true test of speed and performance for the 2025 season.

Caitlyn always preferred to set a banker lap early—get a solid time in before the track evolution kicked in.

Her first lap? Smooth. Controlled. P1.

Then came Vi.

Caitlyn was already coasting back into the pits when she saw the Red Bull flash across the line.

P1 – Vi | 1:28.201

P2 – Caitlyn | +0.082s

She hummed softly, watching the replay on the garage monitors. Vi’s sector times were impressive—fast through the technical sections, aggressive into the braking zones. Unpolished, maybe, but raw and fearless.

"Interesting," she murmured to herself.

She wasn’t worried. Yet.

Q1 ended. Both drivers easily made it through.

Q2 – The First Real Fight

Caitlyn pushed harder on her next run, adjusting to the track’s evolution.

Purple sector 1.

Purple sector 2.

Crossed the line. P1 – 1:27.9.

A clean, dominant lap.

Vi followed immediately after.

P2 – Vi | +0.064s

Caitlyn sat back, arms crossed, watching the timing screens.

Vi was close. Too close for a rookie.

Still, Q2 ended with Caitlyn on top.

But the real fight was coming.

Q3 – The Pole Position Battle

The tension in the air was thick as the final session began.

Caitlyn went out first, setting the benchmark: 1:27.391. A near-perfect lap.

She returned to the pits, breathing steady, waiting for the others to cross the line.

Vi came last.

She was fast in sector 1.

Faster in sector 2.

Sector 3—Vi crosses the line.

P1 – Vi | 1:27.387

By four-thousandths of a second—Vi had taken pole.

The Red Bull garage erupted into cheers.

Caitlyn blinked, processing the result.

Four-thousandths.

That was nothing.

That was the difference between a perfectly timed apex and a fraction of a second lost on exit.

That was the difference between pole and P2.

And Vi had won.

She exhaled slowly, stepping out of her car, taking in the way the cameras swarmed Vi as she jumped out of her Red Bull, fists pumping in the air.

Caitlyn had lost count of how many pole positions she had secured in her career.

But this one?

This one intrigued her.

The media pen was alive with excitement, microphones thrust forward as Caitlyn, Vi, and Ekko—P1, P2, and P3—lined up for questions.

Vi was grinning ear to ear, still riding the high of her first pole.

"Vi, first-ever F1 qualifying, and you’re starting at the front of the grid! How does it feel?"

Vi chuckled. "Feels damn good, doesn’t it? I knew we had pace, but taking pole? Beating the reigning champ? Yeah, I’ll take that."

Caitlyn listened quietly, studying the way Vi spoke. The way she carried herself.

There was no arrogance—just confidence. A fire that burned bright.

It was… fascinating.

Her turn came next.

"Caitlyn, it was an incredibly close battle for pole today—just four-thousandths of a second separating you and Vi. What do you make of her performance?"

Caitlyn didn’t hesitate.

"It was a strong lap," she said smoothly, turning slightly toward Vi. "You handled the car well. Congratulations."

Vi’s grin didn’t fade, but something in her eyes shifted.

A flicker of something sharper.

And then—

"You can drop the fake act, you know," Vi said casually.

The journalists froze.

Caitlyn’s expression remained unreadable. "Excuse me?"

Vi tilted her head, leaning slightly closer. "C’mon, we both know you’re pissed you lost pole. No need to pretend like you’re all smiles about it."

Caitlyn blinked once, slow and deliberate.

Then, she smiled.

A real smile this time. Small, amused.

"I never said I was happy," she said, voice low enough that only Vi could hear. "I said you did well."

Vi studied her for a second.

Caitlyn could see it—the gears turning in her head, trying to figure her out.

But she wouldn’t. Not yet.

Because Caitlyn was intrigued.

And Vi had no idea what that meant.

Caitlyn was just leaving the media pen when she heard footsteps behind her.

She already knew who it was before she turned.

Vi was standing there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly.

"You really expect me to believe that was genuine?"

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. "Believe what?"

"That you meant it. That you actually respect me," Vi said, eyes narrowed.

Caitlyn exhaled softly, glancing toward the Red Bull garage, where her rival’s name was being painted onto the P1 marker for the first time.

Then she looked back at Vi.

And smirked.

"I don’t say things I don’t mean."

Vi scoffed. "You’re full of shit."

Caitlyn shrugged, turning to walk away. "If that’s what you need to believe."

Vi grabbed her wrist before she could leave.

Caitlyn stopped.

Vi’s grip was firm, but there was something else in her gaze—something uncertain.

"You don’t even know me," Vi muttered. "Don’t act like you do."

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, unshaken.

"No," she said, voice softer. "But I know talent when I see it."

Vi blinked, as if the response caught her off guard.

Caitlyn gently pulled her wrist free, stepping back.

"See you on track, rookie," she murmured.

And before Vi could say anything else, she was gone.

The atmosphere was electric.

Vi had dominated qualifying, putting in a lap so aggressive, so relentless, that even Red Bull’s engineers had looked impressed.

It was her first pole position in F1.

It was supposed to be her race.

But of course—

Caitlyn Kiramman was right beside her.

The reigning four-time world champion, the driver Vi had spent her entire off-season preparing to beat.

This wasn’t just about winning.

It was about proving something.

And Vi had every intention of doing that.

The lights flashed.

Five red.

Hold.

Hold.

Lights out—go.

Vi’s launch was strong.

Not perfect, but good enough to keep her just ahead as they charged toward Turn 1.

Then—

Caitlyn appeared.

Not behind her.

Beside her.

Vi’s eyes flickered to her mirrors, heart pounding.

The Mercedes was right there, perfectly positioned, creeping up on the inside with terrifying precision.

Vi braked late, trying to hold the racing line—

But Caitlyn?

Caitlyn braked even later.

Smooth. Calculated. Perfect.

And just like that—

Vi lost the lead before the first corner.

Vi gritted her teeth.

"That was clean," her engineer said over the radio.

Vi clenched her fists. Too clean.

And she hated it.

Lap 10 

Vi pushed hard.

Every turn, every exit, trying to force Caitlyn into a mistake.

But Caitlyn?

She was a machine.

Not a single missed apex.

Not a single late reaction.

Vi was faster in the straights, her Red Bull gaining ground—

But every time she got close, Caitlyn would place her car in exactly the right spot to block her.

Every. Damn. Time.

"She’s making me look like a rookie," Vi growled.

"She’s got experience," her engineer said.

Vi scowled. Experience wasn’t supposed to matter this much.

She had the faster car.

She had aggression, talent, instincts.

And yet—

Caitlyn was making her look slow.

Vi hated that.

And she hated Caitlyn for it.

Lap 30 

The worst-case scenario happened.

Ekko’s Ferrari had been hunting Vi down for the past ten laps, his tires still fresh, his car in perfect balance.

Vi had been so focused on Caitlyn that she hadn’t defended properly.

And when Ekko made a move—

Vi lost second place, too.

She slammed a fist against the wheel.

This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.

She was supposed to win.

She wasn’t supposed to be fighting just to stay on the podium.

She barely held on.

Ekko was too far ahead now, and the cars behind her were closing in.

Vi had to fight like hell to keep her podium spot—

And when she crossed the finish line?

She wasn’t happy.

She was furious.

P1 – Caitlyn Kiramman (Mercedes)

P2 – Ekko (Ferrari)

P3 – Vi (Red Bull)

The second she pulled into parc fermé, she ripped off her gloves and helmet, her entire body tense with frustration.

She didn’t care about being on the podium.

She didn’t care about the cameras.

All she cared about was the fact that Caitlyn had beaten her.

Vi was still fuming when she turned around—

And Caitlyn was already there.

Standing calmly, her race suit still unzipped slightly, hair messy from the helmet—

But her expression unreadable.

"Nice race," Caitlyn said, extending a hand.

Vi stared at it.

Then—she laughed.

Sharp. Bitter. Mocking.

She ignored Caitlyn’s hand completely.

"Save it, Kiramman," Vi said coldly. "You don’t have to act like you respect me."

Caitlyn’s brow furrowed slightly. "Vi, I do respect you."

Vi scoffed. "Yeah?"

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, something unreadable in her gaze.

"You were fast today," Caitlyn said simply. "I had to work for that win."

Vi’s blood boiled.

She stepped closer, her voice lower now.

"You didn’t ‘work’ for anything," Vi snapped. "You just had everything handed to you from the start."

Caitlyn’s expression hardened.

Vi knew she had hit a nerve.

And she wanted to.

Because it wasn’t fair.

Vi had spent her whole life fighting to get here—

And Caitlyn?

Caitlyn had always had everything.

The best teams.

The best cars.

The best opportunities.

"You’ve never had to struggle a day in your life," Vi muttered.

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.

"And you think I don’t deserve to be here?" she asked, voice quiet but sharp.

Vi hesitated.

Because the answer wasn’t that simple.

She knew Caitlyn was good.

She knew Caitlyn was one of the best drivers F1 had ever seen.

But admitting that?

Admitting that Caitlyn had won because she was better?

Vi wasn’t ready to say that.

So instead, she scoffed.

"You had the best car," Vi muttered, stepping back. "Don’t act like it was anything more than that."

Caitlyn exhaled slowly, studying her.

Then—a small, knowing smile.

"You hate losing," Caitlyn said.

Vi’s hands clenched into fists.

"I hate you."

It came out too fast.

Too sharp.

Too real.

Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change. But something in her eyes did.

For a second, Vi thought she might say something—might actually react. But instead, Caitlyn just nodded once.

"Then I’ll see you at the next race," she said, her voice steady.

Then, she turned and walked away.

Like Vi’s words hadn’t just cut deeper than any crash ever could.

And Vi? Vi stood there, fists tight, chest heavy—

Because for some reason, she wasn’t sure she had meant it.

The podium stood under the glow of the Bahrain floodlights, illuminating the top three finishers of the season opener.

Caitlyn stood in the center, the highest step, her first-place trophy gleaming in her grip.

To her right, Ekko in Ferrari red, holding his second-place trophy, a wide grin plastered across his face.

To her left, Vi on the third step, her third-place trophy held loosely, jaw tight, mind still replaying every lost moment of the race.

The national anthem began, and the world paused.

Caitlyn took a deep breath, eyes closing.

Letting the moment sink in.

She had done it. Again.

She could still hear the roar of the Mercedes fans, the energy buzzing through the crowd, but in this moment—

She didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t need to.

This was where she belonged.

This was hers.

And Vi?

Vi couldn’t stop watching her.

Her gaze flickered over the calmness on Caitlyn’s face, the way she stood completely composed, as if victory was simply another day at the office.

Like she had been born for this.

Vi hated it.

Hated how untouchable Caitlyn felt.

Hated how it made her feel like a challenger rather than an equal.

Then—

Ekko caught her staring. And the bastard winked.

Vi barely had time to register the smirk on Ekko’s face before—

Pop.

Ekko’s champagne bottle exploded open, and within seconds, a cold wave of bubbles slammed into Caitlyn’s face.

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Vi’s eyes snapped to Caitlyn immediately.

Waiting.

This was it.

This was the moment Caitlyn’s composure would finally crack.

The moment she’d drop the act. Be pissed, frustrated, humiliated.

Because no way would someone like Caitlyn Kiramman, the perfect, polished four-time world champion, just laugh this off.

Right?

But then—

Caitlyn… smiled.

Not a forced, professional smile.

A real, amused, slightly breathless smile.

Vi blinked.

What?

Caitlyn ran a hand through her soaked hair, shaking champagne droplets from her face, then slowly turned to Ekko—grinning.

"You just made a mistake," Caitlyn said smoothly.

Ekko raised his hands in mock surrender. "You looked too serious up here, Kiramman. Figured I’d fix that."

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow, picking up her own champagne bottle.

Ekko’s grin faltered.

"Oh, shi—"

She drenched him.

Ekko yelled dramatically, stumbling back as Caitlyn tilted the bottle up, sending champagne straight into his face.

The crowd loved it.

Vi?

Vi was still staring.

Because she had expected anger. Not Caitlyn playing along.

Not Caitlyn laughing, lighthearted, completely at ease. And that—that threw Vi off.

She had spent so much time hating her, building her up as the cold, untouchable queen of the grid.

But right now?

Caitlyn just looked like…

A person.

And Vi hated that even more.

Ekko wasn’t backing down.

He wiped champagne from his face, grinning mischievously, then turned to Vi.

"Oi, Rookie. You just gonna stand there?"

Vi scoffed, twisting her bottle open.

She wasn’t about to let Ekko have all the fun.

She popped her bottle, tilting it up just as Caitlyn turned—

And hit her straight in the chest with a wave of cold champagne.

Caitlyn gasped, half-laughing, half-coughing.

"You too?" she protested, blinking bubbles from her lashes.

Vi smirked. "You had that one coming, princess."

Caitlyn tilted her head, studying her.

Then—her smirk grew.

"So do you."

Vi barely had a second to react before Caitlyn tilted her bottle back and absolutely drenched her.

Vi let out a sharp curse, stepping back, shaking her head as champagne dripped from her hair.

"Oh, it’s war now."

Ekko cackled, stepping in between them, bottle raised. "Three-way battle. Let’s go!"

And suddenly—

It was chaos.

Vi and Ekko chased Caitlyn across the podium, champagne flying everywhere.

Caitlyn dodged, expertly weaving around them, her reactions too damn fast for someone who had just finished a 57-lap race.

Vi finally caught her, spraying directly at her face.

Caitlyn let out a mock gasp, laughing even as she tried to shield herself.

The cameras flashed wildly, capturing everything.

Three drivers, soaked, laughing, completely unguarded.

And Vi?

Vi wasn’t thinking about the race anymore.

Wasn’t thinking about how much she had hated losing to Caitlyn.

She was just—

Here.

In the moment.

And, annoyingly—

She didn’t hate it as much as she thought she would.

Eventually, the celebration settled.

Ekko was still grinning, shaking champagne out of his hair.

Vi leaned against the podium railing, exhaling.

And then—

Her eyes found Caitlyn again.

She was standing at the front of the podium, waving toward the Mercedes fans, her hair still damp, champagne glistening on her skin under the lights.

Vi clenched her jaw.

Because she was staring again.

And this time—

She didn’t even know why.

Maybe it was the way Caitlyn carried herself, the quiet confidence, the way she fit into this world so effortlessly.

Maybe it was how frustrating it was to see her so at ease, when Vi still felt like she was fighting to prove she belonged.

Or maybe—

Maybe it was just Caitlyn.

Vi exhaled sharply, looking away.

The celebrations had ended, but Vi’s frustration hadn’t.

She had been forced to stand on the third step, watching Caitlyn soak in yet another win, acting like it was just another day in her perfect life.

And now?

Now, Vi had to stand beside her again, this time in front of the media, forced to listen to her polished, diplomatic words.

Vi clenched her jaw, waiting for her turn, because today?

She wasn’t going to be polite.

She wasn’t going to act like this was just another race.

She was going to say what no one else had the guts to say.

"Caitlyn, congratulations! First win of the season—how does it feel?"

Caitlyn gave a small, effortless smile.

"It feels great," she said smoothly. "The team worked incredibly hard, and it was a tough race. Vi and Ekko were pushing hard, and I had to stay focused the entire time."

Vi resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"You lost the lead to Vi at the start but reclaimed it before Turn 1. What was going through your mind?"

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, thinking.

"I knew Vi would have a strong start," she admitted. "But I also knew where I needed to place the car to regain position. It was all about trusting my instincts and making the right move at the right time."

Vi gritted her teeth.

Trusting her instincts. Right. Like Caitlyn Kiramman ever had to fight for anything in her life.

And that?

That was the exact thought Vi wasn’t going to hold back.

"Vi, your first podium of the season! P3 today, but you looked frustrated out there. What are your thoughts on the race?"

Vi let out a sharp breath, crossing her arms.

"I mean, yeah, I’m frustrated," she said, her voice edged with irritation. "It’s always frustrating when some of us have to claw our way into this sport, while others just get handed everything."

The room went still.

"Can you elaborate?" a journalist asked, sensing the tension.

Vi didn’t hesitate.

"Look, I come from Zaun," she said, voice sharp. "Where we don’t get opportunities like this. We don’t get the best cars, the best sponsors, the best backing. People from Piltover? They get to just walk into this sport because of their last name, because they were born into the right family."

The journalists were eating this up now.

"Are you referring to Caitlyn Kiramman?"

Vi exhaled a humorless laugh.

"I mean, come on," she muttered. "She’s literally the perfect example. Born rich, born connected. She didn’t have to fight for this. Didn’t have to prove herself. Just had to show up, get in the right car, and suddenly she’s a four-time champion."

Caitlyn didn’t react.

Didn’t flinch. She just stood there, listening. And that pissed Vi off even more. Because she wanted a reaction.

She wanted Caitlyn to snap, to break, to prove her right.

But instead—

"Caitlyn, do you have a response to Vi’s comments?"

Caitlyn took a measured breath.

Then—

"I understand why Vi feels that way," she said, voice steady. "Zaun has always been treated unfairly. That’s not a secret. There’s a history of injustice there, and I do believe that needs to change."

Vi’s eyes narrowed.

Oh, she did not just say that.

Because Caitlyn Kiramman, the perfect Piltover golden girl, the heiress, the untouchable champion—

She didn’t get to pretend she cared about Zaun.

"So you agree Zaunites are treated unfairly?" another journalist pressed.

Caitlyn nodded. "I do. The system isn’t fair. I’ve benefited from it, and I won’t deny that. But I also believe there’s a way to make things better."

Vi nearly laughed.

Because that was such a typical Piltover response.

Act like you care, say the right words, but never actually do anything.

And Vi?

Vi was going to make sure Caitlyn knew that.

The moment they were away from the press, Vi grabbed Caitlyn’s wrist, pulling her aside.

Caitlyn stiffened, turning to face her.

"What are you doing?" Caitlyn asked, brow raised.

Vi’s eyes burned with frustration.

"Stop pretending," she said coldly.

Caitlyn frowned. "Pretending?"

Vi stepped closer, voice low and sharp.

"You don’t care about Zaun," Vi spat. "You don’t give a damn about what happens to us. So don’t stand there, in front of cameras, acting like you do."

Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change.

"I said what I meant," Caitlyn replied calmly. "I do believe there’s injustice in how Zaunites are treated."

Vi let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Right," she muttered. "And what are you actually doing about it? Sitting in your luxury apartment in Piltover, giving empty speeches? Don’t act like you understand our struggle. You never had to live it."

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.

And finally—Vi saw something flicker in those blue eyes.

Not anger.

Not guilt.

Something else.

Something Vi couldn’t read.

"You think I don’t know struggle?" Caitlyn asked, voice softer now, but firm.

Vi scoffed. "No, I don’t. Because you don’t. You grew up safe, protected, knowing you’d always have a place in this world. People like me? We had to fight for every damn thing."

Caitlyn held her gaze for a long moment.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"You’re right," she admitted. "I don’t know what it’s like to grow up in Zaun. I never will."

Vi blinked.

That wasn’t the answer she was expecting.

Caitlyn continued.

"But I know what it’s like to have expectations forced on you. To have people assume they already know who you are, what you’ve been through—without ever really knowing you."

Vi stared at her.

Because for the first time, Caitlyn looked real.

Not the champion.

Not the Kiramman heir.

Just—Caitlyn.

Vi hated it.

Hated that she could see something real in her.

Because that made everything more complicated.

Vi clenched her jaw, stepping back.

"Whatever," she muttered. "Just stay out of things you don’t understand."

Then she turned—walked away.

Leaving Caitlyn standing there, watching her go.

And for the first time, Caitlyn wasn’t sure if Vi really hated her.

Or if Vi just hated what she thought Caitlyn represented.

Caitlyn had changed out of her race suit, now in her Mercedes team polo and dark jeans, walking through the nearly empty paddock.

She had handled the interviews well. Too well, apparently.

Because now, her words were already being twisted into headlines.

"Caitlyn Kiramman Calls for Justice for Zaun!"

"F1 Champion Acknowledges Systemic Inequality in Motorsport!"

"Is Caitlyn Kiramman the Hero Zaun Needs?"

Caitlyn sighed, rubbing her temple.

She had only said the truth.

She wasn’t trying to be a hero.

And she sure as hell wasn’t trying to win Vi’s approval.

Yet here she was, still thinking about that conversation.

About the way Vi had looked at her—furious, raw, like Caitlyn had personally insulted everything she stood for.

Like Caitlyn could never possibly understand.

And maybe she couldn’t.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t care.

Jayce walked in, tossing his phone onto the table before dropping into the chair across from her.

"You good?" he asked.

Caitlyn blinked, snapping out of her thoughts.

"What?"

"You’ve been staring at the wall like you’re trying to solve a murder," Jayce said, raising an eyebrow. "I thought this was supposed to be a good night for you."

Caitlyn sighed, leaning back. "It should be."

Jayce studied her for a moment, then smirked.

"This is about Vi, isn’t it?"

Caitlyn rolled her eyes. "Not everything is about Vi."

Jayce tilted his head. "Except this time, it kinda is."

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Jayce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I don’t get it," he said. "I mean, yeah, she’s pissed she lost. But she’s been acting like she has some personal vendetta against you. What’s her deal?"

Caitlyn let out a slow breath.

"She’s from Zaun," she said simply.

Jayce frowned. "So?"

Caitlyn gave him a look.

"You know how people from Zaun feel about Piltover," she said. "And I’m not just from Piltover. I’m a Kiramman. My mother is a councilor. Of course she hates me. She thinks I’m just like the rest of them."

Jayce exhaled, sitting back. "You think that’s really it?"

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow. "Isn’t it?"

Jayce thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"Nah," he said. "I think she just doesn’t know what to do with you."

Caitlyn blinked. "What?"

Jayce smirked. "You don’t fit into the little box she put you in. She wants you to be some arrogant, entitled Piltover princess, but you’re not. And that pisses her off."

Caitlyn frowned. "I don’t think she spends that much time analyzing me."

Jayce laughed. "Oh, she does. Believe me."

Caitlyn glanced away.

Because if she was being honest—she had noticed it too.

The way Vi was always watching her.

Always pushing, testing, waiting for her to slip.

But Caitlyn had spent her entire life being composed.

She didn’t slip.

And maybe that was what frustrated Vi the most

The week between Bahrain and Jeddah was supposed to be a time to reset, recover, and train lightly.

For Caitlyn, that meant keeping active without over-exerting herself—which was why she had agreed to a casual padel match with Jayce, Mel, and Viktor.

For Vi?

Vi had come to the courts with Ekko, just looking for a way to get out of her own head.

She hadn’t expected to find Caitlyn already here.

And she sure as hell hadn’t expected Jayce to rope them into playing together.

Now?

Now it wasn’t just a casual game.

Now, it was a fight.

Jayce had made the call.

Vi and Ekko vs. Caitlyn and Mel.

Vi had huffed in irritation, glancing at Caitlyn—who was already watching her with that unreadable expression.

Mel smiled knowingly. "This should be fun."

Caitlyn gave a small, amused nod. "Let's see what you've got, Vi."

Vi gritted her teeth.

Because of course Caitlyn was good at this too.

She should’ve known.

But Vi?

Vi wasn’t about to let her win easily.

The game started fast.

Vi and Ekko played with aggression, speed, power.

Vi’s serves were fast and ruthless, her returns designed to force Caitlyn and Mel off balance.

But Caitlyn?

Caitlyn was frustratingly controlled.

She didn’t hit the ball with raw strength—she used placement, angles, precision.

Every shot was calculated, perfect, infuriating.

She countered Vi’s power with patience, waiting for mistakes, striking only when necessary.

Vi was getting angrier by the second.

Every time she thought she had the upper hand, Caitlyn would find a way to shut her down.

And it was pissing her off.

By the time the score was 4-4, the match had turned into something far more intense than anyone had planned.

Ekko and Mel?

They were still playing, but this was a Vi vs. Caitlyn fight now.

Neither of them was holding back.

The ball slammed back and forth, the sound of shoes skidding on the court, sharp exhales, the occasional frustrated grunt.

Vi lunged for a shot, barely reaching it, returning with a brutal smash.

Caitlyn reacted instantly.

A clean, effortless volley, the ball hitting the perfect angle—too fast for Vi to catch.

Point.

Vi growled under her breath.

Caitlyn just smirked slightly, wiping sweat from her forehead.

"You're predictable," Caitlyn murmured.

Vi snapped her gaze to her.

"Excuse me?"

Caitlyn took a slow sip of water. "You play emotionally. You react. I read you too easily."

Vi’s blood boiled.

She gripped her racket tighter.

"Let’s see if you can read this."

And with that—the game only got worse.

The last few points were brutal.

Vi played harder, faster—desperate to get ahead.

But Caitlyn?

Caitlyn never broke.

Every time Vi tried to overpower her, Caitlyn redirected the energy.

By the time the match ended—7-5 in Caitlyn and Mel’s favor—Vi was fuming.

She didn’t even care about the score.

She cared that Caitlyn hadn’t cracked.

Hadn’t faltered.

Had beaten her without ever losing control.

The padel match was over, but Vi was still breathing hard, muscles burning from how much she had pushed herself.

Caitlyn, on the other hand?

Composed. Unshaken. Perfect.

As always.

Vi was about to storm off when Caitlyn suddenly stepped toward her, holding out a cold water bottle.

Vi blinked. What the hell?

"You looked like you needed it," Caitlyn said smoothly.

Vi hesitated, staring at her in suspicion.

But the bottle was ice-cold in her palm, condensation dripping over her fingers, and her throat was dry as hell.

So she grabbed it, twisting the cap open and taking a long sip.

"Didn’t think you cared," Vi muttered.

Caitlyn smirked slightly, arms crossing. "I don’t. Just don’t want you passing out before Jeddah."

Vi huffed a small laugh, shaking her head.

For a moment, the tension between them eased.

Then—

Caitlyn’s phone buzzed.

And Vi immediately knew something was wrong.

Caitlyn pulled out her phone, glanced at the screen—

And froze.

It was so fast, so subtle, but Vi caught it.

The way Caitlyn’s fingers tightened around the phone.

The way her expression went blank, too controlled, too careful.

Then—without a word—she turned and took a few steps away.

Vi watched as Caitlyn answered the call, voice low and even.

She couldn’t hear the words.

But she didn’t need to.

She saw the way Caitlyn’s jaw clenched.

Saw the way her free hand curled into a fist at her side.

Saw the way her breathing slowed, like she was forcing herself to stay composed.

It wasn’t just frustration.

It was something deeper. Sharper. Personal.

Vi didn’t know what was being said on the other end.

But she could see the moment Caitlyn’s expression darkened slightly.

See the way her shoulders locked into place.

See the moment it got worse.

Then—

Caitlyn ended the call.

Paused for one breath.

Two.

And when she turned back toward Vi—

Her expression was perfectly neutral.

Like nothing had happened.

Like Vi hadn’t just seen the cracks form.

And that?

That pissed Vi off more than anything.

Caitlyn grabbed her bag, acting like she was about to leave.

Vi stepped in front of her.

"You’re not fine."

Caitlyn blinked, raising an eyebrow. "I’m perfectly fine."

Vi scoffed. "Bullshit."

Caitlyn sighed sharply. "Vi, I don’t know what you think you saw—"

"I saw you shut down the second you picked up that phone," Vi interrupted, stepping closer. "Saw the way your face changed. The way your whole body locked up."

Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change.

But Vi wasn’t backing down.

"Who was it?" Vi pressed.

Caitlyn hesitated.

Then—flatly.

"My mother."

Vi frowned.

Caitlyn adjusted the strap of her bag, voice carefully neutral.

"She saw the articles," she continued. "And the councilors aren’t happy that a councilor’s daughter is ‘meddling in things she shouldn’t be involved in.’"

Vi’s jaw clenched.

Of course.

Of course the rich bastards in Piltover didn’t want to hear about Zaun.

Of course they wanted to pretend it didn’t exist.

"You should listen to them," Vi muttered.

Caitlyn’s brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

Vi stepped closer.

"You don’t need to care about Zaun," Vi said, voice sharp. "It’s not your fight. Stick to Piltover, where you belong."

Caitlyn stilled.

Vi expected her to argue.

Expected her to snap back with some calculated, polished response.

But Caitlyn just… exhaled.

And when she spoke, her voice was quiet. Steady. But heavy.

"There shouldn’t be sides, Vi."

Vi’s chest tightened.

Because the way Caitlyn said it—not like a rehearsed speech, not like some Piltover politician trying to sound sympathetic—

She meant it.

And that?

That made Vi’s fists curl.

"That’s easy for you to say," Vi muttered. "You grew up safe. Rich. Privileged. You don’t know what it’s like to fight for something because you had to. Not because it makes a good headline."

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened slightly.

"You think I said what I did for attention?" she asked, voice sharper now.

Vi scoffed. "I think words are easy. Action is harder."

Caitlyn was silent for a long moment.

Then—softer now.

"I know," she admitted.

Vi’s breath caught.

Because she hadn’t expected that.

Hadn’t expected Caitlyn to agree.

Hadn’t expected Caitlyn to just take it.

Vi narrowed her eyes. "Then why say anything at all?"

Caitlyn met her gaze.

"Because it was the truth."

Vi clenched her jaw.

Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Caitlyn was supposed to be fake, a politician’s daughter, someone who didn’t actually care.

But the woman standing in front of her—the woman looking her dead in the eyes, unshaken, certain—

Wasn’t lying.

And Vi hated it.

Because that made it harder to hate her.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

"You really don’t know when to stop, do you?" Vi muttered.

Caitlyn gave her a small, tired smirk.

"You should know that by now."

Vi sighed, rubbing her temples.

"You really are full of surprises, huh?"

Caitlyn gave her a small, unreadable smile.

"You have no idea."

And Vi?

For the first time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight Caitlyn anymore.

Because maybe—just maybe—Caitlyn wasn’t the person Vi had built up in her head.

And that?

That was more dangerous than anything.

Chapter Text

Jeddah Grand Prix

The paddock was alive with energy—team engineers rushing, tires rolling, last-minute adjustments being made.

But Vi?

She barely heard any of it.

She sat on a low concrete wall near the Red Bull garage, hands clasped together, fingers drumming anxiously against her knuckles. Her gaze was distant, staring past the track, past the floodlights, past everything.

Because today wasn’t just another race weekend.

Today was Jinx’s birthday.

Another year.

Another reminder that Jinx had disappeared from her life without a trace.

Another year of searching. Of hoping, of waiting, of finding nothing but silence.

Vi exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the wall.

She had tried everything—calls that went unanswered, messages that were never read, old friends who shook their heads and said they hadn’t seen her.

Jinx was gone.

Not dead—Vi refused to believe that.

But gone.

Living somewhere far away, somewhere she didn’t want to be found.

Somewhere Vi couldn’t reach her.

"Vi?"

A voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

She blinked, turning to see Ekko watching her carefully.

His expression was unreadable, but Vi had known him long enough to know when he was worried.

"You’ve been quiet all morning," Ekko said, sitting beside her. "What’s wrong?"

Vi hesitated, fingers tightening in her lap.

Then, softly.

"It’s Jinx’s birthday."

Ekko’s face shifted—understanding, sadness.

He nodded slowly.

"You been looking for her again?"

Vi let out a slow, tired laugh.

"Like I ever stopped."

Ekko sighed, running a hand over his head. "Vi…"

"I know," she muttered before he could say anything. "She doesn’t want to be found."

Ekko didn’t argue.

Because they both knew it was true.

Instead, he bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.

"She’d want you to focus on your race," he said. "Even if she’d never admit it."

Vi exhaled sharply, rubbing her face.

"Yeah," she muttered. "Guess I better get to it then."

Ekko gave her a small, reassuring nod.

And for a second—just a second—the weight in her chest felt a little lighter.

The press was everywhere—cameras flashing, microphones shoved toward her, the familiar buzz of voices asking question after question.

Vi adjusted her earpiece as the interviewer turned toward her.

"Vi, you’ve been aggressive this season, constantly fighting at the front. Do you think you can take the win this weekend?"

Vi forced a smirk.

"I’m more than determined."

The reporter smiled, scribbling notes.

"You had an intense battle with Caitlyn Kiramman last week" they continued. "What’s your take on her as a competitor?"

Vi’s smirk faded.

Her grip tightened around the mic.

Of course they were going to bring up Caitlyn.

They always did.

Every damn interview.

Vi could already feel the frustration bubbling under her skin—why did everything have to be about Caitlyn?

She was about to answer.

Then she stopped.

No.

She wasn’t doing this.

She wasn’t giving them a quote.

She wasn’t wasting her breath talking about Caitlyn Kiramman.

So instead, she just tilted her head slightly, smirked, and stayed silent.

The interviewer waited.

Vi didn’t answer.

And after a long, awkward pause, they moved on.

Vi turned, stepping away from the cameras, her blood still running hot.

This race wasn’t about Caitlyn.

It wasn’t about rivalry.

It was about winning.

And Vi was ready.

The lights of the Jeddah Corniche Circuit were blinding, casting a harsh white glow over the track. The air hummed with the sound of roaring engines, the sharp screech of tires, the frantic voices over the team radios.

But Vi barely heard any of it.

Her thoughts were somewhere else.

Jinx.

It was her birthday today.

Another year. Another reminder that Jinx had walked away, cut ties, vanished into thin air—leaving Vi with nothing but questions and empty space.

It didn’t matter how many times she tried.

Jinx never answered. Never showed up. Never gave her a damn sign that she even existed anymore.

Vi had been left with nothing but her own guilt and a hollow, aching space where family was supposed to be.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.

She wasn’t thinking about racing anymore.

She was thinking about escape.

About pushing forward. About going faster.

Because if she went fast enough—maybe she wouldn’t feel the weight in her chest.

Maybe she wouldn’t hear Jinx’s voice in the back of her mind, reminding her of everything she lost.

Maybe she could just win and forget.

Final laps.

Vi’s Red Bull tore down the straight, the engine roaring as she closed in on the car ahead.

Caitlyn.

The four-time world champion was ahead, taking each turn with perfect precision, like she always did.

Vi clenched her jaw.

Not tonight.

She wasn’t going to let Caitlyn win this.

Vi slammed her foot down, forcing herself closer, the slipstream pulling her forward.

Caitlyn flicked her car through the corners like it was effortless—but Vi didn’t care about clean driving right now.

She was going to take pole position.

No matter what.

She dived for the inside line—too fast, too reckless.

Caitlyn’s mirrors filled with the Red Bull’s front wing.

"What the hell is she doing?" Caitlyn muttered into the radio.

For a split second—their wheels nearly touched.

Caitlyn reacted instinctively, adjusting just in time to avoid the collision.

But Vi—Vi wasn’t adjusting.

Vi was forcing the overtake no matter the risk.

She wasn’t thinking about consequences.

She was thinking about winning.

And then—

Everything went wrong.

Vi pushed too hard, took too much speed into the corner—

And her rear tires lost grip.

For a split second, she felt the car wobble beneath her—a slight twitch, a warning—

But by the time she reacted, it was too late.

The back end stepped out violently.

The car spun sideways.

Vi’s stomach dropped.

She barely had time to process it before she slammed into the barrier.

The impact rattled through her entire body—the sickening crunch of carbon fiber shattering, sparks flying, the violent jolt knocking the breath from her lungs.

Everything stopped.

The Red Bull sat motionless, one side of it crumpled against the wall.

Her radio crackled to life, but she barely registered it.

"Vi, are you okay?!"

Her ears were ringing.

Her hands trembled on the wheel.

She breathed—shallow, slow—trying to get her bearings.

She was fine.

Bruised, shaken, but fine.

Then—she heard screeching tires.

Another car had stopped.

And before she could process what was happening—

Caitlyn was there.

"Caitlyn, what the hell are you doing?!"

The voice in Caitlyn’s earpiece was furious, but she didn’t care.

She had seen Vi’s car slam into the wall, seen the smoke, the broken front wing, the lack of response on the radio.

Her body had moved before her mind could even catch up.

She had hit the brakes, parked her car off-track, and run.

Now she was standing at Vi’s car, gripping the cockpit.

"Vi!" she called, voice sharper than she intended.

For a second—no response.

Then—a groan.

The cockpit shifted slightly.

Vi’s helmeted head lifted.

Caitlyn exhaled, relieved.

She leaned in, scanning Vi for any obvious injuries.

"Vi, can you hear me?"

Vi groaned again, rubbing her forehead.

Caitlyn felt the tension in her chest ease just slightly.

Then Vi turned to look at her—confused, still catching her breath.

And the first thing out of her mouth was:

"You stopped your lap?"

Caitlyn blinked.

"Are you serious right now?"

Vi slowly unstrapped her belts, pulling herself out of the car.

"You abandoned your run for pole just to check on me?" Vi asked, disbelief in her voice.

Caitlyn frowned.

"You crashed, Vi. What was I supposed to do?"

Vi scoffed. "Uh, I don’t know—finish the damn session?"

Caitlyn’s frustration boiled over.

"You’ve been reckless the entire night," she snapped.

Vi rolled her eyes. "Yeah, so what? That’s how I drive, Kiramman."

Caitlyn shook her head.

"No," she said, voice firmer. "This was different. This wasn’t just your usual aggression—you were out of control."

Vi stiffened.

Caitlyn stepped closer.

"You almost took me out twice," Caitlyn continued, voice sharper now. "You weren’t thinking. You were just throwing yourself into every gap like you didn’t care if you crashed."

Vi’s jaw tightened.

She felt the words sting.

Because Caitlyn was right.

She hadn’t been thinking.

She had just been pushing. Running. Escaping.

Vi’s lips parted, like she was about to say something.

Then—she didn’t.

Instead, she said something cold.

Something she didn’t even fully mean.

"Why do you even care?"

Caitlyn’s face went blank.

The hurt flashed so quickly that Vi barely caught it.

A flicker in her blue eyes—real, unguarded, raw.

Then—just as fast—

Caitlyn shut down.

Expression blank. Composed.

Like Vi’s words hadn’t cut deeper than they should have.

Before either of them could say anything else, the marshals arrived.

And just like that, it was over.

Caitlyn stepped back.

Didn’t say another word.

She turned and walked away, her shoulders tense, her steps sharp.

Vi watched her go.

And for the first time, she regretted what she had said.

But she wasn’t sure if she could take it back.

Caitlyn sat rigid in her chair inside the Mercedes garage.

The air was thick with tension, the overhead lights casting harsh shadows against the walls.

Her race suit was still damp with sweat, the adrenaline of the last hour refusing to fade.

But that wasn’t why she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

It was the silence.

The heavy, unforgiving silence of an entire team staring at her like she had just made the biggest mistake of her career.

Because maybe—she had.

She looked at the board.

Q3 Results:

P9 – Caitlyn Kiramman (Mercedes)

P10 – Vi (Red Bull)

She had been on pole pace.

Until she stopped.

Until she ran to Vi.

And now, instead of starting at the front, she was buried in the midfield.

A deep voice broke the silence.

"You had the pace to take pole."

Caitlyn turned her head slowly.

Ambessa Medarda—Mercedes’ team principal—stood with her arms crossed, her gaze sharp and unreadable.

She was not an easy woman to impress.

She was even harder to please.

Caitlyn held her ground, lifting her chin.

"A car crashed," she said. "Someone could’ve been hurt."

Ambessa tilted her head slightly.

"And instead of trusting the marshals to do their job, you chose to abandon your own?"

Caitlyn felt a flicker of irritation but forced herself to remain calm.

"You think I could’ve just ignored that?" she asked.

A quiet scoff came from one of the engineers.

"Do you want to lose this championship?"

Caitlyn’s jaw clenched.

"Of course not."

"Then start acting like it," Ambessa said flatly.

Caitlyn stayed silent.

Because she knew the rules.

She knew that stopping mid-session wasn’t just reckless from a competitive standpoint—it was practically unheard of.

F1 was ruthless.

You didn’t stop unless you had to.

Unless you were forced to.

But she had stopped.

For Vi.

Ambessa stepped closer, voice lower, sharper.

"You need to understand something, Caitlyn," she said. "This? This won’t win you races. It won’t win you titles."

Caitlyn’s hands curled into fists.

"You think I should’ve just left her there?" she asked, voice quiet, but dangerous.

Ambessa watched her carefully.

Then—shrugged.

"I think you need to learn how to make hard decisions," she said.

Caitlyn said nothing.

Because she knew.

She knew Ambessa was right.

And yet—she didn’t regret what she did.

Not one bit.

Post-Qualifying Interviews

The media room was hot, buzzing with tension.

Caitlyn adjusted her headset, her fingers tight against the table.

She wasn’t in the mood for this.

She could still hear Vi’s words playing over and over in her head.

"Why do you even care?"

She shouldn’t care.

She should be thinking about the race, about recovery, about strategy.

But instead, her thoughts kept dragging her back to Vi.

To the way she had crashed.

To the way her voice had sounded when she snapped at her.

To the way Vi had looked at her like Caitlyn stopping was the most unbelievable thing in the world.

"You abandoned your lap. For what?"

Caitlyn exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus.

The first journalist started.

"Caitlyn, you were on pace for pole, but you stopped your lap after Vi’s crash. Can you explain your decision?"

Caitlyn met their gaze, voice even, but firm.

"I saw a car crash," she said. "Someone could have been seriously hurt. I made a choice."

The journalist nodded, but there was a hint of judgment in their eyes.

"You’ve been in F1 for years. You know that stopping in Q3 is almost unheard of—"

"So is abandoning someone when they could be injured," Caitlyn cut in.

The room went still for half a second.

The journalist shifted slightly.

"I’m not saying it was wrong," they clarified. "But do you think this decision could cost you in the championship battle?"

Caitlyn clenched her jaw.

"It’s a long season," she said simply.

Another journalist jumped in.

"But would you do it again? If the same thing happened tomorrow, would you stop?"

Caitlyn exhaled sharply.

Her gaze hardened.

"Yes."

A murmur spread through the room.

She could feel the weight of her words.

The implication that she wasn’t just here to win at any cost.

That there was something more important than trophies.

The next question came in, sharper.

"Do you think Vi’s aggression tonight was responsible for her crash?"

Caitlyn’s stomach twisted.

Vi had been reckless.

Vi had been desperate.

Vi had nearly taken them both out.

But Caitlyn also knew the truth.

Something was wrong with her tonight.

Something beyond racing.

And Caitlyn wanted to know why.

So she didn’t answer directly.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly.

"I think Vi is one of the most talented drivers on this grid," she said. "But tonight—" She paused, just for a second. "Tonight, she wasn’t herself."

More murmurs.

The journalists picked up on it immediately.

"Are you saying there was another reason behind her driving tonight?"

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.

She wasn’t going to air Vi’s struggles to the media.

So she just said, "You’ll have to ask her that."

The interview ended shortly after.

Caitlyn stood up, the tension still coiled in her chest.

She needed to focus on tomorrow’s race.

But her thoughts kept drifting back to Vi.

To what had pushed her that far.

And to the way Caitlyn had felt when she saw that Red Bull slam into the barrier.

The way her heart had stopped.

The way she had forgotten about everything else.

And to one simple, undeniable truth.

Caitlyn had never stopped for anyone before.

Not like this.

Not until Vi.

The lights were blinding.

The cameras stared her down, unflinching.

The room was hot, thick with the scent of tension and sweat.

Vi sat rigid, arms crossed, fingers curling into the sleeves of her race suit.

Her breathing was steady, but her pulse—her pulse was a goddamn war drum in her chest.

She wasn’t ready for this.

She wasn’t in the mood.

She wasn’t even sure she could form a full sentence without snapping.

Because no matter how much she tried to block it out, it was still there.

The crash.

The smoke.

The second of suffocating silence before she moved.

And then—

Caitlyn.

Caitlyn, who had stopped.

Who had thrown away everything for her.

The interviewer spoke, and the sound of his voice made Vi’s skin crawl.

"Vi, can you take us through what happened during qualifying?"

Vi barely blinked.

Her response came sharp, clipped, void of anything but irritation.

"Lost the car. Hit the wall."

Short. Dismissive.

She wasn’t playing their game.

Not today.

The journalist didn’t let up.

"You were locked in a tight battle with Caitlyn before the incident. Do you think her presence on track played a role in what happened?"

Vi clenched her jaw.

Her presence?

Like Caitlyn was the problem?

Like she hadn’t been pushing too hard for reasons that had nothing to do with Caitlyn?

Like she hadn’t been driving like someone who didn’t care if she crashed?

She could already hear the headlines.

"Vi blames Caitlyn for her crash."

"Red Bull rookie struggles against Mercedes ace."

Vi wasn’t giving them that.

So she leaned back in her chair, eyes sharp, unforgiving.

"Racing is racing."

Simple. Cold.

The journalist tilted his head, studying her.

"Would you say you were overdriving?"

Vi’s fingers twitched.

She wanted to laugh.

Overdriving?

No.

She had been running.

Running from the way her chest felt too tight all day.

Running from the fact that today was Jinx’s birthday and she still didn’t know where the hell her sister was.

Running from everything she didn’t want to feel.

She forced her smirk back, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

"Next question."

The journalist hesitated.

Then—the words that made her stomach turn.

"Caitlyn was asked about your crash in her interview," the journalist said, his voice almost too casual. "She said—and I quote—Vi is one of the most talented drivers on this grid. But tonight, she wasn’t herself."

The moment the words hit her, Vi’s entire body went still.

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers curled into fists.

"She wasn’t herself."

Her lungs squeezed tight.

Her ears rang.

Because Caitlyn had seen it.

Had noticed.

Had known something was wrong.

Had been paying attention.

And Vi hated it.

Hated how easily Caitlyn could read her.

Hated how she had said it out loud, like it was fact.

The journalist was watching her closely now, waiting for a reaction.

Vi forced herself to relax her shoulders, to mask the fact that Caitlyn’s words had landed like a goddamn gut punch.

She let out a short, bitter laugh.

"She said that?"

The journalist nodded.

"So do you agree?"

Vi scoffed, shaking her head.

"I think Caitlyn should focus on her own race."

The words came out sharp, cutting.

But the journalist wasn’t done.

"And what about her decision to stop her lap for you?"

Vi felt it again.

That ugly, twisting feeling in her chest.

The part of her that couldn’t understand why Caitlyn had done it.

Why she had thrown away pole position.

Why she had run to Vi like she—

Like she mattered.

Her throat felt tight.

She needed this conversation to end.

Now.

She met the journalist’s gaze, eyes cold, distant.

"That was her mistake," she muttered. "Not mine."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The journalist waited for more.

Vi gave him nothing.

And finally—finally—he moved on.

But Vi?

Vi was still stuck on Caitlyn.

Still stuck on the fact that she had stopped.

Still stuck on the way she had looked at her after the crash.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Vi wasn’t sure if she was mad at Caitlyn.

Or if she was mad at herself.

Chapter Text

The Jeddah Corniche Circuit blazed under the floodlights, a ribbon of speed wound along the Red Sea. The roar of engines filled the night air. Spotlights gleamed off the halo of Vi’s Red Bull as she sat in P10, tense, fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel.

Just ahead in P9, Caitlyn sat still, composed in her Mercedes. Jaw tight. Eyes forward.

The lights on the gantry lit up.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Lights out.

Vi launched like a bullet—aggressive, frantic. Her tires screamed as she rocketed off the line, instantly diving down the inside of Turn 1. Metal crowded around her, carbon fiber wings dangerously close. She elbowed into P8, then dropped back. Controlled chaos.

But Caitlyn?

She was ice.

She leapt forward with precision—taking advantage of two drivers tangling up at Turn 3. She slid past into P7, then P6 before Lap 2 was out. By Lap 4, she was in P4—clinical, relentless.

Vi tried to follow.

But she wasn’t clinical.

She was furious.

The rage from qualifying still clung to her—rage at herself, at the world, at Caitlyn, even though she didn’t know why. She forced a move into Turn 11, locked her rears, skidded wide, and nearly clipped the wall.

She caught it.

Barely.

Back in the pits, her engineer’s voice crackled in her ear: “Vi, you have to calm down.”

But Vi wasn’t hearing anything.

She was driving like the track owed her something.

And meanwhile—Caitlyn flew.

She hunted the frontrunners like a machine. Lap by lap, she reeled them in—clean overtakes, no contact, no wasted motion. She was all calculation and elegance.

Lap 17: P3.

Lap 21: P2.

Lap 26: a brilliant switchback on the back straight—P1.

And from there, she controlled the race.

Mercedes pit wall watched in silent awe. Caitlyn’s lap times were metronomic. Tire management perfect. Radio calm.

Vi, on the other hand, was a storm.

Every corner was a gamble.

On Lap 29, she lunged again on Norris for P9, ran wide, lost it again, dropped to P11. Her tires were cooked. Her rear stepped out violently on Lap 33—nearly another wall.

“Box, box,” her team finally called.

She pit.

Fresh tires helped. She clawed her way back to P10 by Lap 42.

But it wasn’t driving—it was fighting.

It wasn’t racing—it was running.

Up front, Caitlyn never looked back.

The final ten laps were hers. Absolute control. Cool under pressure. Dominating.

Lap 50: The checkered flag waved.

Caitlyn Kiramman—P1. From P9. A masterclass.

The crowd exploded.

Her engineer screamed in her ear.

“You did it! You freaking did it!”

Caitlyn didn’t scream.

She just closed her eyes, hand trembling around the wheel, and let herself breathe.

Vi crossed the line in P10.

She didn’t even speak. She didn’t respond to her engineer. She just sat there, the engine ticking, the world roaring for someone else.

The champagne sprayed. The Saudi night sparkled with confetti and cheers.

Caitlyn stood atop the podium.

P1.

She wore no wide grin—just a calm, glowing confidence. Her fist rose once to the crowd, then lowered. She didn’t need the celebration.

She had won the race on merit. On heart. On steel.

Reporters swarmed her on the way down.

“Caitlyn, you started in ninth and won the race! Walk us through it.”

She gave a quiet nod. “It was about execution. We knew the car had pace. The team was perfect. I just did what I had to.”

“After what happened in qualifying—do you feel like this vindicates your decision to stop?”

She hesitated. Just for a second.

Then: “I don’t regret what I did yesterday. But tonight was about racing. And I’m proud of how we fought.”

---

Post-Race: Vi

Vi sat at the far end of the press room.

Arms crossed. Jaw locked.

The reporters came, as they always did.

But she wasn’t smiling.

Her fire had burned through everything. All that was left was ash.

“Vi, tough race. P10. Do you think the emotional weight of qualifying affected your performance?”

Vi didn’t even blink.

“Wasn’t good enough. That’s all there is.”

“Caitlyn stopped her lap in qualifying to check on you after the crash—and tonight, she wins from P9. Any comment on her performance?”

Vi’s eyes darkened.

Her voice, when it came, was cold. Flat.

“She did her job. I’m not here to talk about her.”

“But she helped you. People are calling it one of the most selfless moments of the season—”

Vi cut in.

“I said I’m not here to talk about Caitlyn.”

The room went still.

She let the silence settle.

Then added, sharper:

“I need to focus on my own race. And tonight? Mine was terrible.”

No warmth. No reflection.

Just a steel wall.

The wind in Jeddah was different at night.

Gone was the dry, searing desert heat that clung to your skin during the day. Instead, the evening brought something gentler—a breeze off the water, cooler, quieter, brushing through the palm trees that lined the luxury hotel’s courtyard.

Vi stepped into it like someone surfacing from deep water.

She hadn’t changed out of her hoodie, though her race suit was long gone. A Red Bull logo lay creased on her shoulder, barely visible beneath the shadows. Her joggers dragged slightly at the ankles, her sneakers scuffed from too many pit lane sprints. Her hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail, damp from a shower that had done nothing to rinse away the pressure in her chest.

The race was over.

The interviews were over.

The world had moved on, drunk on headlines and podium photos.

But Vi?

Vi couldn’t sleep.

She needed air.

Real air. Not the filtered, overly perfumed kind in hotel rooms or press suites. She needed space to move. To stop pretending.

To feel something she hadn’t let herself feel in days.

She stepped into the hotel garden with her hands in her hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched, steps slow. White string lights coiled through the trees above, dimmed now, casting just enough light to blur the edges of the path. A low stone wall ringed a square fountain at the center, its water trickling in soft, steady rhythm.

She paused there.

Closed her eyes.

Listened.

Until—

Footsteps.

Approaching from behind.

Measured. Light. Familiar.

Vi turned slowly.

And there she was.

Caitlyn.

Fresh from a run, it seemed. Her hoodie—plain navy—was damp with sweat at the collar. Her running tights clung to her legs, and her hair was tied into a neat ponytail that had loosened slightly around her temple. She was catching her breath, earbuds around her neck, her skin flushed and glowing in the low light.

She stopped when she saw Vi, brows lifting slightly in surprise.

Vi froze too. Then—before either of them could look away—she found her voice.

“…Hey.”

Caitlyn tilted her head. “Hey.”

A pause.

Vi swallowed.

“I was hoping I’d see you.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply.

Vi took one hesitant step closer, then another, until she was standing near the fountain’s edge. Her hands remained deep in her pockets.

“I owe you something,” she said, her voice quiet. Uncertain.

Caitlyn didn’t move. Just waited.

Vi shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

And then—she looked her in the eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out rough, like she had to drag them up from somewhere deep. Her shoulders didn’t drop, her fists didn’t unclench—but the words were real.

“I was out of line. In qualifying. After the crash. After the interviews.” Her voice cracked. “You didn’t deserve that. And I treated you like—like a stranger. Or worse.”

Caitlyn still didn’t speak. She watched Vi carefully, her expression unreadable.

Vi continued.

“You didn’t have to stop that lap. You didn’t have to come running. You didn’t have to check on me.” Her jaw tensed. “But you did. You risked your race for me. And I never even said thank you.”

Silence.

“Thank you,” Vi whispered.

And there it was.

All of it.

Offered like a hand she wasn’t sure would be taken.

Caitlyn’s gaze finally softened.

And she stepped forward.

“You meant that,” she said quietly.

Vi nodded.

“Yeah.”

Caitlyn breathed out slowly, her chest rising, then falling.

“Okay.”

Another pause.

And then—surprisingly—

“Walk with me.”

The garden path curled around the back of the hotel, weaving between trimmed hedges and low lanterns that cast pools of golden light. Crickets chirped from somewhere in the grass. A slow, lazy wind stirred the trees overhead.

They walked in silence at first.

Side by side.

Not close enough to touch, but not far enough to feel distant.

Vi felt the air around Caitlyn—cool, charged. The kind of quiet strength that didn’t demand attention but didn’t yield it either. Beside her, Caitlyn walked tall, calm as ever, arms loosely folded across her chest.

“I can’t stop thinking about the race,” Vi said eventually. “The moment I spun out. How I pushed too far. Again.”

Caitlyn glanced sideways. “You pushed because something was off. Even before you lost it.”

Vi hesitated.

Then gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

“You always drive on the edge,” Caitlyn added. “But this weekend.You were over it.”

Vi didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Caitlyn kept walking. Her voice was even. Careful.

“Whatever you’re dealing with… it’s bleeding into the car.”

Vi’s voice was low. “I know.”

“I’m not judging.”

Vi looked at her. “Then what are you doing?”

Caitlyn stopped.

She turned, her eyes searching Vi’s face.

“I’m trying to understand.”

And just like that—Vi looked away.

Because understanding was more terrifying than judgment.

“I’m not good at this,” Vi muttered.

“At what?”

“This. Talking. Feeling.” She let out a quiet laugh, bitter at the edges. “I’m better at punching problems in the face.”

Caitlyn smiled softly. “I noticed.”

Vi smirked. “You’re still here, though.”

Caitlyn shrugged. “You apologized. That’s more than most drivers would do.”

“Didn’t mean I expected forgiveness.”

“I didn’t say you had it.”

Vi blinked, glancing over.

Caitlyn was smirking now.

Vi snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are.”

They kept walking.

This time, closer.

They reached the far end of the garden path, where a narrow stone bench sat under a flowering tree. Caitlyn sat first. Vi paced a few steps before sitting beside her, elbows on her knees.

The breeze tugged softly at the leaves overhead.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Then Vi broke the silence.

“It was Jinx’s birthday,” she said, voice so quiet it was nearly lost to the wind.

Caitlyn turned to her.

Vi didn’t look back.

“My sister,” she added. “She’s… gone.”

Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change.

But something in her posture did.

She didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t press.

Just listened.

Vi exhaled slowly. “I thought I could bury it. Just focus on the race. But it caught up with me.”

“I know how that feels,” Caitlyn said gently.

Vi glanced at her.

Caitlyn looked ahead, her voice calm but heavy. “Grief doesn’t disappear. It just waits.”

Vi looked down at her hands.

Fidgeted with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

Caitlyn gave a quiet nod. “I know.”

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.

It was something else.

Understanding. Shared weight.

Then Caitlyn tilted her head. “You going to try and take me out again in Australia?”

Vi smirked. “Only if you’re too slow.”

Caitlyn laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Vi leaned back, stretching out her legs.

“I meant it,” she said. “Next race, I’ll be better.”

Caitlyn turned to her. “You mean safer?”

“I mean stronger,” Vi said, eyes steady. “Not just for the team. For myself.”

Caitlyn’s smile returned.

“I’m holding you to that."

They walked back in silence.

This time, they matched pace easily. Their shoulders brushed once. Neither of them stepped away.

At the hotel entrance, Caitlyn paused with her hand on the door.

Vi lingered beside her.

“Thanks for not walking away,” she said.

Caitlyn looked at her, expression unreadable—but softer.

“I almost did,” she admitted. “Back in qualifying.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Caitlyn held her gaze.

“Because you matter more than pole position.”

Vi swallowed hard.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Caitlyn stepped inside, disappearing into the light.

Vi stood there alone, watching the stars blink in the dark sky above the Red Sea.

And for the first time in a long time—

She didn’t feel quite so alone.

The Australian sun was already high by the time the paddock began to hum to life, casting crisp golden lines between the transporter trucks and glinting off the chrome Mercedes star and Red Bull insignia.

Media swarmed at the gates.

Fans pressed eagerly against the fencing—some waving signs, others holding sharpies, phones, and homemade “ViKiramman” merch, their excitement buzzing like a live wire.

Race weekend had arrived in Melbourne.

And all eyes were watching.

The first to step out of the car was Vi.

Red Bull hoodie tossed casually over her shoulders, black aviators on, chewing gum like she didn’t have a care in the world.

But there was a swagger to her walk now—not cocky, but confident, more grounded than she'd been since Jeddah. Her headphones hung around her neck, music still thumping softly. She wore her race boots laced loose, as if she’d been ready for the track since yesterday.

The fans screamed.

“Vi! Vi, over here!”

She glanced over—then smirked.

“You guys really show up at 8am for this?” she said, lifting her sunglasses and squinting into the crowd.

A teenager held up a sign that read “Crashed Hearts Club” with Vi’s number drawn in bold red.

She barked a laugh. “That’s dark. I like it.”

Vi jogged over, signed it, then turned her cap backward and gave two quick thumbs-up before heading toward the paddock gate. Cameras snapped as she went—cool, detached, not exactly a people-person, but no longer as raw and unreachable as before.

Moments later, another car pulled up.

And Caitlyn stepped out.

Mercedes polo crisp, sunglasses immaculate, long stride purposeful as ever. Where Vi looked like she might’ve just rolled out of bed and into the garage, Caitlyn looked like she’d rehearsed the walk in a mirror.

But her eyes were soft. Her smile wasn’t just for the cameras—it was for the fans.

“Caitlyn! You’re a queen!”

“Give us the wink!”

She paused—took her time.

Signed hats. Took selfies. Even bent down to scribble her name across a girl’s cast—“Don’t race until you’re healed,” she wrote, along with a tiny drawing of a steering wheel.

Vi, watching from a distance by the Red Bull entrance, muttered, “I swear she’s running for office.”

One of her mechanics chuckled. “She’s winning fans like it’s a campaign.”

“Yeah, well,” Vi shrugged, “I’d vote for her.”

The media center at Albert Park wasn’t loud—but it buzzed with something expectant.

Not tension. Not quite.

Just attention.

Three drivers were seated behind a clean black table with understated team branding behind them.
Three microphones, three name cards.

Caitlyn Kiramman – Mercedes
Vi – Red Bull
Viktor – Aston Martin

The session hadn’t even started, and already the photographers were snapping stills—just in case.

Vi sat reclined slightly, fingers idly tapping on her water bottle. Her Red Bull polo was half-zipped, hair pulled back in a way that said I got ready in 10 minutes, but she looked comfortable. More focused than frantic.

Caitlyn, in the center, was her usual composed self. Mercedes polo pressed, sleeves neat, back straight. But there was a faint softness in her posture today—a calm that didn’t read as cold.

Viktor looked exactly the same as he always did: borderline unreadable, hands folded, gaze straight ahead like he was already three corners into Turn 1.

The moderator kept things brief.

“Good morning, everyone. We’re joined today by Caitlyn, Vi, and Viktor. Let’s get started.”

The first question was routine.

“How’s the mindset heading into the weekend?”

Caitlyn answered smoothly. “Focused. The track evolves quickly here, so FP1 is about getting ahead of that curve.”

Vi, glancing sideways, added, “That, and not binning it into a wall. Which is currently my personal record to beat.”

Caitlyn didn’t turn—but the faintest smile tugged at her mouth.

Viktor deadpanned, “A noble benchmark.”

A journalist cleared his throat.

“Let’s address the elephant in the paddock—Jeddah qualifying. Caitlyn, you stopped your lap. Vi, you crashed. You both said your piece afterward. Is it behind you now?”

Caitlyn nodded politely. “We’ve moved on.”

Vi gave a short, slightly crooked smile. “She stopped a flying lap to check on me. I was an ass about it. I’ve since returned to being a human being.”

That got a few chuckles from the room—and even from Viktor.

Caitlyn’s response was calm. “She apologized. I accepted. That’s the end of the story.”

“Mutual professionalism?” the journalist offered.

Vi shrugged. “More or less. She’s not yelling at me. I’m not crashing in front of her. It’s progress.”

Caitlyn leaned slightly toward the mic. “Let’s just say I appreciate clean racing more than dramatic exits.”

Vi muttered, “Noted.”

“How do you both approach racing each other now?”

Caitlyn was quick to answer.

“Same as I approach everyone. Leave space, race hard, trust the driver beside me to do the same.”

Vi paused. “I drive hard. Always have. But I know where the line is now.”

“Glad to hear it,” Caitlyn said dryly.

Another wave of laughter rippled through the press.

Viktor Chimes In

“You’ve been between them in races before,” someone asked Viktor. “What’s that like?”

Viktor blinked slowly.

“Efficient chaos. They fight clean, but not quietly.”

Vi grinned. “We’re a spectacle.”

“You’re loud,” Viktor corrected.

“Final one,” the moderator said. “One sentence on what you want from FP1.”

Caitlyn answered immediately. “Data, balance, consistency.”

Vi thought a second. “No yellow flags with my name on them.”

Viktor simply said, “Stay out of their way.”

Even Caitlyn chuckled at that one.

Social Media Reaction

@T1Recap
Caitlyn: calm.
Vi: self-deprecating.
Viktor: tired of them both.
This panel was GOLD.

---

@F1mirror
Vi low-key owning her Jeddah mess + Caitlyn letting it slide = the adult growth arc I didn’t know I needed.

---

@KirammanMedia
Vi: “She stopped a flying lap to check on me. I was an ass.”
That’s the apology. That’s it. No PR. Just respect.

---

@gridsidebanter
Viktor saying “efficient chaos” was the best quote of the day and somehow 100% accurate.

---

@f1meta
The Vi–Caitlyn rivalry has quietly become a masterclass in tension, restraint, and respect. Less Netflix drama, more character development.

The sun had settled into its late-morning glow, painting warm streaks of gold across the asphalt and carbon fiber. The paddock, now past the storm of Free Practice 1, buzzed in its own muted rhythm—footsteps echoing across the concrete walkways, the distant whir of tire guns packing down for the next run, engines gone quiet but still carrying their heat.

It had been a good session.

Clean. Efficient.

Caitlyn had topped the timing sheets early and stayed in the fight the entire hour. The Mercedes looked exactly like what it was: a machine dialed in by someone who knew how to extract every inch of its precision.

Vi wasn’t far off. P3, smooth lines, no lockups, no radio complaints. Just pace. Finally.

The paddock reflected that peace.

There was no chaos. No crushed carbon. No tension boiling under skin or steel.

Just focus.

And for once, Vi wasn’t walking like she had to dodge the weight of her own frustration.

She stepped out from the Red Bull garage with her race suit hanging from her hips and a bottle of water loose in one hand. Her boots scuffed gently against the pavement as she crossed into the side path near the hospitality units. The sun caught her hair, wind brushing the sweat-damp strands away from her brow. Her headphones were looped around her neck, though she wasn’t listening to anything. For the first time in weeks, her mind was quiet.

And then—

A flicker of motion caught her eye.

Up ahead, standing against the silver rail lining the team suites, was Caitlyn.

Mercedes fire suit still zipped. Helmet cradled casually under one arm. The same flawless posture Vi had always known, like she was trained to be unshakable.

But her eyes weren’t fixed on a data screen.

They were watching the sky.

The moment Vi approached, Caitlyn turned her head—slightly, slowly—and looked right at her.

And then, for the first time Vi could remember…

She smiled.

Not a sharp smirk. Not one of those diplomatic “I'm fine, ask your next question” smiles from the podium.

Just—

A real one.

Small. Subtle.

But unmistakable.

Vi blinked.

And then let the corner of her mouth lift in return.

She slowed her steps but didn’t stop until they were side by side, separated by a meter of space and a long, quiet history of rivalry, fire, and something too new to name.

Caitlyn spoke first.

“Good run.”

Her voice, as always, was smooth. Controlled. But gentler around the edges now.

Vi leaned back against the railing beside her, glancing out toward the blur of sponsor flags flapping lazily above the garage rooftops.

“Didn’t crash,” she said. “We’re calling that a win.”

Caitlyn’s lips curved again.

Tiny, but unmistakable.

“You did more than not crash.”

Vi rolled the water bottle between her palms.

“Didn’t think you watched my laps that closely.”

“I always do,” Caitlyn said, eyes forward.

There was no tension in the silence that followed. No discomfort.

Just space. Shared and quiet.

“You’re smoother in sector two,” Caitlyn added after a moment. “You’ve changed your entry line at Turn 6.”

Vi gave a low chuckle. “Took me long enough. My engineer’s been hinting at it for two weeks.”

“Subtle hints?”

“More like daily reminders and judgmental stares.”

Caitlyn actually laughed—a soft sound, but real.

Vi turned to look at her, expression easy now.

“I was… surprised,” she said quietly.

“By?”

“You. Letting me talk the other night. After everything.”

Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t move. “You needed to talk.”

“And you listened,” Vi said.

That hung between them for a second.

Caitlyn exhaled slowly, then finally turned toward her.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been more yourself than you were in that moment,” she said. “I respected that.”

Vi looked down, brushing a thumb over the cap of her water bottle.

She didn’t know what to say to that.

So she didn’t say anything.

And that, too, was fine.

They stood like that—unmoving, but not still.

Two racers. Two people. Not at war. Not retreating. Just existing next to each other with the kind of ease you can’t fake.

After a while, Caitlyn nodded toward the garages.

“Briefing soon.”

“Yeah,” Vi said. “Me too.”

She pushed off the rail and turned to go.

But before she could take a full step—

Caitlyn spoke again, quietly.

“Vi.”

She stopped.

Turned.

Caitlyn was still standing there, calm as ever, but her voice was softer than before.

“I’m glad you’re driving like this again.”

Vi studied her for a beat.

And then—

She smiled.

Not forced. Not sarcastic.

Real.

“Me too.”

And with that, she walked back toward the Red Bull garage, sunlight catching the curve of her shoulder as she turned the corner.

Caitlyn watched her go.

Just for a moment.

Then she picked up her helmet.

And followed her own path.

The lights above pit lane blinked green.

Q3 had begun.

Tension hung in the air like static, thick and humming. The kind that didn’t shout, didn’t panic—just pressed into every breath, every second, every millimeter of throttle.

The circuit glowed under the soft, burnished sun. Shadows stretched long behind the walls. And above the garages, pit boards flashed and team radios crackled to life.

Caitlyn sat still in the cockpit of her W15.

Helmet on. Visor down. Hands firm on the wheel.

Her breathing was slow, calculated. Inhale for four. Hold. Exhale through the tension.

Her engineer’s voice cut in. Calm. Controlled.

“Track evolution looking strong. Two runs. You’ll have clean air on the second. Push when ready.”

She didn’t respond.

She didn’t need to.

She rolled out onto the circuit.

Two garages down, Vi’s Red Bull came alive.

She pulled down her visor and fired the car forward like it was already chasing something.

Her heart beat steady, but fast.

This wasn’t the same Vi who clipped a wall two weeks ago.
This wasn’t the Vi who lost control chasing ghosts in Jeddah.

This was the version that didn’t need to prove anything.

Only to win.

The first flying laps came fast.

Caitlyn’s Mercedes traced every apex like it was etched there for her. She was all flow and discipline—no wasted movement, no drama.

Vi, by contrast, was looser. More expressive. Sliding through the rear a fraction out of Turn 6. A millisecond late on throttle in 11. But her Red Bull responded like it trusted her again.

When the times flashed up on the tower—

Caitlyn: P2. Vi: P5.

Caitlyn came in early.

Softs still had one more perfect lap in them.

Vi rolled through the pit lane, visor cracked, sweat running down her jawline beneath the helmet.

 “How’s the time?”

Her engineer replied, “P5. Two tenths to third. Still in it.”

She nodded once and pulled into the box.

Back on track with four minutes remaining.

Everything now rode on one lap.

Caitlyn was the first to cross the line.

The W15 launched forward with precision, burning through Turn 1 with a front-end bite that looked almost effortless. Turn 3 — no slide. Turn 6 — millimetre-perfect.

Purple sectors. No hesitation.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Vi was two cars behind. Her out-lap was calm, methodical. Brake temps. Tire temps. Engine mode 3.

But her mind was already in the next 90 seconds.

She shifted once. Twice. Felt the car lean into her grip like it trusted her this time.

At the last corner, she downshifted and squared the car straight.

Then—flat.

She flew down the main straight, engine screaming.

 “You’re free. No traffic. Give it everything.”

She did.

Turn 1 — late braking, aggressive inside line.

Turn 5 — too close to the curb, but she corrected mid-corner, hands dancing.

Her second sector was yellow.

Not purple.

She kept pushing.

Turn 9 — her last trouble spot all weekend — she exhaled and leaned into it. The tires held. The car rotated.

 “Final chicane—tight, clean.”

She nailed the first turn. The second clipped just slightly wide.

It was enough.

Across the line.

Time flashed.

Caitlyn: P1.

Vi: P5.

A strong lap. A cleaner one.

But not enough.

“Good job, Vi,” her engineer said. “That’s a big step forward.”

Vi didn’t respond right away. Just coasted through Turn 1 again, letting the tension bleed off.

Inside the Mercedes garage, Caitlyn was already climbing out of the car, visor lifted, face unreadable but composed.

Her engineer gave her a small nod. “Pole. By 0.096.”

She removed her gloves, unzipped her suit partway, and stepped off the sidepod.

From across the pit lane, Vi climbed from her Red Bull.

Helmet under one arm, she exhaled slowly.

P5 wasn’t a failure.

But it wasn’t what she’d wanted either.

Not yet.

Later, in the post-quali holding area before the top-three interviews, Caitlyn stood beneath the overhead fan, sipping from her water bottle.

Vi walked past—still suited, sweat-damp, but relaxed.

They caught eyes.

Vi gave a nod. “Pole suits you.”

Caitlyn, expression neutral, replied, “P5 doesn’t look bad on you either.”

Vi grinned. “I’ll trade it tomorrow.”

Caitlyn held her gaze.

And then—just barely—smiled.

“Try me.”

Then she turned toward the media wall, as the first round of interviews began.

Chapter Text

The circuit felt different at night.

Not just quieter—emptier. It was as if the track had shed its armor for the evening, and all that remained was asphalt, curve, and memory.

The high floodlights along the Australian GP layout hummed faintly overhead, casting silver-white halos across the corners. No mechanics shouting. No engine echoes. Just the gentle brush of wind through the spectator fences and the occasional distant pop of something being packed away.

Caitlyn liked this time.

After the meetings were done, after the media calls wrapped, after the engineers had stopped reciting fuel loads and brake temps.

Now, it was just her, the circuit, and the soft click-click-click of her pedals rotating forward.

She’d taken to cycling the track at night before race day. She said it helped her visualize. Truth was—it helped her breathe.

Helmet strapped, sleeves pushed to her forearms, Caitlyn guided the matte-black road bike into the long sweeping stretch of Turn 2. Her muscles moved on memory. Her mind flicked through strategy like a slide deck. Every bend, every braking zone, every kerb height she knew by touch now.

But as she rolled into Turn 3, a familiar voice cut through the silence behind her.

"Didn’t peg you for a night rider, Kiramman."

Caitlyn didn’t need to turn around.

The voice had a grin folded into it.

Vi.

Of course.

She coasted to the inside line as the sound of tires approached. Vi pulled up beside her on a slightly battered red-and-navy Cannondale, her helmet slanted just a bit, wind-blown hair sticking out beneath it.

"Didn’t peg you for a stalker," Caitlyn replied smoothly.

Vi laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I saw the bike rack was down. Figured you were out here trying to find some inner peace.”

"Trying," Caitlyn said dryly.

“Mind if I join?”

Caitlyn hesitated.

Then: “It’s a public circuit.”

“Not really, but sure,” Vi grinned, falling into cadence beside her.

---

They pedaled in silence for a few corners. The rhythmic whir of their tires filled the space between street lamps and guard rails.

It wasn’t tense.

Just… quiet.

Like the track was listening too.

"You're different when you're not being watched," Vi said eventually.

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow without looking at her. “You mean when I’m not being cornered in a media pen or asked about tire deg?”

Vi gave a low laugh. “Something like that.”

They turned down the back straight, their bikes picking up speed.

Caitlyn kept her posture easy but efficient—shoulders relaxed, elbows soft, perfect technique.

Vi, on the other hand, leaned forward like she was daring the bike to go faster than physics allowed.

“You really love this part,” Caitlyn said as they banked through the soft bend at Turn 8.

Vi glanced over. “The track?”

“No. The quiet.”

Vi didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “Yeah. The track doesn’t care if you’re having a good day or a breakdown. It’s just there. Waiting.”

Caitlyn nodded once. “Unbiased.”

“Predictable,” Vi added.

“And you like that?”

Vi shrugged. “Helps when everything else isn’t.”

---

They reached Turn 10 and slowed again, bikes coasting.

Caitlyn stood slightly on her pedals, stretching her back.

Vi caught the movement. “You okay?”

“Just tension,” Caitlyn said. “Race day shoulder.”

Vi nodded slowly. Then: “You ever not hold it all together?”

That pulled a glance from Caitlyn. Measured. Careful.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Vi circled her handlebars as she coasted. “I’ve never seen you flustered. Or angry. Or hell, even loud. You’re always just… composed.”

Caitlyn gave a half-smile. “Someone has to be.”

Vi eyed her. “You ever let anyone see you off-script?”

Caitlyn looked ahead again. The lights of the main straight shimmered like distant stars.

“Rarely,” she said. “And usually not on purpose.”

Vi exhaled through her nose, not quite a laugh. “You make it hard to know when you’re human.”

Caitlyn slowed a little more, legs coasting the pedals.

“Maybe I don’t always want to be,” she said quietly.

Vi’s smile faded a little. Not in hurt—but in recognition.

That feeling, she understood too well.

---

They came to a full stop near Turn 12, the soft downhill slope facing the skyline of Melbourne.

The city lights were distant, blurred behind a halo of the grandstands. Above them, the sky stretched wide—deep navy, brushed with clouds and silver stars.

They rested there.

Side by side.

Neither of them spoke.

Caitlyn pulled out her phone, unlocking it with a quiet flick of her thumb. She took a photo of the corner curving ahead—the floodlights, the soft tire marks left over from FP3, the emptiness of it.

She didn’t add text.

Just the image.

Then she posted it to her Story.

Vi watched her out of the corner of her eye.

“Alright,” she said, pulling her own phone out. “If you’re going to go poetic on main, I’m not letting you have the aesthetic edge.”

She raised her phone, angled it upward—not at the track, but at the sky.

One star in particular shone brighter than the rest, just above the final corner.

Click.

She added no caption either.

Just a star.

Posted.

---

Ten minutes later, both stories went live.

And the internet exploded.

---

Social Media Reaction

@F1AfterDark
Caitlyn cycling the track under the floodlights? Vi posting the sky at the same time? I’m not saying anything but 👀👀👀

---

@KirammanUpdates
Vi’s story: a star.
Caitlyn’s story: the track.
Neither said anything. And yet… EVERYTHING IS SAID.

---

@GridPulse
They’re not even posting selfies. They’re posting the same silence. This is better than any podium moment.

---

@Turn12Truthers
This soft lighting, the mood, the energy, the silence, the symbolism

Back on the track, the riders were still there.

Vi leaned on her handlebars, letting the wind pass over her face.

“You ever wonder if it’s always going to be like this?” she asked. “Us. Competing. Balancing. Never fully… letting go?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, “If it is, it could be worse.”

Vi looked over.

“Yeah?”

Caitlyn’s smile was almost too soft to see.

“But I think it might get better.”

The parade truck rumbled slowly through the serpentine edges of the Albert Park circuit, humming beneath the sun-streaked morning sky.

The streets were alive with cheers. Thousands of voices melded into a rising tide of noise, flags waving like painted wind, kids hoisted onto shoulders, camera flashes bouncing off the chrome-plated trim of the vehicle.

Caitlyn stood near the front railing of the truck bed, one hand resting against the bar, the other tucked neatly into the pocket of her Mercedes jacket. She wore her usual pre-race calm like armor — shoulders back, posture clean, the faintest curl of a smile offered to fans as the truck rolled past.

Vi leaned near the back, sunglasses on, Red Bull hoodie unzipped halfway. Her elbows rested on the edge of the truck rail, fingers laced loosely. Her body said relaxed. Her eyes didn’t.

Viktor stood between them, unreadable as ever. Ekko chatted beside him, occasionally pointing at signs in the crowd — one of them said KIRAMMAN = ICE QUEEN. Another had Vi’s car hand-drawn in bright markers with a single caption: SEND IT, VI.

Vi smirked faintly at that one.

Then she saw her.

Maddie.

New to the grid.

She stood on the same parade truck, but had waited until they rounded the corner toward Turn 9 before weaving through the other drivers, slowly making her way forward.

Vi watched her go.

Watched her pause. Reassess. Then continue.

The crowd didn’t notice. Not yet. But Vi did.

And she knew where Maddie was headed long before she arrived.

Caitlyn turned slightly as the younger driver approached.

“Hi,” Maddie said, breathless but beaming. “Sorry—I just wanted to say this before the race.”

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow, shifting her weight slightly to face her. “Go ahead.”

Maddie smiled, nervous energy pouring off her in quiet waves. “You’re the reason I’m even here. You were always so—disciplined. Clean. No wasted effort. It felt like… like watching a machine that could feel things.”

Caitlyn blinked.

That was not the usual kind of compliment.

Vi noticed the way Caitlyn’s posture softened — just slightly. Not in a visible slouch, but in the way her grip on the railing loosened, in the way her chin tilted down to meet Maddie’s height a little better.

“That’s a unique description,” Caitlyn replied. “But thank you.”

Maddie flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Caitlyn said gently. “I appreciate it.”

Vi couldn’t hear every word — the wind and the crowd made sure of that. But she didn’t need to. She’d been around long enough to read a moment before it finished happening.

Maddie was glowing.

Her eyes sparkled when she looked up at Caitlyn, hands half-tucked into the sleeves of her Williams fire suit. She looked like someone seeing a star up close — terrified to get burned, but too awestruck to look away.

Vi’s jaw twitched.

Her fingers curled tighter against the metal bar at the back of the truck.

Something about the way Maddie leaned in — respectful, but eager — set her nerves on edge. Not because she didn’t like the rookie. Maddie was quick, enthusiastic, and dangerously underestimated by most of the grid.

No — it wasn’t about Maddie.

It was the way Caitlyn was listening.

Actually listening.

The way her gaze didn’t drift, the way her expression softened in a way that wasn't strictly professional. It wasn’t flirtatious. Not exactly. But it wasn’t distant either.

Vi wasn’t used to seeing Caitlyn give people space like that.

Especially not on a parade truck, minutes before being swarmed by media.

Then Maddie said something — Vi caught the tail end of it.

“I just hope I get the chance to race you clean. You’re who I want to be out there.”

Caitlyn’s reply was calm, but firm. “You’re not here to be anyone else. You’re here to drive like you.”

Maddie nodded quickly, smile returning. “Still… I’ll remember this.”

Caitlyn reached up and adjusted the brim of her cap, ever so slightly.

“I’m sure I’ll see you in my mirrors.”

Maddie laughed — just a burst of it — then stepped back with a quiet “good luck,” letting the moment settle into her shoulders like sunlight.

Vi looked away.

---

When the truck rolled to a stop, the drivers began stepping down one by one, heading toward the pre-grid holding zone. The media was already pressing forward, microphones out, questions ready.

Vi adjusted her earpiece. Her fingers buzzed with the familiar weight of race day nerves — that simmer just beneath the skin, the kind that didn’t burn, but ached.

As she rounded the back of the truck, Caitlyn met her at the step-down point.

“Good luck,” Caitlyn said simply, voice low enough that only Vi could hear.

Vi looked at her. Really looked.

Caitlyn’s eyes were steady. Not cold. Just… unreadable.

Vi hesitated.

Then nodded.

“You too.”

They didn’t smile.

Didn’t shake hands.

Just passed each other like opposing forces caught in the same orbit — destined to circle, never crash.

Not yet.

---

“Vi!” a journalist called. “What’s the plan today? P5 start — aiming for podium?”

Vi didn’t hesitate.

“I’m aiming for my first win,” she said, voice firm.

Another camera turned toward Caitlyn.

“And you? Pole sitter again. Confident?”

Caitlyn nodded once. “We’ve prepared. The work is done. Now it’s just about execution.”

Short. Efficient.

But Vi heard the edge in her voice.

The one that said: Try me.

The lights were red.

The world held its breath.

Twenty cars sat lined up on the grid like arrows notched in a bow, heat shimmering off the asphalt, tension coiling so tight the track itself felt like it might snap.

Vi's heart thumped behind her ribcage, perfectly in time with the ticking lights above her. P5 wasn’t where she wanted to be — but it was close enough to reach out and grab everything that mattered.

Two rows ahead, she could see the sleek silver of Caitlyn’s Mercedes. Pole sitter. Ice in her veins. Precision in her bones.

Not for long, Vi thought, jaw tight beneath her helmet. She had something to prove today. And she wasn’t going home without it.

The lights blinked out.

And the storm began.

Tires spun. Clutches dropped. Engines roared so loud the world seemed to tear open around them.

Vi launched well — clean, controlled aggression. Her Red Bull surged forward with venom, the rear tires catching just enough to snap her ahead of the Ferrari beside her. Into Turn 1, she dove late on the brakes, threading the needle between the white line and a nose cone, committing with the kind of trust only a lunatic or a champion had.

She came out the other side clean.

Alive.

Faster.

Ahead.

But up the road, something shifted.

Caitlyn’s launch had been smooth — as always — but her car looked… hesitant.

Not wrong, not broken. Just off.

Her lines were still clean, but she was two car lengths off her normal pace by Turn 3. The Mercedes didn't dance through the corners. It held back. It twitched — not the tires, not the rear — but the body.

Something in the way the Mercedes moved told Vi what no radio ever could.

Caitlyn wasn’t comfortable.

By Turn 5, Vi had seen enough.

She didn’t wait.

She dove around the outside of the silver car at Turn 6, tires skimming the edge of the track, committing to a line she barely believed would hold.

It held.

She passed.

Clean.

Decisive.

For the first time all season, she’d overtaken Caitlyn on raw pace.

The crowd roared like a wave.

And Caitlyn?

She gritted her teeth so hard it hurt.

The pain had started in Turn 2.

A fast, downhill left that compressed the car hard onto the kerb. She’d hit that line a thousand times in practice. But this time, the load hit differently. She’d been too stiff, too braced. Her hands were over-tight on the wheel as the front-left lifted slightly then slammed back down across the sausage kerb.

And that was all it took.

A sharp, biting snap along her lower ribcage.

Not external.

Internal.

She felt it immediately — a tearing heat that bloomed along the left side of her torso, wrapping around under her ribs like a blade of fire. Her breath caught. She flinched without flinching. And she knew.

Muscle strain.

No — a tear. Minor. But deep.

Intercostal, most likely.

She’d had one before, years ago — junior karting. A rib protector that hadn’t fit right. But this was different. Stronger. More insidious.

She tried to inhale.

Her breath clipped halfway up her chest. A tight pain bloomed beneath the surface, like her lungs were being compressed from within.

No time to diagnose.

Only to react.

“Radio check,” came her engineer's voice through the headset. “Everything okay? You’ve dropped six.”

She wanted to say something. Wanted to scream.

But pain takes priority over speech.

She forced herself to thumb the comm button, voice steady — somehow.

“Fine,” she said. “Car feels neutral.”

"Copy. We see pace recovery. Let us know if you need to box."

No, she thought. Absolutely not.

She had just watched Vi pass her.

Watched her take that outside line like she owned it.

And Caitlyn was bleeding seconds on corners she usually carved like sculpture.

She would not retire.

Not unless her bones were broken.

Not unless they pulled her from the car.

By Lap 4, she’d stopped breathing normally.

She was taking short, shallow inhales. Just enough to feed her brain. Her ribs ached. Each correction at the wheel sent a flare of heat through her side.

She could feel the muscle every time she turned right — every time she twisted into a braking zone.

And still, she drove.

Still, she clawed back time.

Lap 6. Lap 7. She began to recover — position after position, patient and surgical.

By Lap 13, she was staring down the rear wing of Vi’s Red Bull again.

Vi’s engineer was the first to say it.

 “Caitlyn’s closing. One lap fresher tires.”

Vi squinted into her mirror, watching the silver car creep back into frame like a ghost returned to haunt her.

But something about it was off.

Still too neat. Still too restrained.

She’s not pushing, Vi realized. She’s surviving.

Inside the Mercedes, Caitlyn shifted up through Turn 10 and bit down on her lip as the jolt rocked through her again. Sweat dripped along her spine, saturating her race suit. Her left hand was starting to tremble faintly during long corners.

She told herself it was adrenaline.

It wasn’t.

Lap 15.

DRS zone.

Caitlyn was within range.

Vi braced.

Turn 9 — Caitlyn went inside.

Vi defended.

Turn 10 — Vi swept wide.

Still nothing.

Then Lap 17 — Turn 11.

Caitlyn faked left. Vi twitched.

That was the gap.

Caitlyn slotted the nose of her car in like a scalpel under skin, slicing through the opening like she’d planned it for days.

Vi exhaled — hard. “Alright, Kiramman.”

She leaned into the wheel. Heat built in her arms. Blood pumped fire through her veins.

Now it was on.

What followed was thirty laps of pain, brilliance, and war.

They traded positions three times. Twice on the track. Once in the pit lane.

Every pass was intimate. Violent. Calculated.

Vi was heat and instinct — attacking where no attack should work, threatening in corners meant for single lines.

Caitlyn was ice and angles — defending with precise cuts, using every inch of her depleted body to stay in front.

Her ribs were screaming now.

Not figuratively.

Every breath was pain.

Every shift in the cockpit — pain.

And still, she said nothing.

Her engineer tried to get updates.

“Caitlyn, we’re seeing drop in heart rate variance. Do you need to box?”

No answer.

Then finally, after Lap 30, a single word.

“Still here.”

Flat. Cold.

That was all she would give.

Vi was starting to lose patience.

Caitlyn was defending like her life depended on it — and doing so flawlessly.

But Vi could see it now.

She could see how Caitlyn was bracing more with her right.

She’s hurt, Vi realized.

Not car damage. Body.

That changed things.

And it didn’t.

Because Vi wasn’t going to pity her.

But she wasn’t going to stop pushing, either.

Final five laps.

Fuel tight.

Tyres finished.

Pain — unbearable.

But Caitlyn kept going.

She felt her core muscles failing to engage fully — her left obliques numb with effort. Every corner twisted her into the edge of nausea. Her vision was starting to blur at the exits.

She refused to lift.

Turn after turn, she matched Vi — barely.

Not on instinct.

On grit.

Lap 56.

Vi attacked into Turn 3 — side by side again.

Caitlyn defended so late her car locked slightly — just for a second — but she held it.

Lap 57.

Vi tried Turn 9.

Caitlyn blocked again.

Vi was shouting into her helmet now. “God, just let go!”

But Caitlyn didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Final lap.

DRS open.

Vi launched.

Caitlyn covered.

Turn 11.

They touched — sidewalls scraping rubber, just for a breath.

Vi lost a half-second of grip.

Caitlyn held.

Turn 12 — no space.

Vi backed off.

Caitlyn powered through.

Her side screamed.

Her lungs were collapsing.

But the final straight stretched ahead, and the checkered flag waved like a promise.

She didn’t lift.

She didn’t blink.

She crossed the line.

P1.

By 0.2 seconds.

Caitlyn coasted down the straight, breath hitching, hands trembling.

The adrenaline was the only thing keeping her from blacking out.

Behind her, Vi pulled up alongside.

Visor cracked.

No words.

Just a look.

Just a nod.

And Caitlyn gave her one back.

Because what they’d done today wasn’t racing.

It was survival.

The checkered flag had fallen.

Engines began to wind down across the circuit, their screams softening into mechanical sighs. The track, which just moments ago had been alive with speed and violence, was now beginning to still.

The race was over.

But Caitlyn hadn't moved.

Her Mercedes sat parked in front of the No. 1 marker. Perfect. Immaculate. Victorious.

Inside, Caitlyn sat frozen in the cockpit. Not from disbelief. Not from emotion.

From pain.

Every part of her body was urging her to stay still. The moment she unclipped, the moment she moved to climb out — her ribs would catch. Her breathing would tighten. And the illusion of control might just collapse.

She took slow, careful breaths. Short inhales. Counted them. Three. Four. Five.

On the radio, her engineer's voice crackled through.

> "You okay in there, Caitlyn? Take your time."

She didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “Copy.”

Her voice was level, but low. Each word a deliberate choice. Nothing more than what was needed.

In her mirrors, she could see Vi already out of her Red Bull. Helmet tucked under one arm. Hair damp from sweat. Sunglasses on.

She wasn’t talking yet. Just standing. Watching.

Watching her.

Waiting.

---

Vi stood a few feet behind the car, close enough to hear the low purr of the still-cooling engine.

She should have been annoyed. She should have been angry about losing by two tenths of a second.

She wasn’t.

Instead, all she could focus on was the stillness of the silver car in front of her. The way Caitlyn hadn’t moved since the flag. The way the crew hadn’t rushed forward yet.

The way everything felt… off.

The crowd was cheering wildly. The pit crews were slapping backs, hugging. Media personnel were pushing through the barriers for a better angle.

But Vi kept her eyes on Caitlyn.

The second Caitlyn moved — unclipping belts, shifting forward — Vi noticed it.

A subtle wince.

A beat too slow in reaching for the wheel.

When Caitlyn finally climbed out, it was smooth. Controlled.

Too controlled.

Vi had seen that posture before — the kind that masked something just beneath the surface.

Then Caitlyn pulled off her helmet.

And Vi saw her face.

Her cheeks were flushed, far redder than usual. Her hairline was soaked with sweat, even more than Vi’s, and she was breathing through her nose in shallow, careful pulls.

The crowd roared louder when they saw her. The champion. The ice queen.

She gave them a small nod, raised a hand in thanks.

Vi stepped forward.

“Congrats,” she said, voice low so only Caitlyn would hear.

Caitlyn turned her head just enough to look at her.

"Thank you," she said.

Brief.

Sharp.

She was holding herself upright like a tower under strain — no lean, no slouch, spine perfectly aligned. But her left arm stayed a little tighter to her side.

Vi didn’t comment.

Didn’t ask.

But she knew.

Something wasn’t right.

---

The media zone was its usual frenzy — bright lights, microphones, and voices overlapping in five different languages.

Vi was first.

She pulled her sunglasses down, wiped sweat from her brow, and leaned into the mic.

“Vi, that was a hell of a drive,” one reporter started. “You were right there to the end. Did you think today was the day?”

Vi smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I did. I mean… I really thought I had it. The car felt great. The pace was there. But Caitlyn?”

She paused.

“Caitlyn was lethal today.”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the group.

“She made no mistakes. Not one. She didn’t give me anything to work with, even when I threw the kitchen sink.”

The next reporter leaned in.

“Were you surprised by her recovery? She dropped several places at the start.”

Vi’s jaw tightened, just briefly.

“Honestly… yeah. But you can’t count her out. Ever.”

---

Caitlyn was next.

She stepped into the press pen with that same perfect posture — shoulders squared, chin up. But up close, the fatigue in her eyes was clearer.

And the sweat.

Her race suit was clinging to her in patches. Her lips looked dry.

“Caitlyn,” a journalist began, “another win, and under pressure from Vi the entire race. Congratulations. But we have to ask — what happened at the start? You lost five positions almost immediately.”

Caitlyn didn’t blink.

“Launch wasn’t ideal. Got caught on the inside. The pack compressed more than expected into Turn 2. Had to lift.”

“But then you charged back. Was there an issue with the car?”

“Just needed time to reset,” she replied. “The car was fine. So was I.”

Another hand shot up.

“Your radio traffic was minimal. At one point, we didn’t hear from you for ten laps. Was that intentional?”

Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change.

“I was focused on the race. My engineer had what she needed. I didn’t need to speak.”

“Everything okay physically? You seemed slower than usual getting out of the car.”

Caitlyn offered the barest smile.

“I’m fine. Just hot out there.”

And that was it.

---

The cooldown room was cool and silent — a stark contrast to the madness outside.

Vi entered first, followed by Ekko, and finally Caitlyn.

She came in slowly. Not dramatically. Just… carefully.

Vi noticed it instantly.

The way Caitlyn’s steps were even, but measured.

The way she sat down on the edge of the padded bench, using only her right arm to lower herself. The left arm hovered close to her side.

And then the cap.

Caitlyn reached for it. Grimaced. Subtle, but Vi caught it.

She adjusted the angle with her right hand only.

Vi didn’t speak.

But her eyes didn’t leave her.

The race replay was running on the screen in front of them. The moment they went side-by-side at Turn 11 played on loop. Tire smoke. Sparks. Inches.

Neither of them looked away.

Ekko cracked a water bottle and passed one to each of them.

“Nice racing,” he muttered.

Vi accepted it, eyes still locked on Caitlyn.

Caitlyn twisted the cap off slowly. Carefully. The motion tugged something under her suit — Vi saw it in the flinch.

“You good?” Ekko whispered near Vi’s ear.

Vi didn’t answer.

She just kept watching.

---

The podium was blinding under the overhead lights.

Caitlyn stood on the top step.

Perfect.

Still.

Unyielding.

Vi to her right, Ekko to her left. The crowd below was roaring — thousands of fans waving, cheering, chanting their names.

Caitlyn smiled.

Small. Composed.

She waved, slowly, deliberately.

But when the anthem ended, and the champagne bottles were handed out — Vi saw it.

The way Caitlyn adjusted the bottle using only her right hand.

The way she sprayed the fans once — a half-hearted arc of mist — and stopped.

She couldn’t twist her torso. Not without it hurting.

Vi sprayed her own bottle into the air, laughing. Ekko joined in.

Caitlyn tilted her bottle, aimed it out toward the far side of the crowd.

Didn’t move again.

Vi turned slightly, eyes narrowed.

Ekko leaned in, voice low, words hidden beneath the noise.

“You think something’s wrong with her?”

Vi didn’t answer right away.

" I don't know."

Ekko glanced up.

Caitlyn’s smile was back in place.

But it didn’t touch her eyes.

The sound of the crowd was still echoing through the paddock, but Caitlyn heard none of it.

She moved through the narrow service hallway behind the Mercedes hospitality suite with her jaw clenched and her left arm drawn slightly inward, fingers brushing just above the edge of her ribcage.

Every step was a decision. Every breath, a calculation.

The pain wasn’t unbearable — not in the sharp, traumatic way. It was more insidious. A persistent tearing sensation, low and tight along her left side, flaring whenever she twisted or breathed too deep.

She had driven through worse.

But never for this long.

She didn’t take the main entrance. Instead, she pushed quietly through the sliding panel near the team corridor, avoiding cameras, eyes, and noise.

The doors closed behind her with a hiss.

Cool air swept against her flushed skin, carrying the antiseptic, metallic scent of electronics, freshly unpacked carbon fiber, and race sweat.

Inside, the team monitors still played race highlights. Half of her crew were finishing up post-race debriefs. The others were clapping and hugging, their joy suspended in midair.

But Rhea wasn’t smiling.

Her race engineer stood waiting in the corner of the lounge, headset still slung around her neck, her gaze pinned like a sniper’s scope.

As Caitlyn stepped in, that gaze didn’t blink.

“Bathroom?” Rhea asked quietly.

Caitlyn shook her head.

“Private room.”

Rhea nodded once.

And followed.

---

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the hum of celebration.

Caitlyn moved slowly, not out of show — but necessity.

She lowered herself onto the edge of the padded bench in the corner, favoring her right side. Her fire suit clung to her back, still damp from the race. The compression underlayer had long since stopped doing its job.

She pressed her hand against her side. Just gently.

Even that made her stomach turn.

Rhea crossed her arms.

“You gonna tell me what the hell happened out there, or do I need to guess?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away.

Rhea took a step forward.

“Start of Lap 1, you lost five places before Turn 4. Not like you. And then nothing on the radio. For ten laps. No breath, no update. You didn’t even respond to the pit delta.”

Caitlyn inhaled carefully — as much as her ribs would allow.

“I hit the Turn 2 kerb harder than expected. Braced too soon. Left side pulled under the compression. It’s an intercostal.”

Rhea’s mouth dropped open slightly. “You’re telling me now?”

“It didn’t matter during the race.”

“It mattered the second it happened!”

Caitlyn winced — not from Rhea’s voice, but from the pain of adjusting her posture.

“I wasn’t going to stop,” she said softly.

“That’s not your call to make,” Rhea snapped, then lowered her voice. “Damn it, Caitlyn. We rely on each other. I can't protect you if you lie to me.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me the truth.”

There was a beat of silence.

Rhea sat down across from her.

Her voice shifted — from sharp to exhausted.

“You were wheezing over the radio, do you know that? You held your DRS window with one arm for three laps. I thought something was wrong with your steering. Turns out, it was you.”

Caitlyn let her head drop.

Her hair was damp at the base of her neck, strands clinging to her cheek.

“I didn’t know how bad it was until Lap 5,” she admitted.

“And then?”

“I committed.”

---

Dr. Elara Kwan arrived ten minutes later.

By then, Caitlyn had peeled her fire suit down to her waist, wincing each time her shoulder flexed. Her sports bra was soaked. Her skin — especially over her ribs — was flushed red from the strain and compression.

“Let’s have a look,” Elara said, voice gentle but efficient.

She worked with precision — palpating the left intercostals, checking for swelling, pressing along the ribs in gentle but deliberate motions. Caitlyn didn’t make a sound, but her flinch spoke volumes.

“Sharp on inhale?”

“Yes.”

“Dull pain at rest?”

“Mostly. Sharp during twisting and downforce load.”

“Radiating to the back?”

“Just behind the scapula.”

Rhea stood in the corner, silent.

After fifteen minutes, Elara gave her assessment.

“Grade II intercostal strain. Fibers torn, but not detached. Likely caused by high-tension twist combined with direct core load. It’s not surgical — but it’s serious.”

Caitlyn nodded once.

“I’ve had one before.”

“This is worse.”

Elara retrieved an ice wrap and a gentle elastic binder. She worked with clean precision, wrapping it around Caitlyn’s ribcage.

“You drove the entire race with this?”

Caitlyn exhaled — a shallow, slow breath. “Yes.”

Elara didn’t shake her head. She’d worked with elite athletes before.

But she didn’t hide her frown, either.

“You need at least five days of complete core rest. No gym. No sim. No running.”

“I have a Grand Prix next weekend.”

“You’re not doing Free Practice.”

Rhea stepped forward. “Agreed.”

Caitlyn blinked. “That’s not your call.”

Elara didn’t waver. “It is if you want clearance for Qualifying.”

Caitlyn looked down at her hands.

Elara softened, just slightly.

“We’ll issue a restricted schedule for Japan. No FP1, FP2, or FP3. You’ll go straight into Q1. That gives you six days of reduced movement. You push this further, Caitlyn, and it’ll become a full tear. I won’t sign off if that happens.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes briefly.

Then nodded.

“Understood.”

---

When Elara left to file the report, Rhea stayed behind.

The room was quiet again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rhea asked again, voice lower now.

Caitlyn didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t do it.”

“You’ve won four world titles.”

“I still have to prove I’m worth every one.”

“That’s not how it works, Cait.”

Caitlyn smiled faintly — a tired, worn thing.

“Isn’t it?”

---

Later that evening, as the paddock lights dimmed and the last camera crews cleared out, Caitlyn stood quietly in front of the mirror inside the driver lounge.

She turned slowly, observing the edge of the binder under her shirt.

It wasn’t visible under her jacket.

Good.

She picked up her phone, stared at the screen.

A notification buzzed — a tagged photo from the podium.

Vi, champagne-soaked and grinning.

Caitlyn, precise as ever — one hand on the bottle, the other resting against the podium rail.

Frozen in strength.

Frozen in silence.

She tapped it open.

And for a moment — just one — she allowed herself to wince.

The paddock shimmered beneath the last blush of sunset, its shadows long and golden against the tarmac. Race crews shuffled about with purposeful exhaustion — crates sealed, tires marked, fuel purged from tanks that just hours ago had held fire.

From the outside, everything looked finished.

But Vi wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

Her steps were quiet as she passed through the lower lanes between hospitality suites, her Red Bull jacket unzipped halfway, her boots soft against the concrete. Her cap sat low over her brow, damp hair curling at her collar.

She wasn’t walking to her own team’s zone.

She was headed for Mercedes.

It was almost eerie now — how quiet it had become.

And how much she still couldn’t stop thinking about Caitlyn.

---

Caitlyn had been perfect on the outside.

She always was.

Even when she’d hoisted the trophy an hour ago, standing tall on the podium under the glare of white-hot lights and a hundred thousand cheering voices.

But Vi had been watching.

And Caitlyn hadn’t lifted her bottle as high.

Hadn’t turned her body with the same fluid elegance she always did.

There had been a slowness to her movement. A stiffness in her shoulders. And when Vi glanced at her during the anthem, she saw it clear as day:

Tension.

Pain.

Suppressed behind steel and silence.

Vi couldn’t explain it — but she couldn’t shake it either.

---

The Mercedes hospitality entrance was half-lit, its black panels casting cold reflections under the canopy. A single staffer sat at the front desk, scrolling on a tablet.

When Vi approached, the woman looked up in surprise.

“I’m here to see Caitlyn,” Vi said simply.

“She’s... resting.”

“I know.”

The woman hesitated. “Her engineer asked—”

“She won’t mind.”

Vi’s voice wasn’t pushy. But it wasn’t unsure, either.

A pause.

Then the staffer stood and gestured. “Second room down. Door’s cracked.”

Vi nodded her thanks and moved inside.

---

The air in the Mercedes suite was different — colder, stiller. Not sterile, exactly. Just... quiet. The kind of quiet that follows pressure, not peace. As if the whole building was exhaling after holding its breath for three straight hours.

Vi found the door.

She knocked once — gently — and pushed it open.

What she saw stopped her heart for just a second.

Caitlyn was lying across a narrow gray couch, one arm over her face to shield her eyes, the other curled against an ice pack wrapped at her ribs. Her fire suit had been shed, replaced by a fitted black top and dark joggers. Her feet were bare. Her hair was slightly tousled, longer strands clinging to her cheek.

She looked small.

Not weak.

But... not like Caitlyn.

She didn’t move as Vi stepped closer.

“You always this dramatic post-win?” Vi said softly.

Caitlyn shifted, lifting her arm slightly — just enough to glance toward the doorway.

She didn’t startle. She didn’t sit up.

She just let out a quiet sigh. “I thought Red Bull wasn’t big on sympathy cards.”

Vi smirked, stepping further in. “I’m here for research. For next time.”

Caitlyn’s lips curled faintly. “Come to take notes?”

“Something like that.”

Vi sat on the arm of the chair opposite, watching her. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then, quietly: “You don’t look great.”

“Thanks.”

Vi shrugged. “Just saying. For a winner, you look like you got tackled by a cement truck.”

Caitlyn chuckled once — then winced sharply, hand reflexively pressing her side.

Vi’s face changed instantly. “Okay. That wasn’t nothing.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re icing your ribs.”

“I am.”

“You tried to sit up on the podium and nearly crumpled.”

Caitlyn exhaled slowly. “I didn’t crumple.”

“You almost did.”

Vi leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

“So what happened?”

---

Caitlyn hesitated.

Then: “Turn 2. Lap 1. Took the kerb too hard. Twisted too early. Something tore.”

Vi frowned. “How bad?”

“Intercostal. Moderate strain. No fracture.”

Vi blinked. “You raced fifty-seven laps like that?”

Caitlyn nodded.

Vi stared.

“Are you out of your mind?”

Caitlyn cracked a small grin. “Possibly.”

“That’s not smart.”

“It got the job done.”

Vi shook her head slowly. “You should’ve told someone.”

“I didn’t want to get pulled.”

“You should’ve wanted to heal.”

“I will.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t collapse out there.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s not the flex you think it is.”

---

They fell quiet again.

Caitlyn adjusted the ice pack with one hand — slow, deliberate. Every motion cost her something, and Vi could see her hiding it with a precision that must’ve taken years to master.

“She pulling you from next race?” Vi asked.

Caitlyn nodded. “No Free Practice. Straight into Quali.”

“Seriously?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Damn.”

“Not ideal.”

“You gonna be alright?”

Caitlyn looked at her.

“I’ll manage.”

Vi held her gaze.

Then softened. “You always do.”

Caitlyn smirked. “You’d miss me otherwise.”

Vi snorted. “I’d enjoy the silence.”

---

For the first time since the race ended, Caitlyn laughed without wincing.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was real.

And Vi smiled.

It felt good — not just to see Caitlyn okay, but to see her let the mask fall, even just a little.

She wasn’t steel. She wasn’t unbreakable.

She was just human.

And Vi liked her better that way.

---

Social Media Speculation — 9:43 PM AEST

@f1pulseAU
🚨 Seen post-race: Mercedes team doctors entering hospitality with urgency 👀 No official word on injuries. Caitlyn Kiramman seen leaving podium slower than usual. #AUSGP #F1

@teamteablr
Okay but like... why did Vi just walk straight into the Mercedes suite ten minutes after that??? 🤨 Something’s going on.

@tifosweetie
Did anyone else notice Caitlyn wasn’t moving much on the podium? She looked STIFF.

@gridlockdrama:
Mercedes: “She’s fine.”
Also Mercedes: medical team rushing inside.
Also Vi: showing up right after.
Me: 😳👀

@viis4violence:
I don’t care what anyone says, Vi saw something during the race. You don’t pull up post-podium like that just to borrow sugar.

@kirammanburner:
She looked pale. And she didn’t even celebrate properly. Something happened. Calling it now.

@softchicane:
Vi going in there was not rivalry. That was personal. 

@pr1meracernews:
UPDATE: No statement from Mercedes yet. Kiramman not expected to speak to press again tonight. No confirmation of injury — rumors only.

@helmetcamclips:
Vi glanced at Caitlyn no fewer than 9 times during the cooldown room. I counted. 👁️

Chapter Text

The hum of the jet smoothed the world into silence.

Caitlyn was asleep.

Not pretending. Not resting with eyes open and back straight, like she usually did. Not curled tensely beneath a blanket, wired on post-race adrenaline and half-drained espresso.

Actually asleep.

Her head was tilted gently toward the window, dark hair tucked behind one ear, a fine compression blanket pulled up to her midsection. The overhead lights were dimmed to twilight, casting soft shadows over her closed eyes and the sharp lines of her cheekbones. She breathed slowly — shallow, but steady. Her left arm remained pinned slightly against her ribcage beneath the blanket, a precaution more than a choice. She didn’t move.

Across the aisle, Rhea watched.

Not as an engineer. Not even as a friend, in this moment. She simply observed — the way a medic watches for signs of distress when a patient won’t say the word out loud. Every few minutes, she checked the rhythm of Caitlyn’s breaths. Still even. Still tight.

That was good. It meant the pain hadn’t worsened.

Jayce sat two seats back, half-turned toward them with one ankle resting on his opposite knee. His blazer hung from the back of his chair. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He hadn’t opened his tablet. He hadn’t touched the champagne flute the flight crew had politely placed near his tray.

For once, Jayce wasn’t talking.

He just watched Caitlyn, silent as the altitude.

“She finally passed out,” he said eventually.

Rhea nodded once. “She held out longer than she needed to.”

“She always does.”

“She had a binder and a pain protocol two hours ago. She could’ve slept after the podium.”

“She wouldn’t. Not until she debriefed.”

“She’s Caitlyn.”

Jayce smiled without warmth. “Yeah.”

Another few seconds passed.

Rhea leaned back in her seat and finally let herself blink slow. “I didn’t think she’d make it through the cooldown room without collapsing.”

“She almost didn’t.”

Jayce shifted, resting his forearms on his knees.

“She flinched when she uncapped her water,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d notice.”

“I did.”

“She adjusted the bottle with one hand.”

“Of course.”

Jayce looked over. “She hasn’t slept since Friday night.”

Rhea’s brow rose, but she didn’t look surprised.

“She did FP3, quali, media, strategy, the whole race, and the podium… all on four hours of rest and torn intercostals.”

“She doesn’t stop.”

“No,” Jayce murmured. “She calculates.”

He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m starting to think she doesn’t know how to stop unless we make her.”

Rhea’s voice was soft, but solid.

“She’s not built to rest.”

“No,” Jayce said. “But she’s not indestructible either.”

They both looked at her.

Caitlyn shifted slightly in her sleep, a small motion of discomfort, then stilled again. Her lips parted for a slow, shallow breath. Her fingers flexed once, then relaxed.

Rhea leaned forward. “You want to read the statement?”

Jayce unlocked his phone, his thumb hovering over the comms thread. Then he scrolled to the most recent message.

> MERCEDES-AMG PETRONAS F1 TEAM
02:44 AEST

“Following today’s race, Caitlyn Kiramman experienced discomfort related to a minor physical strain.

Under medical guidance, she will not participate in Free Practice sessions in Japan and will proceed directly to Qualifying.

The team has adjusted her program accordingly.

Thank you for your continued support.”

He read it out loud.

“Vague enough?”

Rhea nodded. “Perfect.”

“She’ll hate not running FP1.”

“She’ll say she doesn’t need it.”

“She’ll say it gives her an advantage — no data means no expectations.”

“She’ll say a lot of things,” Rhea said. “And then she’ll find a way to drive through it anyway.”

Jayce didn’t argue.

Instead, he sighed, lowered the brightness on his phone, and said, “Her mother’s called. Three times.”

“Cassandra?”

Jayce nodded. “Voicemails. One email.”

Rhea waited.

“She’s not angry,” he added. “She’s worried.”

“She always is.”

“She said Caitlyn looked… off. On the podium.”

“She wasn’t wrong.”

Jayce closed his eyes and leaned back. “She asked if we were flying straight to Tokyo. I said yes. She asked if Caitlyn was in pain. I said she was resting.”

“Not a lie.”

“No.”

He looked over at Caitlyn again.

“She wanted her to quit the moment she joined Formula 2. Said it wasn’t befitting a Kiramman to risk her life for sport.”

Rhea exhaled. “That’s not cruelty. That’s heritage.”

Jayce nodded. “She doesn’t understand why Caitlyn doesn’t want to be safe.”

“She doesn’t understand that Caitlyn’s version of safe means control.”

“Exactly.”

They both stared at her again.

This woman they followed into every fire.

This woman who could memorize weather patterns like poetry and recall brake bias like bedtime stories. Who didn’t flinch when the media cornered her, but did flinch when someone asked how she felt. Who would drive through muscle tears without blinking but would spend half an hour reviewing sector deltas because the car “felt a little soft mid-exit.”

Jayce tapped his phone again.

“Social’s going nuts,” he said, half-smiling.

Rhea raised a brow. “Show me.”

He read:

> @GridPulse
“Kiramman out for FP1, 2, 3 — straight into Quali. That’s not just trust in the car. That’s grit.”

> @F1AfterDark
“No details. No denial. Just the words ‘recovering’ and ‘support.’ Which means: yes, something happened. And no, you don’t get to know what.”

> @viandvelocity
“Vi walking into Mercedes ten minutes post-podium, looking like she saw something no one else did? That wasn’t rivalry. That was concern.”

> @helmetcamclips
“Her hands shook when she unclipped the wheel. But her steering input? Still cleaner than anyone on track. I swear to god she’s forged from ice.”

> @softchicane
“Caitlyn didn’t need to say a word. The silence was the statement. Mercedes just confirmed it.”

Jayce looked up. “The fans aren’t stupid.”

“No,” Rhea said. “They’re just... loud.”

Jayce smiled. “They know something’s up.”

“They just don’t know how deep it goes.”

They lapsed into quiet again.

Caitlyn stirred — once. Her hand twitched slightly, and her left shoulder rolled inward as if instinctively guarding her ribcage. But she didn’t wake.

Jayce adjusted the angle of the small reading light above her seat.

“Let her sleep,” he said, unnecessarily.

Rhea nodded. “She deserves this hour.”

“She deserves a hundred.”

“She’d waste ninety-nine of them watching telemetry.”

“She would.”

Another pause.

Jayce whispered, “Is she going to be okay for Quali?”

Rhea didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “She’ll be in pain. She’ll hide it. And she’ll still outdrive half the field.”

Jayce watched her for a long time. “She shouldn’t have to.”

“I know,” Rhea said quietly.

“But she will.”

“I know.”

The wheels touched down on the tarmac at Narita International with barely a bump. The private jet taxied with the kind of grace Caitlyn had come to appreciate—unobtrusive, calculated, unshowy. Just like she preferred.

She was already awake before the cabin lights shifted to indicate arrival. She sat still, eyes open, her breathing calm and controlled. Her ribs ached faintly—not sharp pain, just a tightness that pulled like an old stitch every time she inhaled too deep. It was manageable. It would stay manageable.

Jayce and Rhea gathered their things quietly. They didn’t hover. They didn’t ask how she felt. They didn’t need to.

At the terminal, the staff moved efficiently—minimal words, no delays. The air outside was crisp and damp with Tokyo morning. Caitlyn adjusted the strap of her travel bag across her shoulder with her right hand. Her left rested casually near her side, a subtle guard against overstretching her ribs. No one noticed.

Of course they didn’t. She was very good at not being noticed when she chose to be.

By the time she stepped into her hotel suite, the room was already prepared: mats rolled out, breathing monitor set near the bedside, a small black case with her physiotherapy tools placed beside a kettle and a bottle of imported electrolytes.

Caitlyn didn’t change into loungewear. She moved straight into her routine.

Light movement first—thoracic rotations, low twists, breath timing. She controlled each inhale carefully, expanding only within safe limits. There was discomfort, yes. But it obeyed her.

After twenty minutes, her body had settled. The tightness had softened. The binder under her shirt was firm, not suffocating. It did its job. So did she.

By the time Rhea knocked and entered with her tablet, Caitlyn had already transitioned to her second set of exercises.

“Three out of ten?” Rhea asked, watching her posture.

Caitlyn didn’t stop stretching. “Three. Maybe two-point-eight.”

Rhea gave her a look. “Precision, I see.”

Caitlyn finally offered a small smile. “Always.”

Later, when the hotel was quiet and the skyline faded into overcast greys, Caitlyn sat near the window and placed the call.

Her mother answered on the first ring.

“Caitlyn.”

“I landed safely.”

“I was told,” Cassandra replied. “But I would’ve preferred to hear it before the media speculated you collapsed on the podium.”

Caitlyn took a sip of tea. “I didn’t collapse.”

“You looked close,” Cassandra said bluntly.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were pale. Your posture was guarded. Your voice was forced. I’ve watched you hold a firing stance with a bullet wound and still look better than you did yesterday.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond.

“I won’t pretend anymore,” her mother continued. “I hate this. This sport. This risk. The constant threat of injury. Of loss. Of death.”

“I know.”

“I raised you to lead,” Cassandra said. “To inherit the Kiramman name. Not to gamble it every weekend on tracks where machines tear themselves apart.”

Caitlyn’s voice remained calm. “I don’t see it as gambling.”

“You don’t have to,” Cassandra snapped. “Because I do it for you.”

There was a pause. Then quieter, “Every time you race, I have to prepare for a call I pray never comes.”

Caitlyn looked out at the skyline. “That’s not new, Mother. You felt the same when I was on patrol.”

“And I hated that too.”

“But I was good at it.”

“You’re good at everything,” Cassandra said, voice rising. “That’s not the point. You have power. You have pedigree. You have a future that doesn’t involve dodging wreckage and hiding injuries from your own engineer.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Mercedes released a vague statement,” Cassandra snapped. “You’re skipping three sessions. The internet is dissecting your every breath. I am your mother, Caitlyn. I shouldn’t have to read between press lines to know my daughter is hurt.”

Caitlyn exhaled through her nose. “It’s not serious.”

“It’s not nothing,” Cassandra said. “And if this isn’t serious, the next one might be. Or the one after that.”

Her tone hardened, cool and patrician.

“You are the only Kiramman heir. You belong on council. You belong in policy, not in pit lanes. I will not stop saying it.”

“I didn’t ask you to stop,” Caitlyn said quietly.

“I want you safe,” Cassandra continued. “Not buried under a championship banner. Not broken in a car designed to fold under pressure.”

“I’m careful.”

“You’re mortal.”

A long silence passed between them.

Caitlyn let the words settle. She didn’t argue. She didn’t deflect.

But she didn’t yield either.

“I know you hate this,” she said at last. “I know it frightens you. I know what you want for me.”

“And?”

“I’m still choosing this.”

Cassandra’s breath caught. Not quite a sigh. Not quite surrender.

“You’re so much like your father sometimes,” she said. “He loved danger too.”

Caitlyn’s voice softened, just for a moment. “He understood why I chose it.”

“I understand too,” Cassandra whispered. “I just don’t accept it.”

Another silence. Quieter now.

“You’ll call after Qualifying?” her mother asked.

“I will.”

“Be smart.”

“I always am.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

The suite was silent, save for the soft tap of Caitlyn’s fingers against her tablet.

Data streamed in front of her — last year’s Suzuka sector breakdowns, tire degradation models, qualifying delta charts. She wasn’t studying it intensely. Not yet. Just absorbing. Letting her mind settle around the familiar edges of the circuit.

Outside, Tokyo flickered in low light. The sky was just beginning to shift from gold to blue.

She barely registered the knock at the door.

Two short taps. A pause. Then one more.

She knew it immediately.

“Come in,” she said without looking up.

Vi stepped inside, hoodie slung over one shoulder, black joggers, bottle of water in hand. Her hair was slightly damp — maybe from a workout, maybe from a walk.

She leaned against the inside wall and gave Caitlyn a look that hovered between smug and sincere.

“You’re not even surprised I’m here,” Vi said.

Caitlyn set the tablet down on the armrest beside her. “You knock the same way every time.”

Vi blinked. “Do I?”

“You do.”

Vi raised the water bottle slightly. “Didn’t bring coffee this time.”

“Shame,” Caitlyn replied lightly. “You’ll have to settle for conversation.”

Vi gave a faux dramatic sigh and crossed the room, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch — not too close, not formal either. Just casual. Natural.

“Figured you were probably tired of people hovering,” she said.

“They mean well.”

“Still hover.”

Caitlyn didn’t argue. She just adjusted her posture slightly, arms folding as she leaned into the corner of the couch. She moved slowly — not out of pain, but awareness. Still careful.

Vi noticed, of course. She didn’t mention it.

“You slept?” Vi asked.

“Some.”

“Rhea breathing down your neck yet?”

“She’s pacing herself.”

Vi smirked. “You sure she’s not out in the hallway with a stethoscope against the wall?”

“Unlikely.”

“But not impossible.”

Caitlyn gave a small shrug. “Wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve experienced this week.”

Vi let the silence settle for a bit. Not heavy — just comfortable.

Then she nudged, “So… are you okay?”

Caitlyn looked at her. Not sharply. Just directly.

“I’m not fragile.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m not broken.”

“I didn’t say that either.”

A pause.

“Then yes,” Caitlyn said finally. “I’m okay.”

Vi leaned her head back against the couch. “Didn’t look like it on the podium.”

“I was managing it.”

“I know,” Vi said. “You always do.”

There was something unspoken in her tone. Not admiration. Not pity.

Recognition.

Caitlyn studied her for a moment. “Is this your version of checking in?”

“I mean, I brought water.”

“That’s very thoughtful.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Caitlyn allowed herself the faintest smirk. “Of course not.”

Vi looked out the window then, into the skyline. “You think the circuit will feel different this weekend?”

Caitlyn followed her gaze. “They always do, after something changes.”

“Like when someone wins?”

“Or loses.”

Vi nodded, then smiled faintly. “Or crashes.”

“Or shows up at a rival’s hotel two days early,” Caitlyn added, arching an eyebrow.

Vi grinned. “That’s just strategy.”

“Is that what this is?”

Vi looked at her then, not teasing. Just steady.

“Maybe.”

Caitlyn didn’t break eye contact.

Then she said, “Well. You’re very good at it.”

Vi stood then, stretching a little. “I’ll let you rest. You’ve got two more days of pretending you’re not hurt before the cameras roll.”

Caitlyn tilted her head. “And you’ve got two more days of pretending you don’t care.”

Vi winked. “You say that like I’ve ever been good at pretending.”

And then, just like that, she was gone.

The Suzuka paddock buzzed like a storm before ignition — fans lined the barriers in camera-heavy clusters, banners waved over the fences, and media teams circled like orbiting satellites, eyes and lenses tracking every movement.

It was Thursday.

Media day.

And the two names on every reporter’s card weren’t hard to guess.

Kiramman. Vi.

Pole and challenger. Precision and fire. Ice and instinct.

There were twenty drivers on the grid.

But this week, the world only wanted two.

Vi didn’t mind the attention. Not this week.

She leaned back in her chair under the Red Bull media tent, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, hoodie half-zipped, posture loose and grinning.

The cameras were already focused on her before she even started talking.

That was fine.

She knew what they wanted — a quote. A headline. Something easy to edit into a promo clip.

So she gave them one.

“Yeah,” she said, arms crossing as the mics clustered. “I feel good. The car feels good. Honestly? I think this is the weekend.”

A dozen recorders lit up.

“Are you saying you’re going for the win?”

Vi laughed. “Aren’t we all?”

“But are you confident you can beat Caitlyn this time?”

The way the question was asked made her smile tighten, just slightly.

“I’ve always been confident,” she said. “But yeah — I’ve got pace. We’ve done our homework. If I see that checkered flag before she does, I won’t be surprised.”

A younger journalist leaned forward. “Do you think she’s fully recovered?”

Vi paused.

That one, she didn’t answer right away.

“Look,” she said carefully, “Caitlyn’s one of the toughest people on the grid. If she’s racing, it means she thinks she can win. That’s all that matters.”

“And do you think she’s beatable?”

Vi’s eyes flickered — the briefest grin curling at the edge of her mouth.

“Everyone’s beatable,” she said.

Three tents down, under the silver-and-black halo of Mercedes' press area, Caitlyn sat upright in her chair, hands neatly folded in her lap.

Her race suit was zipped halfway, black undershirt clean and crisp beneath. She wore no expression of fatigue. No giveaway. Only clean poise and surgical responses.

She hadn’t so much as adjusted her seat in ten minutes.

The cameras clicked with every blink.

“Caitlyn, Mercedes announced you’re skipping Free Practice again. Can you clarify why?”

“We’re optimizing recovery time and conserving energy for qualifying,” she said. “The team and I are aligned on the decision.”

“But you were visibly slower on the podium in Australia. Fans are speculating about an injury—”

“I’m focused on Japan.”

“But are you fit to race?”

She gave the faintest smile. “You’ll see me on the grid.”

Another reporter leaned in. “So you’re confirming you’re not at 100%?”

“I’m confirming that I’ll be driving.”

“But should fans be worried—?”

Caitlyn cut in, still calm. “The fans should be focused on what happens this weekend. So am I.”

The questions kept coming — about health, about pressure, about Vi.

“Do you feel targeted by Vi’s confidence going into this race?”

Caitlyn blinked once. “Targeted?”

“She said she expects to win.”

“She always does.”

“So you don’t see her as a threat?”

Caitlyn smiled again, soft and cold.

“I see her as competition.”

---

Later – Outside the Tent

Vi caught up with her just outside the Mercedes paddock. The chaos behind them faded into background noise — camera shutters, murmurs, the low thrum of drones overhead.

Caitlyn stood near a service truck, one hand on her hip, the other relaxed by her side. Perfectly still. Perfectly Caitlyn.

“Press circus treating you well?” Vi asked, pulling off her sunglasses.

“They tried,” Caitlyn said.

Vi leaned a little closer, voice dropping. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t need to.”

Vi smirked. “You never give them anything. It’s like watching a statue get cross-examined.”

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow. “You seemed comfortable giving them a monologue.”

“They asked me if I could beat you.”

“And you said yes.”

Vi grinned. “I said I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Caitlyn looked at her then — not coldly, not competitively. Just… measured.

“Then don’t be.”

Vi let out a quiet laugh.

“You really think you’re gonna hold me off this time?” she teased.

Caitlyn tilted her head. “I don’t plan to hold anyone off. I plan to lead.”

Vi stepped back with both hands raised in surrender. “Okay, damn. You’re already racing and the lights haven’t even gone out.”

Caitlyn gave her a small nod — a subtle one. Approval? Warning? Hard to tell.

“See you on track,” she said.

Vi watched her walk away, every movement still deliberate, still clean.

Whatever was hurting?

It wasn’t slowing her.

And that made things interesting.

The Mercedes garage was a hive of activity. Mechanics moved like clockwork. Data streamed across the pit wall monitors in brilliant detail — delta sectors, tire degradation graphs, fuel flow curves.

And Caitlyn Kiramman sat in the center of it.

Not behind the wheel.
Not on the pit wall.
But in a seat just behind her engineer, black headset over her ears, wearing a matte black team shirt with the silver star pressed tight against her collarbone.

No fire suit.
No helmet.
But still present.

Still commanding.

Her arms were crossed. Her posture didn’t slouch. Her legs were still, boots planted flat. The only movement was her gaze — flicking across the telemetry on the screen in front of her.

The reserve driver — Seb — was running her car today. A decent stand-in. Technically consistent. Conservative where she was normally ruthless.

Caitlyn said nothing aloud, but she noted every corner late-braked by a tenth, every apex missed by a whisper. She didn’t blame Seb. The car wasn’t designed for anyone else.

But still.

Turn 13. Too much throttle out. Rear twitch.

Sector 1 pace drop — three tenths. Grip balance not optimized.

She leaned slightly toward Rhea, her voice low under the headset mic.

“Shift cam is lagging on exit. Rear diff map needs adjustment for Q3 sims.”

Rhea nodded without looking. “Already flagged it. You good?”

“Fine.”

“Pain?”

“Background noise.”

Rhea didn’t press.

Caitlyn returned to the screen.

---

Outside the garage, cameras were waiting.

One photographer — F1Wire’s media affiliate — caught the moment: Caitlyn, clean lines, headset on, black T-shirt hugging her shoulders, eyes locked on the screen.

They posted it within five minutes.

> 🖤🖤 Kiramman. Watching. Not absent. #Mercedes #F1Japan #SilentSharp

And that’s when the flood began.

---

🌐 Fan Reactions (Twitter/X)

@GridHalo7

> Caitlyn in all black, headset on, not talking. It’s giving assassin energy.

@KirammansLens

> She’s not even driving and still looks like she’s controlling the whole damn grid.

@racerxpress

> The way Caitlyn watches Free Practice is more intense than most drivers during qualifying.

@f1burnernews

> So just to recap: she’s skipping FP but still in the garage, watching every lap like a hawk. Is she coaching or planning revenge?

@softchicane

> The black shirt. The silence. The headset. She’s observing. Calculating. Caitlyn Kiramman is a chess move waiting to happen.

@sector7stans

> This is not a woman who’s injured. This is a woman who’s storing data in her bones. I’m scared.

@undercutqueen

> Mercedes should’ve just photoshopped a sword into her hands and called it a promo poster.

Inside the garage, Caitlyn didn’t react to the noise outside. She never did.

Her screen showed brake temps rising across laps 11–115.Seb was pushing the car more now. Still not fully committed.

Caitlyn spoke into the mic again. “Tell him to be more aggressive in Sector 2 or we lose qualifying data.”

“Copy,” Rhea replied.

No emotion.

Just precision.

As the practice session wound down, Caitlyn stood, rolling her shoulder once. A small ache pulsed along her left side — not enough to limit her, just enough to remind her what was coming tomorrow.

She was out of the car today.

But not out of the fight.

The dinner invite came casually.

> Sushi? Off-grid. No photographers. Bring your appetite, not your media face.

Vi stared at it for a moment.

She read it again, this time slower.

Caitlyn didn’t send casual texts. Not often. Not unless they had a purpose.

Vi grinned.

> Sounds dangerous. I’m in.

📍 Tokyo – 8:31 PM

The restaurant wasn’t flashy. Tucked behind a row of vending machines and closed bookstores, its only signage was a thin paper lantern and the scent of soy-marinated rice.

Inside, it was minimalist — cedar counters, hand-folded napkins, soft light overhead. No music. No clatter.

And Caitlyn.

She sat in the far corner, hair loose, her sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms. Her shirt was navy and unbranded. Her lips had just the faintest color to them — not makeup. Just life.

She looked up as Vi entered.

“You’re late,” Caitlyn said, but not annoyed.

Vi shrugged off her hoodie. “You said eight-thirty. It’s thirty-one.”

Caitlyn raised a brow. “I said off-grid. Not off-schedule.”

Vi chuckled, sliding into the seat beside her. “So this is what dinner with a Kiramman heiress looks like. Thought there’d be more silverware.”

Caitlyn’s smile was dry. “Only if you're dining with my mother. I prefer knives I know how to use.”

Vi blinked. “Are you flirting with me or threatening me?”

“Would it make a difference?”

Vi grinned, missing the way Caitlyn’s gaze lingered on her lips for half a second too long.

The first round was sea bream, sliced so thin it barely held shape.

Vi picked it up with her fingers. Caitlyn used chopsticks, movements precise, effortless.

“I’m still recovering from seeing you in a black T-shirt at practice today,” Vi said as she chewed. “Didn’t know Mercedes even made you casual clothes.”

“They had to iron it first,” Caitlyn deadpanned. “Rhea threatened to burn it if I didn’t wear something human for once.”

Vi laughed, sharp and full. “You do look dangerous when you wear color.”

“I prefer tactical advantage.”

Vi leaned on the counter, turning slightly toward her. “And what’s tactical about navy?”

Caitlyn didn’t look up from her tea. “It brings out my eyes. Distracts the competition.”

Vi smirked. “You think I’m the competition?”

Caitlyn finally looked at her — slow, direct, and just a little too quiet.

“Of course not,” she said. “You’re the warm-up.”

Vi blinked.

“…You’re kidding.”

Caitlyn sipped her tea with absolute innocence.

Vi pointed at her. “You’re messing with me.”

“Am I?”

Vi stared for a moment. Then snorted. “Okay. Damn. You’re good.”

Caitlyn just tilted her head. “You’ve known that for a while.”

They moved through three more courses — scallop, fatty tuna, egg — each one more effortless than the last. The conversation stayed light. No talk of injury. No talk of telemetry. Just Vi making Caitlyn laugh more than she meant to, and Caitlyn saying just enough to keep Vi off-balance.

“I’m still not sure if this is dinner or an interrogation,” Vi said, mouth full of tamago.

“Why can’t it be both?”

Vi raised an eyebrow. “You inviting all your rivals out for sushi, or am I special?”

Caitlyn didn’t blink. “If I wanted to interrogate someone, I’d choose someone less predictable.”

Vi put a hand over her chest. “You wound me.”

“Do I?” Caitlyn said softly.

Again — too soft to be a joke.

Vi didn’t notice.

But Caitlyn noticed that Vi didn’t notice.

She smiled quietly to herself and plucked a piece of ginger from her plate

When the waiter brought the check, Caitlyn reached for it without hesitation.

Vi protested. “I can pay.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to fight me over dinner etiquette?”

Vi considered it. “No. You’d probably win.”

“I’d definitely win.”

Vi narrowed her eyes. “You really like being in control, don’t you?”

Caitlyn stood, smoothing her sleeves. “You only just realized that?”

The waiter asked for a picture as they were leaving. Just one. Said he was a fan. Nervous. Almost forgot to turn the flash on.

They stood close — not touching, but not distant. Caitlyn’s hands in her coat pockets. Vi’s arm casually slung behind her, palm resting on the back of Caitlyn’s chair for balance.

The waiter posted it ten minutes later.

 “They were nice. They smiled. They tipped really well. This is my Roman Empire now.”

The photo went viral before either of them got back to their hotel.

The air at Suzuka was crisp. Clean. The kind of chill that cut just enough to wake your senses, even through fireproofs and tension.

The sun hovered behind light clouds, and from above, the circuit looked like it was holding its breath. The stands were packed. The fans were buzzing. And beneath all of it, the grid waited.

Caitlyn Kiramman walked through the garage like nothing had changed.

Black Mercedes team jacket zipped high, hair pinned in a clean twist, posture untouched. No brace. No stiffness. Only her hands — gloved and steady — revealed how focused she really was.

She hadn’t driven since Australia.

No Free Practice. No sim laps in Japan.

Just data.

And now: qualifying.

“You good?” Rhea asked, tightening the belts around her ribcage just a bit more carefully than usual.

Caitlyn met her gaze evenly. “I’m always good.”

That wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t arrogance.

It was fact.

✦ Q1 & Q2

From the first flying lap, she knew what the car wanted.

Turn 3 was the test — the compression, the twist. It bit into her left side with a breath of warning, but not enough to rattle her. She stayed clean. Sharp.

By Q2, she was setting green sectors and matching her teammate's delta.

Vi was fast — no question. Her Red Bull looked angry on track, dancing on the limit with every exit. Sector 2 was hers by default — nobody attacked the spoon curve like Vi.

But Caitlyn?

She carved corners.

Sectors 1 and 3 were hers.

They always were.

✦ Q3 

Vi went out first in Q3 and lit up the timing screens.

Purple. Green. Purple again.

Her final time blinked on the board like a challenge.

P1 – 1:27.069.

Caitlyn waited. Watched.

Then rolled out.

Her first sector matched Vi's. Her second was two-tenths behind. But then came Turn 11 — a twitch. Not major. Just a slight delay in throttle that cost her the apex.

By the time she crossed the line, the damage was done.

P3 – 1:27.315.

Not pole.

Not front row.

But not failure either.

She pulled into parc fermé with her jaw tight and her grip tighter.

Vi was already out of her car, helmet tucked under one arm, smile brighter than the overhead sun.

Caitlyn unclipped with perfect control. No flinch. No sign of pain. Just one clean breath and a smooth exit.

She walked over without a pause.

“You earned that,” she said.

Vi blinked, caught off guard for a second. “Didn’t think I’d hear that from you.”

“You’re fast,” Caitlyn replied. “Today, fastest.”

Vi tilted her head. “You okay, though? You looked… tight in Turn 11.”

“Discomfort,” Caitlyn admitted. “Not pain.”

“Scale of 1 to hospital?”

“Four. Maybe five on braking.”

Vi gave her a look. “You sure?”

“I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

Vi exhaled. “Alright. Just—don’t scare me mid-race. I don’t have the emotional range.”

Caitlyn cracked the faintest smile. “I’ll try to be considerate.”

Caitlyn stepped calmly into the press zone, eyes forward, arms relaxed, headset still warm around her neck. The lights were bright, the questions sharper than the air.

But nothing touched her composure.

SkySports F1:
“Caitlyn, first of all, congratulations on P3 — especially impressive without any Free Practice running. How did the car feel today?”

Caitlyn:
“Controlled. I had full confidence in the setup. The team worked ahead of the curve this weekend.”

RaceFansTV:
“Any lingering discomfort behind the wheel?”

Caitlyn:
“Some. Not limiting. I was able to focus fully on performance.”

F1TrackNews:
“We saw you out of the car post-session congratulating Vi. Do you feel this track favors her driving style?”

Caitlyn:
“She’s quick through the middle sector. That’s always been a strength of hers. She delivered.”

A pause. Then one of the senior reporters from Autosport leaned in — polite, but direct.

Autosport:
“Caitlyn, I’d be remiss not to ask — a photo from last night made rounds this morning. You and Vi at dinner in Tokyo. It sparked quite a bit of fan attention. Any comment?”

There was no hesitation.

Caitlyn:
“I had dinner with a fellow driver. Off-track moments are rare, and I value them when they come.”

Autosport (smiling):
“Understandable. Just a friendly dinner, then?”

Caitlyn (evenly):
“I don’t share private details with the media. My focus remains on qualifying performance and tomorrow’s race.”

She offered a small, professional smile.

And that was that.

Vi came in like thunder after the storm.

Pole-sitter. Grinning. Hair messy under her cap. Relaxed, but alert.

SkySports F1:
“Vi! First pole of the season. That lap was fearless. How’s it feel?”

Vi:
“Honestly? About time. I’ve been chasing purple all year.”

RaceFansTV:
“Sector 2 was insane. You looked glued to the track.”

Vi:
“Car felt amazing. Balance was perfect. I knew if I hooked it, we had it.”

Then the tone shifted — still light, but a touch more careful.

F1TrackNews:
“There’s a lot of conversation online today — mostly fan-driven — about a photo of you and Caitlyn at dinner. Anything you'd like to clarify?”

Vi smirked, but it wasn’t mocking.

Vi:
“We grabbed some sushi. Nothing strategic about it — just good food, off the clock.”

SkySports (gently):
“Fans love seeing drivers get along off-track. Think it's a good thing for the sport?”

Vi:
“Sure. We’re all human under the helmets, right? Not every conversation has to be telemetry and tire deg.”

RaceFansTV:
“So, not a date, then?”

Vi paused, laughing softly.

Vi:
“Define date.”

The reporters chuckled. She left it there — friendly, vague, and just enough to fuel the fire without fanning it.

The Suzuka Grand Prix grid shimmered with heat and nerves. The sun hung low but harsh, catching the glint of carbon fiber wings and visors pulled low in focus. Twenty engines were silent, but the air buzzed with pressure.

Caitlyn Kiramman sat P3 on the grid.

Helmet on. Gloved hands calm on the wheel. Her heartbeat steady. Her breath short — shallow, managed.

The discomfort was there.

But pain was no longer her focus.

Her focus was Vi.

P1. Pole sitter. Red Bull. Confidence practically pouring off the rear wing.

Caitlyn glanced up at the lights above the grid. Five red dots. One chance.

She didn’t blink.

The lights went out.

The storm began.

---

2. Opening Laps – Chase the Ghost

Vi launched perfectly — aggressive, clinical. Covered Turn 1 with control, exiting smoothly. No drama. No mistakes.

Caitlyn slotted behind P2, a Ferrari, choosing patience over pressure. Her hands worked on instinct — throttle, brake, shift — all automatic. Her ribs tensed as the G-force hit through Turn 3. Pain. But not weakness.

She climbed to P2 by Lap 7, executing a clean overtake at the hairpin. Sharp inside line. No contact.

Now it was just her and Vi.

The chase began.

Vi had a three-second gap.

Caitlyn clawed it back.

Not recklessly — but with a surgeon’s calm. Tenth by tenth. Sector by sector. Through the Esses. Out of Spoon. Down the back straight.

By Lap 20, she was inside DRS range.

Her engineer’s voice clicked through the comms:

> “You’re with her. Battery mode 4. Execute when ready.”

Caitlyn responded simply:

> “Copy. Not yet.”

She was studying.

Laps 24 through 31 were brutal.

Every DRS zone, Caitlyn loomed larger in Vi’s mirrors. She feinted inside at Turn 1. Showed the nose at Degner. Tucked in tighter through Spoon.

But Vi defended like her life depended on it.

Vi’s radio was constant:

> “She’s just sitting there. Not even attacking. Waiting for me to screw up.”

> “Rear tires dropping.”

> “She’s not backing off.”

Caitlyn didn’t. She wouldn’t.

Her ribs flared with pressure under load, especially through the chicane. But her grip never wavered. Her focus narrowed.

By Lap 34, she radioed:

> “Still there. Still calculating.”

Rhea replied calmly:

> “We see it. Wait for her to lock up.”

Caitlyn didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

Vi pushed harder. Burned battery. Defended her lines like a queen under siege.

But the walls were closing in.

Lap 48. Five to go.

Vi was ahead, but barely. Less than six-tenths. Tires cooking. Brakes glowing.

Caitlyn was clinical. Her hands precise. The pain in her side was a sharp hum, but her mind sliced through it.

Lap 49 — Caitlyn attacked.

Turn 1. Deep on the brakes. They went side-by-side.

Vi held the inside. Barely. The two cars danced inches apart.

The crowd lost their minds.

Lap 50 — again. Caitlyn feinted at Spoon, Vi blocked. Their wheels nearly kissed in the chicane.

Vi’s voice cracked over radio:

> “She’s not lifting. If I move one inch wrong, we touch.”

“Keep it clean,” her engineer said.

> “She’s playing with fire.”

But Caitlyn was done waiting.

---

5. Lap 52 – The Incident

Turn 16.

Vi defended the inside. Caitlyn went outside. Both braked deep — too deep.

Vi squeezed. Left just enough space for survival.

Caitlyn didn’t lift.

Their rear wheels kissed. Caitlyn’s front right ran onto the edge of the curb, kicking up dust.

But she didn’t flinch.

She held it.

Surged ahead.

Vi shouted into her radio:

> “SHE PUSHED ME OFF! That was dangerous!”

Silence.

Then:

> “Noted. Stewards reviewing.”

By the time they reached Turn 1 again, Caitlyn was a full second ahead.

Final lap.

Caitlyn didn’t look back.

Her breathing was tight. Her side ached. But she took every corner like the lead was hers by birthright.

She crossed the line — first.

A full second clear.

Vi crossed second.

And then the stewards made their call.

> “Car 44 – Red Bull – 5-second penalty for forcing another car off track.”

Vi’s name dropped to P6.

The radio lit up.

> “NO. NO. She braked late. I defended the corner.”

> “That’s unfair. I gave her a car’s width.”

> “This is ridiculous.”

Her engineer replied, quiet:

> “We’ll discuss post-race. Box now.”

Vi threw her gloves inside the cockpit.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t climb out.

Just sat.

Watching Caitlyn climb the top step of the podium.

The media zone was tense.

Cameras snapped. Journalists leaned forward, mics aimed like weapons.

Vi had barely cooled down. Still in her suit, hair damp, visor lines marked across her cheeks. She looked like she wanted to hit something — or someone.

She didn’t wait for the questions.

She spoke first.

> “That wasn’t racing.”

The reporters blinked. One of them hesitated. “Vi, can you clarify what you mean?”

Vi folded her arms. “What Caitlyn did in Turn 16 wasn’t just aggressive — it was reckless. She braked late, committed to a line that didn’t exist, and forced me wide.”

“The stewards ruled it a racing incident at first—”

“Then gave me a five-second penalty,” she snapped. “For defending the corner I was already entitled to.”

A beat.

Another reporter cautiously asked, “Do you think the penalty was unjustified?”

Vi exhaled sharply.

Her eyes flicked toward the Mercedes section of the paddock — calm, composed, glittering in silver.

Then she said it.

“I just think if the roles were reversed, she wouldn’t be penalized.”

 “And why is that?” a journalist asked, intrigued.

Vi’s jaw tightened. Her eyes burned.

 “Because she’s Piltover. She’s their face. Their golden girl. Every move she makes is calculated. And somehow, she’s always on the right side of the ruling.”

There was a slight movement just behind the cameras — Vi’s engineer, standing stiff near the edge of the crowd, raised two fingers to his earpiece.

A signal.

Back off.

Vi saw it. Her jaw locked again. Words hung in her mouth, sharp and dangerous.

But she swallowed them.

Barely.

Instead, she breathed in — slow.

“What happened today was unfair. That’s all I’ll say.”

A silence stretched.

Reporters scribbled.

Cameras zoomed.

And Vi?

Vi turned, stormed past the rest of the pen, ignoring every shouted question behind her.

The lights were warm on her face. The microphones too close. But Caitlyn Kiramman stood still, as she always did — spine straight, hands folded neatly in front of her, the Mercedes emblem gleaming against her collarbone.

Her fireproofs were unzipped just below the neck. Her expression unreadable.

She had just been told — quietly, before stepping in — what Vi had said.

The accusation. The insinuation.

The word “Piltover.”

She didn’t flinch.

But something shifted in her posture — just enough to notice, if you knew her well.

A SkySports journalist spoke first.

> “Caitlyn, congratulations on the win. That final overtake was bold. Talk us through it.”

Her voice was even. Crisp.

 “Lap 52. I had better exit speed into Turn 15. I went around the outside, fully committed. Vi defended late. There was minimal contact. I held my line.”

“Did you expect the penalty to go her way?”

She didn’t blink.

“I focus on my own driving. I leave rulings to the stewards.”

There was a pause.

Then the question came — not hostile, but careful.

 “We understand Vi gave a strong statement. She said that if roles were reversed, you wouldn’t have been penalized. That you benefit from being… Piltover’s golden girl. Do you want to respond?”

Caitlyn was silent for a moment.

She inhaled slowly.

Then looked straight at the camera.

“I race by the book. My move was clean. Within track limits. I left space until I didn’t have it. I overtook because I was faster in that moment.”

But something cold flickered beneath the surface — disappointment. Not anger. Not pride.

Just the kind of quiet hurt that digs deep and refuses to be aired in public.

She gave a final nod.

 “That’s all I’ll say.”

And with that, she stepped away.

No further comment.

No drama.

Just silence — and a win.

The Suzuka paddock was beginning to quiet. Crews rolled up cables. Engineers spoke in murmurs. The sun dipped low, shadows stretched between hospitality units and team trailers.

Caitlyn was walking alone — headset in hand, jacket zipped to the throat. Her helmet was already packed. Her win already logged.

But her expression hadn’t softened.

Not once.

She turned the corner behind the broadcast suite — and stopped.

Vi was there.

Leaning against the wall of the Red Bull motorhome. Still in her suit, half unzipped, a bottle of water in her hand, and eyes locked on her like she’d been waiting.

Caitlyn’s footsteps slowed. She said nothing.

Vi pushed off the wall.

“Congrats on the win,” she said flatly.

Caitlyn nodded once. “Thank you.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then Vi said, “You didn’t have to say what you said on camera.”

Caitlyn blinked, calm but sharp. “I said nothing you didn’t already know.”

“That’s the problem,” Vi snapped. “You’re always so perfect about it. Nothing sticks to you.”

Caitlyn’s brow lifted, just slightly. “You’re upset you got penalized.”

“I’m upset you caused it,” Vi said, stepping closer now. “And no one even questioned you. Not for a second. If I’d made that move? Everyone would’ve crucified me.”

“You think I’m treated better because I’m from Piltover,” Caitlyn said.

Vi didn’t answer — not directly.

But her silence was loud.

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “You think the world just hands me victories.”

“Doesn’t it?” Vi bit. “You show up after missing practice, slot it into P3, and the stewards bend over backwards when it’s you in a battle. You get grace I never do.”

Caitlyn’s breath caught — just briefly.

Vi didn’t stop.

“You get called precise. Tactical. I make the same move, and I’m reckless. Aggressive. Dangerous.”

“You’re not being fair,” Caitlyn said, voice low.

“Maybe I’m tired of being fair,” Vi said. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending like you don’t get away with things just because you’re Caitlyn Kiramman.”

The last word landed hard.

Caitlyn’s shoulders stiffened — not in anger.

In hurt.

A flicker passed across her face — something small. Soft. Wounded.

Vi saw it.

And immediately regretted it.

Caitlyn blinked once. Looked down. Then back up.

And her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“I didn’t make the stewards’ call, Vi. I didn’t even argue with you. I passed you. I drove clean. And you—”

She stopped.

“You accused me of being handed everything. You think I don’t earn what I take.”

Vi opened her mouth.

Caitlyn cut her off.

“You think this doesn’t cost me, too?” Her voice broke — just barely. “I drove that race with fire under my ribs. I clawed back from an injury no one even knew about. But to you, I’m still just the privileged one.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Vi’s shoulders dropped a little.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Caitlyn said, suddenly so tired. “And the worst part is, I’m not even surprised.”

Her voice didn’t rise. She didn’t walk away.

She just stood there.

And Vi saw it — the hurt on her face.

The kind that doesn’t scream.
The kind that doesn’t cry.
The kind that feels like betrayal.

Caitlyn turned, finally, stepping back into the shadows of the paddock.

Vi didn’t follow.

Chapter Text

The Red Bull garage smelled of brake dust, grease, and tension.

It had been hours since the checkered flag fell at Suzuka, but the mood inside was anything but celebratory. Engineers packed equipment in silence. Data analysts avoided eye contact. Even the background noise — the normal hum of paddock chatter — felt muted.

Vi sat alone on the back bench of the telemetry room, still half-suited, race boots untied. Her visor was shoved into her helmet bag, forgotten. Her hair clung to the back of her neck, damp with sweat that had long gone cold.

The anger had cooled. The adrenaline, drained.

Now, there was only the echo of her own words — and the weight of the silence that followed them.

The door opened with a hiss.

Sevika stepped in — Red Bull team principal, shoulders broad and face unreadable. She was holding a clipboard, but it was clearly for show. What she had to say wouldn’t come from a checklist.

“You made the podium and dropped to P6,” she began, tone clipped. “But that’s not what’s getting headlines.”

Vi didn’t look up.

 “You know what’s being clipped and posted all over social media? That little line about Caitlyn and Piltover.”

Vi leaned back. “Did I lie?”

Sevika set the clipboard down with a thud.

 “That’s not the point. The press thinks you implied bias. The fans think you snapped under pressure. And corporate? They think it’s a PR mess.”

Vi clenched her jaw. “Let them think what they want.”

Sevika stepped forward.

“You’re a Red Bull driver. That means your words hit the entire team. You don’t get to burn things down just because you’re pissed.”

Vi finally looked up. Her eyes were tired. “I know.”

The admission surprised Sevika. She paused, just for a moment.

Vi sighed. “I meant what I said about the penalty. I still think it was unfair. But…”

She hesitated.

“I shouldn’t have said it the way I did. Not like that. Not about her.”

Sevika’s expression didn’t change.

 “Not in front of ten million viewers,” she muttered.

Vi gave a humorless smile. “That too.”

 “You going to apologize to the media?”

Vi shook her head. “I don’t care about the press. I care that I hurt her.”

Sevika raised a brow. “Caitlyn?”

Vi nodded slowly. “She didn’t deserve that. I was angry. Not just about the penalty. About how easy she made it look. About how she looked at me after. Like I’d become someone she couldn’t even recognize.”

For a second, Sevika didn’t say anything.

Then, more gently:

 “So fix it.”

Vi rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know how.”

After Sevika left, Vi sat in silence.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Outside, trolleys rolled over the tarmac. Voices murmured. Tools clicked.

She pulled her phone out of her bag and tapped into her socials.

Mentions: thousands.

She scrolled through a few.

---

@lap17screamer

> Vi really said “Piltover privilege” out loud on international TV huh???

@f1burnbook

> Look I love Vi but that post-race interview? Yikes. Caitlyn’s response was pure class.

@drszonefanclub

> Was the move aggressive? Sure. Was it dirty? No. Caitlyn passed clean. Vi’s just mad she lost.

@kirammanupdates

> Caitlyn didn’t even post after winning Suzuka. That’s how much that interview hit her. She always posts.

Vi frowned.

That one stuck.

She tapped into Caitlyn’s profile.

Nothing since the race.

No podium photo. No telemetry breakdown. No sponsor acknowledgements.

Just silence.

And for Caitlyn, that wasn’t normal.

She always posted. Always.

Vi leaned back against the bench, staring at her screen.

All of Caitlyn’s previous victories had updates — captioned strategies, team photos, fan reposts, sometimes a sly quote tucked between telemetry charts.

But now?

Nothing.

The last post was three days old — a pre-qualifying shot, headset on, eyes focused, calm and unshakable.

Vi stared at the image for a long time.

She remembered the way Caitlyn had looked at her after the race — not cold, not dismissive.

Just…

Disappointed.

Wounded, in the way people are when they expected better.

Vi rubbed her face with one hand, exhaling slowly.

She hadn’t meant to take it out on her.

Well—she had.

But not like that.

Not to the whole world.

Caitlyn hadn’t fought back. Hadn’t dragged her in the press. Hadn’t posted a single passive-aggressive quote.

She just stood there. Said her truth. Walked away.

And now she was silent.

And that silence said more than any tweet, any radio message, any post-race fireworks ever could.

Vi tossed her half-empty water bottle into the bin.

The hollow clatter echoed through the telemetry room.

She pushed up from the bench, boots heavy against the concrete floor, fingers twitching by her sides.

She didn’t know what she was going to say.

Didn’t even know if Caitlyn would listen.

But the one thing she knew?

She had to try.

Before the silence between them turned permanent.

The post-Suzuka break came like a breath the paddock didn’t know it needed.

Two weeks of stillness before the engines roared again. No practice sessions. No travel schedules. Just a rare pause in a sport that never stopped moving.

Mercedes took the time seriously.

In the calm of their Brackley headquarters, a quiet meeting took place—behind closed doors, under the soft hum of filtered light. Ambessa Medarda, towering and composed, stood at the head of the table. Her presence alone made the air feel heavier.

Caitlyn sat near one end, posture straight, expression calm.

Maddie sat across, hands fidgeting under the table, but eyes locked on Ambessa with razor-sharp attention.

Seated around them were key engineers, strategists, and one quietly observant representative from Williams.

 “Maddie,” Ambessa began, voice firm but not unkind. “Let’s speak plainly. You were pulled into F1 mid-season. A move born out of opportunity and chaos.”

Maddie nodded once, trying not to look terrified.

“You’ve adapted well. You’ve shown control, clarity under pressure, and remarkable composure for someone who was racing F2 four months ago.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Maddie said quietly.

Ambessa continued, her tone unwavering.

 “If you deliver results with Williams in the second half of the season—consistency, clean driving, and tactical understanding—we’ll bring you into the 2026 lineup.”

The words hit the table like a dropped wrench.

Maddie’s lips parted. “I—seriously?”

“You’ll partner with Caitlyn,” Ambessa confirmed, casting a brief glance toward Caitlyn. “But Mercedes doesn’t hand out seats. You’ll earn it. And you’ll carry the weight that comes with it.”

Maddie nodded quickly, breathless. “Yes. Absolutely. I’ll prove it. Thank you.”

Ambessa stood.

The meeting was over.

As quickly as it began, the room emptied. Caitlyn and Maddie were the last to rise.

They stepped out into the corridor—quiet, sleek, sunlit from overhead.

Maddie walked beside Caitlyn, shoulders still trembling slightly with adrenaline.

“Do you…” she began, then laughed nervously, “do you want to grab a coffee or something?”

Caitlyn tilted her head. “I do.”

A small smile crept across Maddie’s face.

Minutes later, they sat outside a café on the edge of the facility’s quiet garden—minimalist concrete tables, light greenery, warm air filtering in through open-glass walls.

Caitlyn stirred her coffee slowly, silently.

Maddie kept her hands around her cup like a lifeline.

“I’m nervous,” she finally admitted.

Caitlyn didn’t look up. “That’s normal.”

“I just…” Maddie stared into the swirl of her latte. “I didn’t expect to be here. F2 is different. It’s ruthless, yeah, but it’s not this. I came in when everything was already moving. No testing. No foundation. I didn’t even unpack properly.”

She laughed, then winced. “Not that I’m ungrateful. I just—I want to be ready. I want to belong.”

Caitlyn finally looked at her.

 “You do belong,” she said, steady and sure. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

Maddie’s eyes flicked to her. “It’s easy for you to say. You’re… you.”

 “I wasn’t always,” Caitlyn replied without blinking.

Maddie hesitated. “Still. Mercedes? That’s been my dream since I was fifteen. And to even think I might sit in a debrief with you next year…”

She stopped herself, biting the inside of her cheek.

Caitlyn smiled slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

Maddie laughed, embarrassed. “That sounds like something a comic book mentor would say.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

They both sipped in silence.

The breeze moved through the ivy on the walls. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped once and fell quiet.

Time slowed.

Maddie leaned back a little in her chair. Caitlyn’s gaze had returned to her cup. Her profile—sharp and elegant in the afternoon light—looked almost unreal. Measured. Still.

Maddie glanced away quickly, cheeks warm.

She wasn’t stupid.

She admired Caitlyn. Respected her.

But maybe there was more to it than that.

A bit of awe, yes. But something gentler, too. Something that lingered in the way she watched Caitlyn’s hands move, how her brow furrowed slightly when she thought too hard about something.

She wondered if Caitlyn knew how often people looked at her like that.

Maddie wasn’t sure if she wanted her to know.

She reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her phone.

“Would you mind…?” she asked, lifting it slightly.

Caitlyn turned her head. “A photo?”

Maddie nodded.

Caitlyn didn’t smile fully, but her expression softened just enough — a quiet patience in her eyes, like she was letting herself be seen, just for this.

The shutter clicked.

Maddie looked at the screen. She didn’t edit it. Didn’t filter it. She didn’t need to.

It wasn’t just a photo.

It was a moment.

She tapped out a caption:

> just coffee with my hero ☕💙 

And she posted it before she could second-guess herself.

---

They sat there a little longer.

Caitlyn didn’t pull out her phone. She didn’t rush to leave.

She just sat quietly with her coffee, elbows on the table, gaze distant but alert — like she was always two moves ahead of the world, but willing to let herself fall one step behind, just for now.

Maddie didn’t say anything else.

Neither did Caitlyn.

They didn’t have to.

The silence was warm. Uncomplicated.

And when they finally stood to leave, Maddie tucked the moment away in the back of her mind — the coffee, the sunlight, the brief glimpse of softness behind Caitlyn’s cool exterior.

The ballroom shimmered with old wealth.

Soft golden lighting pooled across marble floors. Waiters moved between clusters of guests like well-dressed ghosts, trays balanced with sparkling glasses and speech cards. The air was thick with perfume, diplomacy, and quiet calculation.

Caitlyn stood near the edge of the gallery, spine straight, arms folded loosely in front of her navy-blue gown. Her heels — tasteful, conservative — clicked faintly against the floor when she shifted her weight.

She wasn’t mingling.

She wasn’t smiling.

She was enduring.

Cassandra had insisted.

 “Your presence matters, Caitlyn. You’re a Kiramman, not just a competitor. This is your world, too.”

Caitlyn had known what that meant.

Appear. Be seen. Shake hands. Don’t speak too much — but say enough to seem sharp. Represent the family, even if your boots still smelled faintly of burned rubber from Suzuka.

She’d almost refused.

But refusing her mother… wasn’t easy.

The collar of her dress itched faintly. The fabric stretched in ways her racing suit never did — elegant, but restrictive. Her left side still ached if she twisted too much. But she didn’t show it. Not here.

Not when eyes were always watching.

She sipped her champagne with practiced stillness, gaze flicking from one group of politicians to another. Nothing in their smiles looked genuine. Everything felt like a performance.

“Having fun?”

Caitlyn turned.

Jayce had arrived — dressed impeccably in a midnight suit, tie askew in a charmingly careless way, holding a drink in one hand and a small plate of hors d'oeuvres in the other.

“I see you’ve mastered your bored socialite pose,” he teased.

Caitlyn allowed the corner of her mouth to curl. “It’s all muscle memory at this point.”

Jayce came to stand beside her, leaning casually on the balcony rail.

“I figured you’d be halfway out the back door by now. You hate these things.”

“I’m here because she asked me to be,” Caitlyn said simply.

Jayce followed her gaze across the room. Cassandra stood by the grand piano, graceful and composed, surrounded by Piltovan officials and donors, her presence as polished as it was commanding.

“She doesn’t really ask,” Jayce muttered.

“No,” Caitlyn agreed. “She doesn’t.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment.

Then Jayce nudged her gently.

“So. Next race. Two weeks out. You ready?”

Caitlyn nodded, sipping her drink. “Car’s performing well. Setup should translate cleanly to the high-speed corners.”

Jayce smirked. “God, you’re such an engineer when you’re not dodging cameras.”

“Habit.”

His eyes softened a little. “You’re healing okay?”

“Yes.”

He waited.

“…Mostly,” Caitlyn added after a beat.

Jayce tilted his head. “And what about… everything else?”

Caitlyn didn’t look at him. “What else?”

“You know what I mean.”

Silence.

Jayce lowered his voice. “Vi.”

Caitlyn’s hand stiffened slightly around the stem of her glass. Barely noticeable. But Jayce saw it.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, “We haven’t spoken.”

“She hasn’t reached out?”

“No.”

Jayce frowned. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

Caitlyn stared out at the glittering lights of the city skyline beyond the windows.

“She said some things. I said less. But I suppose it said enough.”

Jayce didn’t push.

Instead, he offered her a napkin from his plate and said gently, “These hors d'oeuvres are criminal. Please pretend to enjoy one so I don’t feel like I’m dying alone.”

Caitlyn took the napkin. A faint smile. “You’re so dramatic.”

“It’s a gift.”

As they stood side by side, the event moved on without them.

The sound of violinists. The clink of glasses. Laughter that didn’t quite reach anyone’s eyes.

Caitlyn let herself lean, just slightly, into the comfort of an old friend’s presence.

Not speaking about it — but not quite hiding it, either.

She hadn’t heard from Vi.

She hadn’t expected to.

But the silence was louder than any apology.

The moment fractured like glass.

Caitlyn noticed it the second the weight of her mother’s gaze reached her from across the ballroom.

Cassandra Kiramman moved with practiced grace through the crowd — every step elegant, every gesture calculated. Dressed in stately silver, her hair pinned into place without a strand out of order, she looked every inch the councilwoman she had always been.

Jayce saw her coming and gave Caitlyn a light nudge.

 “I’ll go pretend to be useful somewhere,” he murmured. “Call me if she tries to turn you into a senator.”

Caitlyn’s lips twitched.

Then he was gone.

And Cassandra arrived.

“Caitlyn.”

Her mother’s voice was smooth. Controlled.

Caitlyn turned slowly, drink still in hand. “Mother.”

“You’ve been standing here for twenty minutes,” Cassandra said, not unkindly. “You haven’t spoken to the Minister of Trade. Or the future ambassador from Targon.”

“I wasn’t aware I was scheduled for diplomacy,” Caitlyn replied softly.

“You’re always scheduled for diplomacy. Especially when you’re wearing my name.”

Caitlyn stiffened — just slightly. “I thought I was here for charity.”

“You’re here to be seen. And remembered,” Cassandra said, folding her hands. “Your name still means something, Caitlyn. To these people. To Piltover.”

“And what about what it means to me?” Caitlyn asked, too quietly for anyone but her mother to hear.

Cassandra didn’t flinch. “It means obligation. Responsibility. A future you may not want, but were born to carry.”

There was no venom in her voice. Just truth.

That made it worse.

---

Caitlyn looked back out over the crowd.

“There’s a race in two weeks,” she said, almost to herself.

“You’ll be ready,” Cassandra replied.

A pause.

“I saw the footage from Suzuka. Your driving was precise.”

Caitlyn turned, surprised by the compliment. “…Thank you.”

“But that interview. That girl.”

The softness in her mother’s expression vanished.

“You let her speak about you like that on international broadcast.”

“I didn’t let her do anything.”

“You said nothing.”

“I said enough.”

Cassandra’s jaw flexed. “You’re stronger than that, Caitlyn.”

 “I’m not here to win arguments. I’m here to drive.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

Finally, Cassandra spoke again. “This world — politics, governance — it may not be what you want now. But it is your responsibility. One day, your name will be called upon. When it is… I expect you to answer.”

“I always answer,” Caitlyn said, voice cold. “You just don’t always like what I say.”

For the first time, a flash of emotion crossed Cassandra’s face. Not anger.

Something close to sadness.

But it disappeared just as quickly.

She stepped back, hands smoothing the front of her gown.

“Don’t linger too long in the corners. People are starting to whisper.”

Then she was gone — swallowed by the crowd and the sound of violins.

Caitlyn remained where she was, her drink now warm in her hand, her reflection blurred in the glass.

The hotel room was quiet.

Not the comforting kind — not soft or sleepy. Just quiet. The kind that buzzed behind your ears after you’ve run out of excuses not to think.

Vi lay on the edge of the bed, half out of her hoodie, hair still damp from the shower she forgot to finish. One leg bent, one stretched. Her phone hovered above her face, screen glowing in the dark.

She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for.

Race footage? Post-race analysis? Team updates?

No. She wasn’t being productive.

She was just… scrolling.

Avoiding.

Avoiding the memory of Caitlyn’s face after the argument.

Avoiding the hollow ache that settled in her chest when she thought about the things she said — and the things she didn’t.

The ones that mattered most.

---

She refreshed her feed.

New photos.

She almost missed it.

It was one of those glitzy news accounts — @PiltoverPulse or something equally polished.

> 📰 Councilwoman Cassandra Kiramman and daughter Caitlyn attend the annual Piltover Progress Gala.
Caitlyn Kiramman, recently victorious at the Suzuka Grand Prix, joined political figures at the high-profile charity event...

The photo loaded slowly.

And there she was.

Caitlyn.

Hair pulled back. Dark dress, elegant but minimal. Head high. Shoulders perfect. Eyes unreadable.

She looked… still.

Not tense. Not joyful. Just composed, the way Vi had seen her stand on the top step of the podium — but colder. Harder.

Vi zoomed in instinctively, like she might find something in the details. A twitch of a brow. A purse of lips. Something real.

But it was a photograph. Frozen.

And it told her nothing.

---

She kept scrolling.

More pictures.

Caitlyn standing near Jayce. Caitlyn beside Cassandra. Caitlyn shaking hands with someone in a suit Vi didn’t recognize.

Each one looked the same.

Polished. Untouchable.

Like she belonged to that world.

Not to the track.

Not to her.

Vi locked her phone, dropped it to her chest, and stared up at the ceiling for a moment.

Then she picked it up again.

This time she typed: “Caitlyn Kiramman” into the search bar.

Just to see.

Just… curiosity.

Sure.

---

That’s when she saw it.

A post from earlier in the week. A totally different setting.

A sunny café table. A coffee cup. Two chairs.

And Caitlyn — not in a gown, but in a fitted team t-shirt, hair loose around her shoulders, eyes soft.

The post wasn’t even from her.

It was from Maddie.

Vi frowned.

She recognized the girl from Williams — the rookie who had waved at Caitlyn on the parade truck. The one who looked at her like a fan who couldn’t believe she’d been allowed this close to a star.

The caption was short:

> just coffee with my hero ☕💙 

Vi stared at it.

The photo wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t suggestive. It was just… warm.

Too warm.

Caitlyn wasn’t even looking at the camera — she was stirring her drink, gaze unfocused. But the light on her face was soft. Her shoulders were relaxed. She looked like she’d let something go, even if just for a second.

Vi scrolled through the comments.

> “Awww this is so cute??”
“Maddie got coffee with CAITLYN?? hello???”
“Caitlyn smiling… and it's not even a press photo???”
“I ship this actually.”
“This is so soft omg.”

Her stomach turned, and she didn’t know why.

Because it meant nothing?

Because Caitlyn had moved on?

Because Caitlyn hadn’t texted her, but had coffee with someone else?

---

Vi dropped the phone beside her and covered her face with one arm.

She wasn’t angry.

Not really.

Not even at Maddie.

She was angry at herself.

For the things she’d said. For assuming Caitlyn would just… wait.

And now?

Now Caitlyn was out there — winning races, attending galas, grabbing coffee with people who hadn’t hurt her.

And Vi?

Vi was here.

Alone, with the static buzz of a phone that refused to light up with the one message she actually wanted to see.

The media room buzzed like a hive.

Bright white lights pressed down on the long desk where three drivers sat, microphones angled toward their faces. Journalists filled the rows in front of them, cameras poised, recorders blinking. The hum of voices stilled as the moderator gestured for quiet.

Caitlyn sat in the middle — calm, pristine, her Mercedes polo tucked in neatly, posture perfect. To her right, Maddie leaned forward nervously, hands folded on the table, a Williams badge gleaming faintly against her chest. And to Caitlyn’s left sat Vi — hoodie unzipped over her Red Bull shirt, cap pulled low, jaw tight.

Two weeks since Suzuka. Two weeks since words cut sharper than engine noise.

Caitlyn hadn’t looked at her once.

---

The first questions were routine.

“Caitlyn, you’re leading the championship by just twelve points now. How are you feeling heading into this weekend?”

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly toward the microphone.

> “Confident. It’s a long season. Every race is its own challenge. We’ve done the work, and I trust my team.”

Polished. Efficient. Nothing wasted.

“Vi, Suzuka was… eventful. Do you still feel frustrated about the penalty?”

Vi’s jaw ticked. She leaned in.

 “Yeah, I do. I think it was harsh. But that’s in the past. New weekend, new track. My focus is on winning here.”

Caitlyn’s eyes didn’t move. Not once.

Then came the pivot.

A journalist lifted her hand. “Question for Caitlyn and Maddie. There’s been a lot of buzz online since that photo you two shared last week. Fans are curious — how did that come about?”

Maddie stiffened instantly, her cheeks heating.

Caitlyn, however, remained perfectly composed.

 “It was just coffee,” she said, her tone smooth. “We happened to have time after a meeting at Brackley. Maddie’s adjusting to F1 quickly, so it was a chance to check in.”

She paused, the faintest flicker of a smile touching her lips.

“And to make sure she remembers to eat between simulator sessions.”

Maddie made a soft noise — somewhere between a laugh and a squeak. She ducked her head slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“She’s exaggerating,” she muttered into her mic.

The press chuckled. Cameras flashed.

Caitlyn’s expression didn’t waver.

Vi shifted in her chair, restless. She didn’t look at the journalists. She looked at Caitlyn — finally.

But Caitlyn didn’t turn.

Her profile was flawless under the lights, unreadable. Every word weighed before it left her mouth. Every gesture controlled.

It was like Vi wasn’t even there.

When the session ended, the drivers filed out in a line. Maddie trailed slightly, still red in the cheeks, muttering to herself about the teasing. Reporters kept calling after them, but handlers ushered them down the hall toward the paddock’s private corridors.

Vi slowed her steps, just enough to try and catch Caitlyn’s eye.

Nothing.

Caitlyn walked with her headset draped neatly around her neck, talking quietly with her press officer, her gaze fixed forward. Not once did she glance back.

Vi clenched her jaw.

She couldn’t find the moment.

Not here. Not yet.

The silence stretched like another lap unfinished.

The paddock was quieting down.

The sun had long dipped below the horizon, bleeding the sky into a cold, bruised navy. Only the harsh white floodlights remained — humming overhead, casting long, thin shadows between the garages. Everything had slowed. The urgency of the day had melted into mechanical routine: toolboxes being wheeled away, leftover tire warmers coiled like discarded snakes, tired mechanics flicking off lights with muscle memory.

Vi stood alone in the shadows near Red Bull’s hospitality unit, jacket zipped up, cap pulled low. She wasn’t moving. She hadn’t been for the better part of twenty minutes.

She hadn’t said anything to her team. Not when they asked what she was doing, not when they gave up and left.

She was waiting.

Because Caitlyn hadn’t looked at her all day.

And that silence was louder than any argument Vi had ever known.

She’d lost count of how many times she replayed Suzuka in her mind — not the race, but the words that came after. The sharp, reckless interview. The bitterness in her voice. The anger. The way she let her frustration become a grenade, and Caitlyn — of all people — ended up catching the shrapnel.

So when she saw her — alone, finally — it felt like the air shifted.

Caitlyn was walking, slow and purposeful, across the paddock. Headset in hand. Jacket half-zipped, wind tugging lightly at the ends of her hair. Her movements were precise, practiced — like she’d ironed herself flat enough that nothing could get under her skin.

But Vi had been under her skin. And she didn’t know how to undo that.

She stepped forward.

 “Caitlyn.”

No answer.

No hesitation.

Just the same clean, uninterrupted stride.

Vi hurried to catch up, boots scuffing faintly against the concrete.

 “Please,” she said, just loud enough for Caitlyn to hear. “Just for a minute.”

That made her pause.

Not a full stop — just a fractional slowing, the barest turn of her head.

Then Caitlyn turned fully, her expression composed, unreadable, as if she’d been waiting for this moment all day and had already made peace with how little she would give it.

Her voice was calm. Perfectly modulated.

“One minute,” she said. “Walk with me.”

They walked the outer edge of the paddock — the service lane that curved behind the garages, half-lit by the last row of overheads. It was quiet there. Isolated. Only the whisper of wind and the faint buzz of power from within the garages remained.

Vi fell into step beside her, heart beating faster than it had during the race two weeks ago.

For a while, all she heard were their footsteps.

When she finally spoke, her voice was rough. Small.

 “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”

“You’ve been trying to get me to talk to you,” Caitlyn replied, eyes still forward. “Not quite the same.”

Vi winced. “I know. And I get it. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.”

No reply.

Caitlyn’s face remained neutral. Perfect. Only her jaw, tight beneath the soft shadows, gave anything away.

Vi licked her lips, trying again.

 “What I said after Suzuka…”

She trailed off, unsure how to finish. The words tasted hollow in her mouth.

“It was cruel. It wasn’t true. And I’m sorry.”

Caitlyn didn’t stop. She didn’t even flinch.

 “You said I was protected,” she said evenly. “That I only won because of where I’m from.”

 “I didn’t mean it like that.”

 “You meant it in whatever way would make you feel less like you lost.”

The words landed like a slap. Quiet, but undeniable.

Vi didn’t argue.

 “It was a cheap shot,” she admitted, voice low. “And I threw it at the person who deserved it least.”

“You threw it at the person who trusted you,” Caitlyn said softly. “Who backed you. Publicly. Privately.”

The wind picked up a little, tugging strands of hair loose from Caitlyn’s braid.

Vi looked at the ground.

 “I know.”

 “I never needed your praise,” Caitlyn continued. “But I thought, at the very least, I had your respect.”

That silenced Vi.

They stopped walking. Caitlyn turned to face her fully under the pale pool of light.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t harden her tone.

But she didn’t have to.

 “You matter to me,” Caitlyn said.

Vi’s chest tightened.

 “You matter, Vi,” she repeated. “You have for a long time. But that day…”

Caitlyn looked at her — really looked at her.

 “That day, your pride mattered more.”

Vi blinked, throat thick. “I didn’t think—”

 “You didn’t,” Caitlyn said. “You reacted. And I became the target. Again.”

“You’re not a target.”

 “Then why does it feel like I’m always catching the shrapnel when you explode?”

Caitlyn’s voice had dropped even further. Barely above a whisper.

But it cut through Vi’s chest like a blade.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Vi said, the words sticking.

“You don’t have to want it for it to happen.”

Caitlyn’s posture hadn’t shifted. Still perfectly still. Perfectly upright. But her eyes…

Her eyes were tired.

 “I know how hard you race,” she said. “I know what it means to you to win.”

“Then why did you walk away after the race?”

“Because I needed to remember how to breathe without you turning every bad moment into a weapon I have to absorb.”

That — that was the one that almost broke Vi.

“That’s not fair—”

 “Isn’t it?”

Vi stepped forward, almost instinctively, like she could close the distance with proximity alone.

 “Tell me what to do.”

 “You want a fix,” Caitlyn replied. “But there isn’t one.”

“Then what?”

“You give me space. You give me time.”

She met Vi’s eyes again. No tears. No trembling.

But there was pain. Real pain. Tucked behind every word she had refused to scream.

 “I don’t hate you,” Caitlyn said.

Vi’s voice cracked. “Then why does it feel like I lost you?”

 “Because you did,” Caitlyn said. “Not forever. Maybe not completely. But for now… yeah.”

Vi’s hands were shaking now. She looked down and saw it for the first time.

 “I was stupid,” she said quietly.

Another silence.

“I told myself you could take it,” Vi muttered. “That if anyone could, it was you.”

Caitlyn gave a faint, tired smile.

 “It’s not about taking it,” she said. “It’s about not being the first one you turn it on.”

 “I don’t want to be that person.”

“Then stop being that person.”

 “I’m trying.”

“Try from further away.”

She took a small step back.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

 “I can’t keep holding your pain every time you fall apart,” she said. 

Vi swallowed hard. “I care about you.”

 “And I care about you,” Caitlyn said. “But caring doesn’t erase the damage. It doesn’t rebuild the trust you cracked.”

 “Then what does?”

 “Time,” she said.

She turned, slowly, without another word, and walked away — her headset swinging gently at her side, the sound of her boots soft against the concrete.

Vi didn’t follow.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because for the first time… she understood that she couldn’t.

Caitlyn – 9:07 a.m. – Mercedes Garage, Monza

There had always been a calm before the engines started.

The garage smelled like rubber and carbon fiber. Bright LEDs lit every inch of the silver and black floor. A dozen engineers moved around her in quiet efficiency — data pads in hand, cords trailing behind their boots, fans humming behind her car.

Caitlyn sat in the seat she'd known like a second skin. Helmet on her knees. Gloves fitted perfectly. Earpiece in. Suit zipped halfway.

Everything in place.

Except her mind.

Rhea crouched beside her, voice low through her headset.

 “Tire pressures are set. Track’s colder than expected — so we’ll feel it on the out-lap. We’ll do a baseline stint on mediums, check temps, then push.”

 “Understood,” Caitlyn said, voice clean.

Her tone was normal. Her eyes weren’t.

She could feel it. The margin. That gap between being composed and acting composed. And right now, she was leaning too hard on the latter.

She exhaled once.

But the breath caught — not in her lungs, not in her chest, but somewhere behind her ribs.

Behind last night.

 “You matter, Vi. But that day… your pride mattered more.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes for a blink too long. The words echoed like cold static in her skull.

And still, she walked to the car.

Climbed in.

Clipped on the belts.

Gloves. Wheel. Ignition.

No hesitation.

No second guessing.

But her hands were colder than they should’ve been.

Vi – 9:11 a.m. – Red Bull Pit Lane

Vi sat on the edge of the pit wall, helmet on, visor still open. The world in front of her narrowed to one thing: the track.

There was always something about Monza — the speed, the weight of history in the tarmac, the way every braking zone dared you to be braver than physics allowed.

This was her weekend.

No more waiting. No more second place. No more apologies.

Her engineer’s voice rang in her ears.

 “Wind’s low. We’ve got a tail on sector two. Get your launch clean and you’ll be purple before Lesmo.”

“Copy that,” Vi said.

She didn’t look across the pit lane.

Didn’t check the timing board for her name.

Didn’t allow herself to.

Because she already knew she’d see it.

And she didn’t know if it would feel like relief or regret.

Caitlyn – 9:22 a.m. – On Track

The first push lap was clean.

Barely.

Her steering corrections were tight. Too tight. Her inputs were coming from memory, not from feel.

Turn 3 — the Curva Grande — usually flowed through her body like water.

Today, it felt stiff. Delayed. She adjusted her line slightly, came out wider than planned.

 “Delta’s high,” Rhea warned in her ear. “You’re a tenth off on entry. Let’s reset. Again.”

“Copy,” Caitlyn said.

But her knuckles were whitening on the wheel.

They hadn’t spoken since that night.

And Caitlyn hated that it mattered so much.

She hated that Vi’s words — that reckless, bitter interview — had done what years of press nonsense couldn’t.

Lesmo 1 came fast. She braked a moment too late, clipped the inside kerb. The car twitched.

Her pulse jumped.

Corrected.

Recovered.

Still off pace.

 “Balance okay?” Rhea asked. “We’re seeing instability in sector two.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away.

 “Caitlyn.”

 “Yes. Car’s fine.”

 “You’re not.”

Vi – 9:28 a.m. – Sector 2

The Red Bull felt like it was carved from her breath.

Every turn obeyed. Every downshift landed like poetry.

Her engineer called out her sectors and she barely needed to respond. The lap flowed through her — fluid, sharp, exactly what she’d spent two weeks preparing for.

But then she caught it.

On the screens as she crossed into pit lane.

Caitlyn. Mercedes #04. Off-line at Parabolica. Oversteer. Rear twitch.

It wasn’t dramatic. No crash. No yellow flag.

But it wasn’t her.

 “She nearly lost it,” her engineer muttered.

Vi didn’t reply.

She just stared at the replay.

Her own heart stuttering in her chest.

Caitlyn – 9:31 a.m. – Box Lap

The car pulled into the box. Her hands unclipped the wheel slowly. Movements clean. Measured. Surgical.

But inside, her mind was screaming.

 “You’re driving like someone who didn’t sleep last night,” Rhea said, crossing her arms. “Talk to me.”

Caitlyn looked straight ahead.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’re driving like you’re on delay.”

“I’ll correct it in FP2.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flicked to the floor.

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m still not ready to answer.”

---

Vi – 9:40 a.m. – Red Bull Briefing Room

The monitor was still playing in the background. Her P1 was locked in. Report was clean.

But Vi was quiet.

She stared at the board: Kiramman – P9.

And the image of the silver car twitching toward the wall wouldn’t leave her head.

Because she’d seen Caitlyn off her rhythm before — on wet circuits, with blown setups, during red-flag chaos.

But this wasn’t that.

This was her fault.

She had gotten in her head.

Not during the race.

Not on track.

But with words.

10:02 a.m. – Medical Bay, Alone

She hadn’t meant to come here.

She wasn’t injured. There was no strain, no flare-up of old rib pain.

But she needed silence.

The physio room was empty. The air smelled of mint and antiseptic. She sat on the edge of the padded bench, hands folded tightly, her helmet on the floor.

She replayed the lap.

Every missed apex. Every late brake. Every correction.

But mostly, she replayed Vi’s voice.

 “I don’t want to be that person.”

 “Then stop being that person.”

 “I’m trying.”

 “Try from further away.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes.

She didn’t regret saying it.

But it still hurt.

Chapter Text

Free Practice 2 – Friday, 3:05 PM – Mercedes Garage

There was a kind of quiet inside the cockpit that no one outside would understand.

It wasn’t the silence of stillness — not really. The hum of the engine idling below her, the muffled chatter over radio, the white-noise rustle of the garage — it was all there. But for Caitlyn, everything dulled. Blurred. Like a room with the windows closed tight.

She adjusted the strap of her glove, clipped her comms line, and sat perfectly still as the engineers finished the final checks. Everything was exact. Mechanical. The kind of ritual she could do half-asleep, and sometimes had.

But her mind… wasn’t here.

> “Caitlyn, we're green. Run plan B — three push laps, reset, then another two. We’ll use the same offset as this morning. You copy?”

Rhea’s voice, smooth but focused, crackled through the comms.

> “Copy,” Caitlyn replied automatically, her voice giving away nothing.

The moment the lollipop man signaled, her car rolled out of the garage. A controlled launch. No wheel spin. No visible error.

And yet — something was off.

Rhea felt it almost instantly, watching the data scroll in real-time from the monitors.

Caitlyn’s steering input was just a fraction delayed in turn-in at Turn 3. Her throttle pick-up lagged by milliseconds at the exit. Barely anything the human eye could catch. No lock-up. No loss of control.

But Rhea had seen Caitlyn drive since testing. She knew when the balance was off — not the car’s. Caitlyn’s.

Sector 1 – On Circuit

Caitlyn flicked the car through the first chicane, feeling the grip settle just beneath the limits. The track was hot. Rubbered in. Ideal.

But she wasn’t in sync with it.

Her breathing was too shallow — not ragged, not hurried. Just not deep enough to settle the rhythm she usually relied on.

Out of Curva Grande, her eyes drifted for half a second to the barrier.

Not fear. Not distraction.

Just… her mind slipping.

She blinked and corrected her line.

> “Turn 4 — you’re a bit late on apex,” Rhea noted. Her tone wasn’t critical, just observant.

> “Understood,” Caitlyn answered.

No excuses. No explanations.

Just professionalism.

And distance.

Sector 2

The next few corners weren’t terrible. But they weren’t great either.

Each micro-correction bled momentum. Her telemetry told the story: a driver hitting every marker — technically — but without the finesse that made her elite.

It was like watching someone trace a perfect signature… with their non-dominant hand.

And Rhea noticed every stroke.

Rhea — Pit Wall

Rhea tapped her stylus against the screen, brows drawn.

Something was eating Caitlyn.

She’d come back from worse setups. She’d raced through worse injury. But this wasn’t physical.

This was… psychological.

And Rhea had a sinking feeling she knew exactly what — or who — it was.

Sector 3 – Final Lap of the Stint

Through Ascari, Caitlyn ran a little wide. Not over the kerb — not dangerously. Just a half meter wider than her usual razor-thin line.

 “Delta’s climbing. You’re .3 off target,” came the update.

Caitlyn didn’t reply.

At Parabolica, her lift was too early. Then too late.

That hesitation cost her the lap.

 “Box, box. Let’s come in.”

Mercedes Garage – 3:27 PM

Caitlyn rolled in smoothly, hands steady on the wheel.

But when the engine shut down, she sat still for just a beat too long.

Helmet off. Hair slicked back. She looked fine.

Unbothered.

But Rhea didn’t buy it.

Not for a second.

The pit crew stepped back. Techs began the routine checks. Caitlyn stood, stretched — subtle, controlled — and unclipped her radio.

Rhea met her at the workstation.

 “Talk to me.”

Caitlyn pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time. “The balance is a bit floaty in sector two. I’ll review the traces and correct it in FP3.”

Rhea narrowed her eyes.

 “It’s not the car.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

“Your lines are clean, but your entry speed’s inconsistent. Reaction time’s a tick slow. It's like your hands know the corners but your head is lagging behind.”

Caitlyn’s voice stayed level. “I’ll fix it.”

Rhea stepped closer, lowering her voice.

 “Is this about last night?”

Caitlyn turned her head slightly — not enough to look her in the eye.

 “No.”

But it was.

She knew it. Rhea knew it.

Driver’s Room – 4:02 PM

Inside the quiet room behind the garage, Caitlyn leaned against the locker cubby, towel slung around her neck, water bottle sweating in her hand.

She hadn’t changed out of her suit yet.

The lights were low. The air conditioning hummed. Outside, she could still hear the faint buzz of the crowd, the chatter of paddock media.

But inside?

Stillness.

Except her thoughts.

They ran like a second race — relentless and without circuit barriers.

 “You matter, Vi. But that day, your pride mattered more.”

She didn’t regret saying it.

But it still echoed like a radio message she couldn’t turn off.

Caitlyn exhaled, eyes closed.

Even when she was alone, she was never alone. Not with the weight of her own words.

And Vi’s.

Especially Vi’s.

Media Pen – 5:15 PM

The lights weren’t any less harsh than usual.

Caitlyn stepped into the pen with her usual calm — Mercedes team shirt, hair swept back, expression as composed as ever.

She wasn’t smiling.

But she didn’t need to.

She answered every question without faltering.

Yes, the setup still needed refining.
Yes, the team was gathering data.
No, there were no mechanical concerns.

Perfect. Professional. Impenetrable.

 “Caitlyn, P13 today. Was that just traffic or something else?”

“Just data collection. We were experimenting with a few things. Focused on long-run pace more than quali trim.”

“Your teammate was four-tenths up.”

 “She ran a different plan. We’ll converge tomorrow.”

No hesitation. No nerves.

But Rhea, standing just beyond the ropes, saw it.

The stiffness in her shoulders. The slightly too-careful way she folded her hands. The momentary pause before answering anything involving Vi’s name.

Outside the Media Zone – 5:42 PM

As the crowd thinned, Caitlyn stepped out, water bottle in hand, face still unreadable.

And there — near the fence line — was Vi.

Vi looked like she hadn’t decided what to say. Like she was still halfway between anger and apology.

But she stepped forward anyway.

 “Caitlyn—”

Before the sentence finished, footsteps thundered toward them.

 “Caitlyn!”

Maddie.

Still in her Williams shirt. Pink-tinted sunglasses perched on her head. She was carrying a cup holder with two iced coffees and a protein bar clumsily balanced between her fingers.

 “You left the debrief too early — figured you didn’t get a break. I didn’t know what you liked so I guessed! It’s just oat milk and—”

Caitlyn blinked.

Then — softly — took the coffee.

“Thank you.”

Vi stood perfectly still.

Just a few feet away.

But the moment was gone.

Maddie grinned brightly, oblivious. Or maybe not. But either way — she stayed.

“You going to engineering next or straight to recovery?”

“Recovery,” Caitlyn said smoothly. “Ten minutes.”

“Cool, I’ll walk with—”

Vi turned and left before she could finish.

No words.

No goodbye.

Just the familiar sting of an opportunity closing.

Again.

Social Media

@f1nightwatch

> “Caitlyn cold as ice in that interview. I love her.”
“She’s focused. She’s not cold. She’s just not giving them more to spin.”

@teammercedesmoments

> “Caitlyn didn’t even flinch. She’s locked in. But something’s still off.”

Mercedes Garage – Late Evening

Rhea hovered by the telemetry screens, alone now.

She watched Caitlyn’s lap traces again. Over and over.

The mistakes weren’t huge. Not dramatic.

But they were there.

Fractions. Inches. A breath too soon. A beat too late.

And all of it?

Un-Caitlyn.

Because this wasn’t a technical problem.

This was something else.

Something she couldn’t fix in a setup sheet.

Something that wore a Red Bull hoodie and left shadows on Caitlyn’s focus every time she stepped onto the track.

The world roared with sound.

But between Caitlyn and Vi, there was silence.

Thick, dense, and nearly unbearable.

Vi stood at the side of the garage, her helmet tucked under one arm, her cap backwards, hair fraying at the edges. The mechanics paid her no mind. No one did — not right now.

Because Caitlyn was standing across from her. And this was the only chance Vi had left to fix something she hadn’t even realized she broke.

Caitlyn, in her black-and-silver race suit, looked exactly like she always did before a session: still, poised, unreadable.

But Vi had learned to read the shadows in her stillness.

And there were more shadows than usual.

"Caitlyn." Her voice was low, hushed by the nearby engine hum.

Caitlyn glanced over her shoulder, then turned fully. Calm. Collected.

"Vi."

It was polite. Cordial. Almost pleasant.

It wasn’t the Caitlyn who had once stood an inch from her face, flushed with adrenaline and laughter, tossing quick-witted barbs like sparks from a flame.

That Caitlyn was gone.

This one felt like a mirage.

Vi stepped closer. Just enough that the crew wouldn’t overhear.

"I’ve been thinking about what you said. About pride. And how it mattered more than you."

Caitlyn said nothing.

Vi pressed forward, throat dry. "You were right."

Caitlyn’s eyes didn’t change. "I usually am."

Vi managed a faint smile — but it fell flat.

"I think... I ruined something before I even got a chance to understand what it was. Us—whatever that was—”

She paused, searching for something, anything.

"We’re like water and oil," Vi said finally. "We never mixed. But that didn’t stop me from wanting it."

Caitlyn’s gaze finally flicked up to hers — not surprised. Not angry. Just… tired.

"Then why did you keep setting fire to it?"

Vi blinked.

The words hit harder than she expected.

Caitlyn didn’t raise her voice. She never did. But there was a finality to the question that made Vi feel suddenly ten years old — reckless, clumsy, always breaking the things she tried to hold close.

"I don’t know how to be good at this," Vi said, quietly. "I’m good at fights. I’m good at running. But… not this."

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly. Her voice was kind, but colder than it should’ve been.

"Then maybe you should stop picking fights with the people who tried to meet you halfway."

The silence returned — but now it screamed.

Vi opened her mouth. Closed it. Searched Caitlyn’s face for softness, for a crack, for something.

There was none.

Just the faint, poised nod of a woman with a job to do and no time left for people who didn’t take care of her heart.

"Good luck today," Caitlyn said softly. Then, without pause, she turned and walked away.

And Vi stood there, alone in a garage full of noise, feeling every inch of the silence she’d created.

---

Trackside – Sector 2 | FP3 – 10:44 AM

Caitlyn clipped the apex of Turn 6 like her thoughts depended on it.

Because in some way, they did.

She wasn’t driving for the team.

She wasn’t driving for the championship.

She wasn’t even driving for herself.

She was driving because it was the only place left where she could pretend nothing else existed. That there was no voice in her head repeating water and oil, no memory of soft words turned into weapons, no face in a Red Bull suit that haunted every inch of her pulse.

Rhea’s voice echoed in her ear:
"Your sectors are clean. Let’s see if you can bring it together this lap."

"Copy."

Flat. Unshaken.

But her heart was anything but.

She pushed harder.

And the rhythm started to return.

---

Final Lap – Sector 3

Through Ascari, Caitlyn found the edge.

Not the dangerous kind.

The razor-thin kind — the space where instincts take over and thought becomes unnecessary.

The car hummed like it trusted her again.

Parabolica loomed.

This time, no hesitation.

She braked late, caught the corner, and floored the throttle through exit.

The delta flashed green.

Rhea’s voice came back:
"Purple final sector. That’s P2 overall. Nice work."

But Caitlyn didn’t react.

Not even a nod.

She just pulled into the pits, calm and cold.

Like she was driving with an entire war behind her ribs.

---

Mercedes Hospitality – 11:07 AM

The room was dim, quiet, clinical.

Telemetry maps lit the walls. Laptimes scrolled along LED panels. And in the center of the space — like a commander before a war — stood Ambessa Medarda.

Steel-gray suit. Black gloves. Sunglasses tucked into her coat. Her stance held authority so thick, it made the floor feel smaller.

Caitlyn stepped in, towel around her shoulders, bottle in hand, suit peeled to her waist.

Ambessa didn't greet her.

Just motioned to the screen.

"Sector 2 was where you lost the gap to P1. Your braking point into Turn 8 was conservative. Lifted earlier than needed at entry."

Caitlyn nodded once. "Understood."

Ambessa stepped forward.

"Your lap was clean. But clean isn’t enough. Not for someone like you."

Caitlyn looked up.

Ambessa’s eyes were sharp. Not cruel. Never cruel.

But merciless.

"You’ve been... distracted."

No accusation. Just diagnosis.

"I’m not."

"You are." Ambessa folded her arms behind her back. "And I don’t care why. I only care that you correct it."

Caitlyn’s shoulders squared.

"I finished P2."

"You are not built for second."

That stung.

Ambessa continued. "When you were a child, you never flinched. Not during first lessons. Not when the others cried. You held the rifle with bare hands in winter, and you shot straight."

Caitlyn said nothing.

"Do not become soft now."

Silence.

Then Caitlyn replied, softly:
"Being soft isn't the same as being weak."

Ambessa stepped forward.

"In this world? It is."

That silence stretched longer than it should have.

She sat on the edge of her bed.

Helmet beside her. Suit unzipped. 

It wasn’t her body that ached.

It was the realization:

Vi had hurt her.

Not because she didn’t care.

But because Caitlyn did.

More than she should have. More than she wanted to admit. More than was safe in a world that demanded so much from her already.

She had allowed herself to believe in something tender.

And Vi’s words — even without cruelty — had broken it.

Water and oil.

She understood now.

They didn’t mix.

Not because they couldn’t.

But because no one ever taught Vi how to hold something delicate without cracking it open.

The hum of the paddock was muffled inside the engineering suite.

Telemetry buzzed gently from the monitors, displaying sector deltas and tire degradation charts in blinking green and red. The room smelled faintly of coffee and carbon fiber, lit with the cool clinical glow of LED panels overhead.

Caitlyn sat at the far end of the long table — hands folded neatly, eyes fixed on the trace graphs. Her posture was flawless. Shoulders squared. Head tilted just enough to suggest engagement.

But Rhea had seen the signs since Thursday.

She wasn’t listening — not really.

She’d answered questions during the debrief with her usual clarity. She’d made all the right observations. But she was… absent.

Not lost. Not shaken. Just distant — in a way that only someone who knew Caitlyn well would notice.

And Rhea noticed.

After the session cleared, and the other engineers filtered out with their tablets and data pads in hand, Rhea stayed.

She stood by the console for a moment, watching Caitlyn pretend to scroll through tire data she already had memorized.

Then she walked over and sat beside her — not across from her, not opposite her — beside her. Quietly.

“I know something’s wrong,” Rhea said.

Her voice wasn’t sharp. There was no confrontation in it. Only quiet concern.

Caitlyn didn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I didn’t ask if you were fine.”

Still, Caitlyn’s gaze remained on the tablet.

Rhea leaned back in her seat, letting a beat of silence pass.

“This started before FP1,” she said softly. “You’ve been different all weekend.”

Caitlyn’s fingers paused over the screen — just for a second — before she scrolled again.

“I’m focused,” she said. “We’re fighting for a championship. Distractions aren’t an option.”

“That’s not what I’m seeing on the data,” Rhea replied.

She watched Caitlyn for a reaction. None came.

“No one’s doubting your pace,” Rhea added. “You’re still ahead of 90% of the grid when you’re not even pushing. But your rhythm’s wrong. Your apexes are late. Your throttle lift is inconsistent in sector two. It’s like—”

“I’ll correct it,” Caitlyn interrupted gently, without a trace of irritation.

Rhea frowned. “Cait… what’s going on?”

“I told you,” Caitlyn said, finally lifting her gaze. Her tone didn’t change — not cold, not defensive. But her eyes were… far. Distant. Not angry. Just somewhere else. “I’m handling it.”

“Handling what?”

A pause.

Then:

“Nothing I want to discuss.”

That silence landed heavy between them.

Caitlyn looked back down at her screen, as if the conversation hadn’t happened.

Rhea stayed a moment longer.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said finally. “But if it’s affecting you this much, I hope you’re telling someone.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

And Rhea didn’t push.

But she left the room with a weight in her chest that telemetry couldn’t explain.

The air was warmer than usual. Sunlight filtered between the gaps in the overhead tarps, creating dappled light on the tile floor.

Caitlyn sat at a small table by the edge, her coffee untouched, fingers loosely wrapped around the paper cup.

She wasn’t thinking about racing.

Not strategy. Not qualifying trim. Not even sector deltas.

She was thinking about words.

Words she had said. Words she hadn’t. And the ones Vi had thrown carelessly into the air weeks ago like they didn’t matter.

Like she didn’t matter.

And she hated that they still echoed.

The chair opposite her scraped softly.

Maddie sat down, all energy and brightness, setting her own drink on the table with both hands.

“I got the oat milk one again,” she said, offering it with a little hopeful smile. “Last time you didn’t hate it.”

Caitlyn blinked, then took the cup gently. “Thank you.”

Maddie studied her quietly for a moment.

“You seem…” She hesitated, trying to pick the word carefully. “Still. Like—like you’re not really here.”

“I’m just focusing.”

“Fair,” Maddie said. “You always do that. Go into sniper mode before a session.”

Caitlyn smiled faintly — the kind of smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

Maddie didn’t notice. Or if she did, she didn’t mention it.

“You’ve been good to me, you know,” she said after a moment. “You didn’t have to explain gear ratios or tire evolution to a nervous rookie, but you did.”

“I want you to succeed,” Caitlyn said simply.

“I’m trying to earn that dinner.”

That caught Caitlyn’s attention.

Maddie grinned. “You remember, right? P5 in the race and you owe me dinner. That was the deal.”

“I remember,” Caitlyn said softly, taking a sip of her coffee.

Maddie’s fingers drifted forward, brushing lightly over Caitlyn’s hand — just for a second. Caitlyn didn’t flinch, but she moved her hand away to pick up a napkin.

The moment passed.

“I like driving with you on track,” Maddie said, still light. “You’re terrifying. In a good way.”

Caitlyn looked up, and something flickered in her eyes. Something close to warmth. But it didn’t last.

“I hope you make it to P5,” she said.

“I’m going to.”

“I believe you.”

Maddie beamed.

And Caitlyn just sipped her coffee again, her grip a little tighter than it needed to be.

The air was sharper now. Full of tire smoke and tension. The kind of air that buzzed under your skin when something important was about to happen.

Rhea passed Caitlyn her helmet without a word.

Their eyes met.

And for just a second, Rhea saw it again — that thing Caitlyn wouldn’t name.

But she said nothing.

And Caitlyn didn’t offer anything in return.

Just a nod. A calm, composed breath.

Then she walked to the car.

Slid in.

Strapped down.

The world outside fell away — into the cockpit. Into control. Into silence.

And maybe that was the only place left where she didn’t have to pretend.

The engines screamed across the Monza circuit — the unmistakable wail of precision at 320 km/h. Sunlight glared off sleek carbon fiber, and the grandstands trembled under the roar of tens of thousands of fans, the atmosphere thick with the electricity only qualifying day could summon.

Vi was locked in.

Helmet on. Gloves tight. Every sense sharpened.

Today was the day.

She wanted pole. Needed it.

Not just for herself — for the team, for the redemption arc she’d started writing the second she walked away from Suzuka with the bitter taste of penalty and regret in her mouth. The mistakes, the words she’d thrown at Caitlyn — they hadn’t disappeared. But the track didn’t care. The asphalt had no memory.

And Vi planned to write a different story here.

The Red Bull flew through Ascari, her tires clawing at the tarmac like it owed her something. Her delta was green. Purple sectors lined her screen. She was hitting every marker, every apex, with mechanical perfection.

Then the timing screen flickered.

Caitlyn Kiramman – Purple in Sector 1.

Vi’s pulse jumped.

Of course.

She should’ve known.

Even after a bad weekend, Caitlyn never disappeared. She wasn’t just fast — she was surgical. Composed. Cold, even. A winter wind wrapped in silver and black.

But when Vi saw the Mercedes glinting ahead, just exiting Lesmo 2, she blinked.

Something was different.

Caitlyn wasn’t just fast.

She was fighting.

Throwing the car into corners with a kind of controlled aggression Vi had rarely seen from her. It wasn’t recklessness — it was intent. Sharper lines. Later braking. She was pushing like she had nothing to lose.

Like something inside her had snapped into focus.

And Vi — mid-corner, throttle pinned — knew she wasn’t getting pole today.

Not with Caitlyn driving like that.

Not with Caitlyn turning emotion into precision with terrifying grace.

Vi crossed the line.

P2. Behind Caitlyn.

By 0.028 seconds.

The top three cars pulled into the grid, engines cooling, the smell of scorched rubber and burnt brake dust heavy in the air.

Caitlyn stepped out of her car first, helmet in hand, dark hair stuck to her temple. She removed it slowly, a wisp of steam rising from her suit.

No celebration.

Just a faint nod to her engineer, a single raised hand to the crowd.

Then a tight, restrained smile.

That was it.

Rhea approached, slapping her lightly on the back. “That was flawless.”

“Thank you,” Caitlyn said, voice even.

Vi watched from behind as she handed her gloves off, gave a curt nod to one of the mechanics, and moved toward the pen for post-quali interviews.

There wasn’t a single shred of emotion on her face.

Not satisfaction. Not pride.

Just… silence.

The Interview Pen – 4:20 PM

The reporters were hungry — they always were when drama and brilliance collided on track.

“Caitlyn, pole position after a rough Friday. That was a stunning turnaround. How do you feel?”

“I’m satisfied with the result. We changed a few things overnight. The car felt good under me today,” she replied, calm and impassive.

“You looked more aggressive than usual — was that a conscious decision?”

“I drove to the limit. It’s qualifying. That’s the job.”

“Some say it looked personal, especially in your fight with Vi—”

Caitlyn raised a brow. “It’s never personal. It’s racing.”

They moved on. The smile never reached her eyes.

When it was Vi’s turn, she kept her helmet on for a few seconds longer than needed.

“What did you make of Caitlyn’s lap?”

“She earned it. She was quick.”

“Looked like a fight between the two of you.”

“It always is.”

“Any lingering tension between you two after Suzuka?”

Vi's jaw tightened.

“We're racers. We push each other. That’s all.”

It was a lie. Everyone knew it.

But no one pressed further.

Vi had just unzipped her suit halfway when she heard footsteps behind her.

“Vi.”

She turned, expecting her race engineer.

It was Ekko, tablet in hand, eyes wide with something not even qualifying could explain.

“You need to see this,” he said, holding out the screen.

“What is it?”

He flipped the tablet around.

A live feed from Piltover News Central. A scrolling headline:

> COUNCIL ATTACKED BY ZAUNITES – MULTIPLE ARRESTS MADE, SUSPECTS STILL AT LARGE.

Beneath it, a mosaic of blurry surveillance images.

And in the bottom-right corner — enhanced, circled in red:

A girl with a shock of blue hair. A manic grin.

Powder.

Vi’s throat closed.

She grabbed the tablet. “That’s not—”

But it was.

Even if grainy, even if warped.

It was her.

Her sister.

Her missing past.

Her worst nightmare wrapped in a ghost with a grenade.

Ekko’s voice was quiet. “They’re saying she might’ve planned it. The blast was targeted. No one was killed, but…”

Vi barely heard him.

The blood drained from her face.

The tablet dropped to the table with a soft clatter.

---

Mercedes Motorhome – 6:03 PM

Caitlyn sat in the lounge, visor flipped up, telemetry sheet beside her, untouched.

She should’ve been reviewing data. Should’ve been fine-tuning her race strategy.

But her thoughts kept circling.

She hadn’t felt like herself since Suzuka.

The words. The look in Vi’s eyes. The way something inside her had cracked open and shown her just how deep the knife had gone.

She cared.

More than she thought possible.

And it terrified her.

Because Caitlyn Kiramman didn’t break focus. She didn’t let people in. She didn’t fall apart because of someone else’s words.

But Vi… Vi had always been different.

The push and pull. The rivalry. The tension.

And maybe, just maybe — something more.

It was maddening.

Rhea popped in.

“Want company?”

Caitlyn looked up, surprised. “I’m okay.”

“You were fast today.”

“I needed to be.”

Rhea studied her for a long beat.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Caitlyn gave a soft nod. “I’m fine.”

And maybe if she said it enough times, it would be true.

The glow of Caitlyn’s phone screen lit up her face in the otherwise dimly lit room.

She had been seated in silence for the past half hour — telemetry sheets still unopened on her tablet, suit unzipped just to the chest, damp from sweat that had long dried. She had replayed the qualifying session in her mind at least a dozen times. Every corner. Every tenth.

And still — it wasn’t the lap that haunted her now.

It was the headline.

> Zaunite Attack Disrupts Council Session — Several Arrests Made. Two Still at Large.

The buzz of a message broke her trance.

From: Cassandra Kiramman
Time: 7:17 PM

> I’m fine. Don’t worry.
They didn’t get past the outer floor. The Council has been moved to a secure location.

Caitlyn exhaled through her nose.

The relief was instant — but shallow.

She read the message again. Once. Twice.

Her mother was fine.

Of course she was. Cassandra Kiramman did not bend easily. Piltover’s Councilwoman was known for her control, her planning, her ability to navigate chaos with precision that mirrored her daughter’s own.

And yet...

Caitlyn’s thumb hovered above the keyboard for a moment, unsure what to say back.

Typing… deleting… then typing again.

> I saw the news. I’m glad you’re safe.

>  Keep me updated if anything changes

Three dots blinked, then disappeared.

No response yet.

That was fine.

Caitlyn leaned back into the chair, resting the back of her head against the cold locker behind her.

It was a strange thing — knowing that an attack had happened at the heart of her home city, that lives had been threatened, that the people she’d grown up around had come face-to-face with violence again… and she hadn’t even flinched.

Not externally, at least.

But inside?

She could still hear the metallic echo of her mother’s voice in her mind:

“You wear this name. You don’t get to choose when.”

And Caitlyn — as much as she hated how true it was — knew her mother would still be in that council room tomorrow if allowed.

Just like Caitlyn would still be in the car.

No matter what.

The lights in the paddock were dimming. Most teams had wrapped up the day, retreating into hospitality suites or debrief rooms. A quiet settled over the back end of the circuit — the kind of quiet that doesn’t come often in Formula 1. Just the hum of cooling generators and the faint scent of warm asphalt.

Vi stood alone behind the Red Bull motorhome, her back pressed to the cool concrete wall.

Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. Her jaw clenched.

She wasn’t okay. And she knew it.

It wasn’t just the race. Or qualifying. Or even Caitlyn — though she’d be lying if she said that didn’t matter.

It was the news. The council attack.

The images still burned in her mind. Protesters. Smoke. Arrests.

And Powder.

Her sister.

Gone for years. And now… wanted. Again. For something violent. Again.

Vi didn’t know what stung more — that she had resurfaced, or that it had to be like this.

Why like this, Powder? Why now?

---

She didn’t notice Caitlyn until she heard her voice.

It was gentle. Hesitant. But unmistakably hers.

“Vi?”

Vi’s shoulders tensed. She didn’t turn at first — couldn’t.

“You’re shaking,” Caitlyn said, softer now, stepping closer.

Only then did Vi look up.

Caitlyn stood a few feet away, her arms relaxed at her sides, eyes calm but alert — like she was trying to read between the lines of Vi’s silence.

She looked… concerned.

Not annoyed. Not cold.

Just quietly, deeply worried.

“Did something happen?” she asked.

Vi swallowed hard. She wasn’t used to people asking her that. Not anymore.

“You saw the news, right?” Vi said, voice rough.

Caitlyn nodded. “The council?”

“Yeah.” Vi let out a bitter breath. “Guess Zaun never runs out of ways to fuck up.”

There was no bite in her voice. Just… exhaustion.

Caitlyn didn’t answer right away. She just waited.

“Is your mom okay?” Vi asked.

The question caught Caitlyn slightly off-guard. But she nodded. “She’s fine. A bit rattled, I think. But unharmed.”

Vi closed her eyes for a second. Relief flooded her expression for just a heartbeat — before it disappeared beneath the weight of everything else.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Vi muttered.

Caitlyn took a small step closer, still careful not to crowd her.

“What do you mean?”

Vi ran a hand down her face, then through her hair. “I feel like I’m trying to live in two worlds that weren’t built to exist next to each other. Let alone together.”

She glanced at Caitlyn, her eyes shadowed.

“You and me? We’re just reminders of that. You, with your medals and clean lines. Me, with my baggage and fists.”

Caitlyn’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s not how I see you.”

“Maybe not,” Vi said quietly. **“But I see me. And I see you. And I keep thinking of what you said… that day.”

Caitlyn stayed silent.

Vi gave a bitter laugh. “You were right, you know. I didn’t think. I let my pride speak for me. And I ended up throwing it all at the one person who’s ever tried to meet me halfway.”

That made Caitlyn blink.

Vi turned her head again. “We’re oil and water, Cait. We don’t mix. We just… sit next to each other. Pretending we’re not different.”

Caitlyn's voice, when it came, was soft. Measured. But it held something beneath the surface — something like hurt.

“We are different, Vi. But that never meant we had to be against each other.”

Vi looked at her, the expression on her face somewhere between disbelief and guilt.

“But that’s what happens,” she whispered. “Eventually. Every time. Zaun and Piltover. You and me. Something always explodes, and I end up ruining it before I even understand what it was.”

Caitlyn didn’t reply.

Not right away.

Instead, she stepped just a little closer. Close enough to see the tension in Vi’s shoulders. The slight tremble in her hand.

And still, she didn’t reach out. She didn’t cross the line.

But her presence was steady. Warm.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she said, finally.

Vi looked down.

“You’re just…” Caitlyn exhaled, the barest tremble in her words. “…not making it easy to believe you want to build something instead of destroy it.”

That hit harder than anything else Vi had heard.

Because it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t said in anger.

It was said in pain. Quiet, dignified pain.

The kind that Caitlyn had always worn like a second skin.

---

Vi opened her mouth.

But nothing came out.

Caitlyn turned her eyes back to the quiet paddock lights in the distance.

“I should head back,” she said, after a moment. “There’s debrief still to finish.”

Vi nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. “Yeah. Of course.”

Caitlyn turned halfway, paused.

Then, softer than before:

“Take care of yourself tonight.”

Vi looked up.

Caitlyn’s face was still unreadable. But her eyes — her eyes lingered.

Just for a moment.

Long enough to say what neither of them could bring themselves to voice.

Then she was gone.

And Vi stayed in the silence.

Realizing that maybe, just maybe…

The only thing more painful than fighting Caitlyn…

Was watching her walk away without looking back.

Chapter Text

Monza — Sunday, 2:40 PM

The paddock smelled of sweat, rubber, and nerves. The kind of tension that hums in your bones before a storm hits.

Vi sat in the quiet corner of the Red Bull garage, elbows on her knees, helmet dangling loosely from her fingers. The roar of engines warming up should’ve felt like home. But not today. Not with the weight in her chest that refused to move.

She hadn’t slept. Not really.
Her mind kept replaying the image — the screen in the hospitality suite, the broadcast frozen on a familiar face.

Her sister. Powder.

No — Jinx.

The name tasted like blood.

A terrorist attack on the Piltover council. Explosions, panic. Arrests. No casualties — by some miracle — but the footage was enough.
And there, blurry and wild-eyed in the chaos, was her sister.

After all these years.
After thinking she was gone forever.
Jinx was alive. And destroying everything.

“Hey.”

Ekko’s voice pulled her back from the edge. He crouched in front of her, hands resting on his knees, eyes sharp and knowing.

“You’ve got that look,” he said.

Vi frowned faintly. “What look?”

“The one right before you do something stupid.”

She gave a humorless snort. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

He sighed, leaning closer. “Vi. Listen to me. Whatever’s happening with Powder… it’s not here. Not now. You can’t fix it from behind the wheel.”

Her fingers twitched around her helmet. “You saw the footage.”

“I did.”

“She’s alive, Ekko. She’s alive. After all this time—”

“And you’ll find her,” he interrupted, tone steady. “I know you will. But you can’t do it if you burn out here first.”

Vi looked down at her gloves, the small tear in the stitching near her thumb. “She’s all I’ve got left.”

Ekko shook his head. “No. She’s not. You’ve got this team. You’ve got a future. You’ve got a chance to be more than just the girl from Zaun who punches first.”

Vi didn’t reply.

Ekko stood, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Focus on the race. Then, when it’s over, go find her. That’s how you save her. You hear me?”

It took her a moment. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“I’ll find her,” she said quietly. “I’ll save her.”

“Damn right you will.” He smiled faintly. “Now go win this thing.”

3:00 PM — Formation Lap

Engines roared like a thunderstorm rolling over the track. The crowd was a single, deafening heartbeat.

Caitlyn sat in her Mercedes, visor down, breathing even and measured. The world outside her cockpit narrowed into lines and data — tire temps, delta gaps, fuel modes.

Rhea’s voice crackled through the radio.

> “Everything green. You’re P1 on grid. Let’s make it count, Cait.”

“Copy,” she replied, tone perfectly flat. Calm. Controlled.

Inside, her thoughts were anything but.

She’d seen the same news Vi had. Her mother, Cassandra, had been in that council chamber.
When the reports broke, Caitlyn’s chest had gone hollow. But Cassandra was fine — shaken, furious, but alive.

Still, something in Caitlyn couldn’t shake the image of Vi’s face when she’d found her outside the garage last night — pale, trembling, voice cracking when she spoke of Zaun and Piltover like they were doomed to destroy each other.

She hadn’t told Vi she’d stayed up until sunrise thinking about it.
About her.

Not that it mattered now.

The lights went red.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Lights out.

---

Lap 1 – Turn 1

Caitlyn’s launch was flawless — clean traction, perfect reaction. She led into Turn 1, silver arrow slicing through the chaos.

Vi, starting in P2, fought through the pack behind, brushing wheels with a Ferrari and forcing an early overtake at Turn 4.

“Good move,” her engineer called.
But Vi didn’t answer.

Her mind was fire. Anger. Guilt. Fear.
It poured through her veins, turned her focus razor-sharp.

She wanted to win — needed to win.

Not for points.
Not for glory.

For control.

Because right now, everything else in her life was slipping through her fingers.

Lap 8 — The Chase

They were separated by eight-tenths.
Two drivers, two worlds.

Fire and ice.

Caitlyn’s car danced through corners, her lines clean, precise.
Vi’s Red Bull stormed behind her — all aggression and heart.

From the pit wall, Rhea watched Caitlyn’s telemetry with a frown. Her data was perfect — too perfect. No variation. No adaptation. It wasn’t natural. It was mechanical. Like Caitlyn was forcing herself to forget something.

Vi’s engineer muttered, “She’s defending like her life depends on it.”

Vi smirked bitterly. “Maybe it does.”

She closed the gap into Turn 6. DRS wide open.
Caitlyn defended. Vi dove anyway.

They brushed tires — a flash of sparks between them. The crowd screamed.

And Caitlyn’s voice came calm over radio:

> “She’s getting reckless.”

> “Keep your head, Cait. Don’t let her pull you off line.”

> “I won’t.”

But she already had.
Because this wasn’t about racing anymore.

Lap 20 – Pit Window

Caitlyn dove in first. 2.3 seconds. Flawless stop.
Vi followed the next lap — 2.6.

They rejoined the track side by side.

Vi took the outside through Turn 1, braking late, barely keeping control. Caitlyn held the inside, wheels nearly colliding.

> “Keep it clean!” Vi’s engineer shouted.

“I am clean!” Vi snapped. “She’s squeezing me!”

But Caitlyn didn’t move an inch.

Turn 2.
Vi pushed harder, nearly clipping her rear wing.
Caitlyn didn’t flinch.

For half a heartbeat, their helmets aligned — two sets of eyes behind tinted visors, one cold, one burning.

Then Caitlyn was gone again — faster out of the corner, engine screaming like thunder.

---

Lap 40 – The Wall

Vi was losing ground. Her tires were shot, her brakes fading. But she refused to yield.

She could see the Mercedes ahead — perfect, untouchable.

“Come on,” she muttered, voice shaking. “Come on, Cait. Don’t shut me out now.”

And somehow, as if hearing her, Caitlyn made her first mistake.

Turn 7. A fraction too deep on entry. Her rear twitched.

Vi pounced.
Slipstream, DRS, inside line.

They were wheel-to-wheel again — neck and neck — inches apart at 320 kilometers an hour.

Final Lap

> “One lap. Bring it home.”

Caitlyn: “Copy.”

Vi’s engineer: “You’re right there, Vi. Push now.”

And she did.

Every instinct, every ounce of her — poured into that last lap.

Through Ascari, she nearly lost it — back stepped out, caught it, barely. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Caitlyn didn’t falter. Not once.

They roared down Parabolica side by side — the checkered flag waiting, a blur of black and white.

And when they crossed the line — Caitlyn by a tenth — the world erupted.

Caitlyn Kiramman: P1.
Vi: P2.

---

Post-Race

Caitlyn’s radio filled with cheers, but she didn’t celebrate.
She just said quietly, “Good race,” and shut it off.

Vi hit her steering wheel once, hard enough to sting.
She wasn’t angry at losing.
She was angry at herself — for caring so much who’d won.

---

The Podium – Monza, Sunset

The light was golden, soft against the haze of champagne spray and heat.

Caitlyn stood on the top step — poised, flawless, unreadable.
Her smile was polite, practiced. Her eyes, distant.

Vi, one step lower, couldn’t stop staring.

That calmness. That composure.
It was beautiful — and unbearable.

The ceremony ended. The trophies were handed out.

Then came the bottles.

Vi popped hers first — too eager, too fast — the cork shot high into the air.

The crowd screamed.

Caitlyn turned her head just as Vi swung the bottle.

The champagne hit her full in the face.

Cold. Sudden. Violent.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, cameras flashing like lightning.

Caitlyn froze. Her jaw tightened. Droplets shimmered on her lashes.

For a second, Vi’s grin faltered — maybe she’d gone too far.

Then Caitlyn blinked, tilted her head slightly… and smiled.

It wasn’t wide.
It wasn’t forgiving.
But it was real — soft around the edges, sharp in the middle.

And before Vi could say a word, Caitlyn lifted her own bottle —
and returned fire.

Champagne arced in a silver spray, catching the sun, splashing Vi’s hair, her shoulders, her face.

The crowd lost it.

Commentators shouted. Reporters screamed.
Two rivals, drenched in light and laughter, locked eyes in something halfway between rivalry and something else entirely.

For one heartbeat — maybe two — the tension broke.
Caitlyn laughed. Vi laughed back.
And then the moment was gone.

Social Media, Minutes Later

@F1WorldNow:

> “CAITLYN HIT BACK! Champagne war on the podium — the crowd’s gone insane 😭🔥 #ViCaitlyn #PodiumDrama”

@MotorsportLive:

> “Fire and ice. Caitlyn wins, Vi fights. The chemistry? Off the charts.”

@RedBullOfficial:

> “When your driver doesn’t lose, she learns. Great fight today, Vi 💪 P2 secured!”

Backstage

Caitlyn changed quickly, her smile already fading as the cameras left.
Her phone buzzed — a dozen missed calls from Cassandra. She exhaled, exhaustion crawling up her spine. The momentary warmth from the podium was already dissolving into static.

Vi lingered outside, towel around her neck, hair still damp with champagne. She could see Caitlyn across the corridor, surrounded by Mercedes staff, composed, distant.

They didn’t speak. Not yet.

But when Caitlyn turned — just once — their eyes met.

And Vi felt it again.
The thing between them.
The thing she kept breaking every time she opened her mouth.

She’d hit her with champagne.
But it wasn’t anger. It was… something desperate. A plea.

And Caitlyn — for that single fleeting second — had smiled.

The lights were blinding. Cameras flickered like nervous heartbeats. The faint scent of rubber and champagne still clung to the air.

Three drivers sat behind the long white table, microphones poised.
Caitlyn Kiramman — Mercedes, P1.
Vi — Red Bull, P2.
Ekko — Ferrari, P3.

Behind them, the backdrop shimmered with sponsor logos.
In front, a wall of journalists waited like wolves scenting blood.

Caitlyn adjusted her mic. Her posture perfect, her face calm. No hint of the fire that had blazed between her and Vi an hour ago. Only quiet poise — the kind that couldn’t be broken even by victory.

Vi sat beside her, shoulders squared but hands restless on the table. Her boot tapped softly under the white cloth, barely audible under the clicking of camera shutters.

The moderator cleared his throat.

“Congratulations to our top three finishers. Caitlyn, another win for Mercedes — a dominant drive. How was it from your perspective?”

Caitlyn leaned slightly toward the microphone, her tone composed and precise.

 “The race went as expected. Strategy was clean. Tyre management was key, and we executed it well. The car felt balanced, and the team did an excellent job today.”

Not a word wasted. Not a crack in the armor.

The moderator turned next.

 “Vi — another intense duel between you and Caitlyn. You seem to bring out the best in each other. What does this rivalry mean to you now?”

Vi chuckled, a small sound that wasn’t really laughter.
Her eyes flicked to Caitlyn for a fraction of a second before she looked back at the press.

 “I used to think rivalry was just about beating the person in front of you,” she began. “About proving who’s faster. Stronger. Louder.”

Her hand tightened around the bottle of water.

 “But racing Caitlyn... it’s different. She makes me better. Forces me to think, to be precise. I used to drive angry. Now, I drive aware.”

The room went quiet.

Even Caitlyn’s eyes shifted, ever so slightly, to her.

Vi went on, voice low but steady.

 “After Suzuka, I said things I shouldn’t have. I was angry — at the situation, at the penalty, at myself. I took it out on her when she didn’t deserve it.”
A pause. “And I regret that. Because what we have — what she brings out in me — it’s bigger than rivalry.”

Her words hung in the air.

Every camera pointed toward Caitlyn now, waiting. Watching.

The moderator cleared his throat again.

“Caitlyn, any response?”

Caitlyn blinked once, slowly, before leaning into the mic.

“Rivalry is essential,” she said. “It’s what keeps this sport alive. Vi drove exceptionally today. I respect her skill, as I always have.”

Her voice was smooth. Perfect.
But her eyes — just for a second — softened.

And Vi saw it.

Forty Minutes Later — Mercedes Motorhome

The paddock buzzed outside — reporters chasing quotes, engines being packed, the scent of champagne still drifting through the humid air.

Caitlyn sat in the team room, her hair tied back, the cool cotton of her Mercedes polo replacing the fireproof layers of her suit. Her phone lay face-down beside a half-empty bottle of water.

She had watched Vi’s part of the interview replayed on the monitors. The regret in her voice. The honesty.
It had hit harder than she expected.

Rhea appeared in the doorway, tablet under one arm.

 “You good, Cait?”

Caitlyn looked up briefly. “Yes.”

Rhea frowned, unconvinced. “You drove like a machine out there. But I’ve seen you smile after worse weekends. What’s eating you?”

Caitlyn’s lips twitched — a shadow of a smile.

 “Nothing. Just thinking.”

Rhea hesitated, then shrugged. “Alright. But don’t think too long. You earned a damn good win today.”

When the door shut again, Caitlyn exhaled slowly. Her gaze flicked toward the Red Bull hospitality tent across the paddock. She hesitated.

Then she stood.

Red Bull Hospitality

The light outside was fading. The air smelled of cooling tarmac and celebration. Inside, it was quiet — most of the crew were gone, and the only sound came from a distant TV looping race highlights.

Caitlyn stopped at the door.
Then knocked softly.

From inside came a muffled, tired voice.

 “Come in.”

She stepped through.

Vi sat on the couch, still half in her suit, helmet bag beside her, head bowed. Her shoulders were tense, her hair damp from the post-race shower. The faintest tremor ran through her hands.

She didn’t look up right away.

 “Ekko, I said I’m fine, okay? Just... give me a minute.”

“Vi.”

The voice was gentle — nothing like Ekko’s. Softer. Measured.

Vi’s head snapped up. Her eyes widened.

“Caitlyn?”

Before Vi could gather herself, Caitlyn crossed the room and knelt down in front of her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, gaze searching Vi’s face. “You’re shaking.”

Vi blinked, startled. “It’s— it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Caitlyn frowned, reaching out before she could think twice. Her hand brushed Vi’s cheek — a featherlight touch, careful, hesitant.

“Don’t,” Caitlyn whispered. “Don’t tell me that. You’ve looked pale since yesterday. You’re shaking, Vi. Something’s wrong.”

Vi swallowed hard, staring at the floor.
“I can’t talk about it right now.”

“Then let me listen.”

The words hit her — simple, sincere. The kind that left no room for walls.

After a long silence, Vi finally exhaled.

 “Remember when I told you about my sister?”

Caitlyn nodded, her thumb still tracing faint circles against Vi’s jaw.

 “She’s alive,” Vi said, voice trembling. “After all this time... she’s alive.”

Caitlyn blinked. “That’s... good news, isn’t it?”

Vi shook her head, biting back the tremor in her throat.

“No. She’s changed, Cait. She was part of that council attack. She’s dangerous. I have to find her before she hurts herself. Before she hurts anyone.”

The air between them thickened with silence.
Caitlyn’s mind flashed — the council chamber, her mother, the chaos on the news. But she didn’t let it show.

She simply tightened her grip on Vi’s hand.

 “Then we’ll find her,” she said softly.

Vi looked up, startled. “We?”

Caitlyn nodded, her gaze steady. “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

Vi’s breath hitched. “You’d really come to Zaun? To the Undercity?”

“Yes.”

“You’d hate it,” Vi whispered. “The noise, the people, the air. It’s not your world.”

“Maybe not.” Caitlyn’s expression softened. “But I’d rather breathe your air than watch you drown in it.”

The words hit Vi like a heartbeat too loud.
Her throat tightened.

“How can you still be this good?” she asked quietly. “After everything I said to you. After how I treated you.”

Caitlyn smiled faintly — the kind that hurt just a little at the edges.

 “Because someone has to be.”

Vi looked at her for a long time. The shimmer of tears returned — quieter this time, not from pain but disbelief.

Caitlyn’s hand was still on her cheek, thumb brushing away a stray drop that escaped. Their eyes locked — the air thick with everything neither of them could say.

And then, softly — almost like she didn’t want to ruin the stillness — Vi spoke again.

 “Are you… still upset with me?”

Caitlyn paused.

For a moment, her hand stilled. The faintest flicker of emotion crossed her face — hurt, distant but honest.

Then she exhaled slowly. “Yes,” she said quietly. “A little.”

Vi’s chest tightened. “I deserve that.”

Caitlyn’s lips curved — not a smile, not quite. “You do.”

“But,” she added after a beat, her voice softening, “I’m not angry anymore.”

“Then what are you?” Vi asked.

Caitlyn’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful. “Tired,” she said. “Relieved. Still… figuring things out.”

Vi nodded slowly, eyes down. “I get that.”

Caitlyn brushed her thumb once more along her cheekbone, then withdrew her hand, standing gracefully.
“Try to rest, Vi,” she said, her tone quiet again — composed, but kind. “You’ve had a long day.”

As she turned to leave, Vi’s voice stopped her.

“Caitlyn.”

She looked back.

Vi gave a faint, tired smile. “Thank you.”

Caitlyn’s reply was soft — barely a whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

She hesitated, just for a moment — one breath too long — before leaving.

The door closed gently behind her.

And Vi sat there, staring at the space she’d occupied, her hand still tingling where Caitlyn had touched her.

Somewhere in the noise of Monza fading into night, something between them shifted — not gone, not healed, but different.

Something fragile.
Something that might still be saved.

The paddock was emptying.
The floodlights that had bathed the circuit all day were dimming one by one, casting the garages into long shadows. A few mechanics lingered by the Red Bull trucks, rolling tires into crates, while the low hum of generators filled the quiet between voices.

Caitlyn walked the narrow path back toward the Mercedes motorhome, her steps slow, measured — too careful for someone who had just won a race. Her reflection slid along the glass walls of the hospitality buildings — a blur of silver and white, expression unreadable.

She’d spent most of her adult life training herself to compartmentalize. To process emotion like telemetry — cool, structured, separate.
But tonight, her mind refused to cooperate.

Vi’s voice still echoed, raw and unguarded.

She’s alive.
She’s changed.
I have to find her.

And worse: the look in Vi’s eyes when she said it — fear, guilt, love, loss — all at once. The kind of emotion Caitlyn had always known how to study but never how to comfort.

She stopped walking and exhaled, pressing her palm lightly against the cool glass wall of a closed hospitality suite.

Vi’s sister had attacked the council.

Her mother — Cassandra Kiramman — sat on that council.

The thought hit like a punch to the ribs.

If that connection ever came out…
If the media found out that Vi, the face of Red Bull, the woman from Zaun, had a sister leading the charge against Piltover’s highest officials — the fallout would be catastrophic.

Not just for Vi.
For the sport.
For everything Caitlyn had quietly admired about her — the drive, the fire, the grit that defied expectation. It would all be reduced to a single headline.

“Red Bull’s Vi linked to Zaun terrorist attack.”

Caitlyn’s throat tightened.
She wasn’t naïve — she’d seen how Piltover’s media worked. They’d tear Vi apart before she even had a chance to speak.

And Caitlyn… she couldn’t let that happen.

She leaned against the wall, eyes drifting over the circuit beyond the paddock gates — now just an empty stretch of asphalt under the moonlight. Her jaw clenched as her mind began to shift from fear to strategy.

She hated this part of herself — the part that calculated, that planned — but it was second nature.

She’d been raised to understand how Piltover functioned. Power was about connections. About knowing who to call, what to say, and when to say nothing at all.

And right now, she knew she might have to use every connection she had.

She could still hear Vi’s voice, broken and small — She’s all I have left.
Caitlyn had wanted to reach for her then, not just to comfort, but to protect.

It terrified her, how natural that instinct felt.

She tilted her head back, letting out a slow breath. “Gods, Vi… what have you pulled me into?”

---

Hotel Room – Later That Night

The air conditioning hummed softly, carrying the faint scent of linen and ozone. Caitlyn sat by the window, city lights flickering faintly through the glass. Her hair was still damp from the shower, her posture immaculate even in solitude — knees crossed, robe perfectly folded around her.

The world outside the circuit was quiet. But her mind wasn’t.

She replayed Vi’s words over and over, dissecting every tone, every hesitation. Vi hadn’t said it directly, but Caitlyn could tell — she blamed herself for what her sister had become.
And Caitlyn couldn’t ignore the irony of it.

Two daughters.
Both shaped by the cities that raised them.
One sworn to protect Piltover.
One born from the streets that Piltover crushed.

And somehow, here they were — orbiting each other, colliding, breaking apart again.

Her phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with a name: Maddie.

Caitlyn hesitated for a second before answering. Her voice came out calm, practiced — the same tone she used with engineers and sponsors alike.

> “Maddie. Congratulations on P4.”

Maddie’s bright voice filled the quiet. “You saw it! I nearly got podium — if not for that last corner, I swear!”

Caitlyn smiled faintly. “You drove beautifully. You deserved that finish.”

“I’m getting there,” Maddie said proudly. “Little by little.”

“You are.” Caitlyn leaned back against the chair. “I’m proud of you.”

There was a small pause — one that stretched just slightly too long to be casual.

“Thanks,” Maddie said softly. Then, after a breath: “Hey, um… about our deal?”

Caitlyn frowned slightly. “Deal?”

“The dinner,” Maddie said, laughing lightly. “Remember? I said if I finished in P5 or better, you’d have dinner with me.”

Right. That.

Caitlyn glanced toward the window — at the reflection of herself staring back, composed and distant.

For a second, she thought of saying no.
She wasn’t in the mood for company, for laughter, for the effortless warmth Maddie carried with her. But she also knew she couldn’t sit in this room all night replaying Vi’s trembling voice.

She needed a distraction.

She closed her eyes briefly, then spoke.

 “Yes, I remember. Tonight?”

“Yeah!” Maddie’s tone brightened instantly. “If you’re not too tired.”

Caitlyn hesitated. Just long enough for Maddie to catch it.

“You don’t have to,” Maddie said quickly, her cheer faltering. “I know it’s been a long weekend.”

“No,” Caitlyn interrupted softly. “Dinner sounds… nice.”

A smile bloomed in Maddie’s voice. “Perfect. There’s this quiet little restaurant just outside the circuit — nothing fancy. I’ll text you the address?”

“Alright.”

“See you in an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Promise?”

Caitlyn allowed herself a small laugh. “Yes, Maddie. I promise.”

When she hung up, the silence returned — heavier somehow.

She set the phone down and looked out at the skyline again. The city lights shimmered over the lake like fractured constellations. Everything beautiful always looked fragile from a distance.

Her reflection stared back — the faint circles under her eyes, the controlled line of her lips. The woman everyone saw: polished, perfect, unshakable.

But inside, her thoughts churned.

If the news breaks… Vi’s finished.
If Cassandra finds out… she’ll demand Vi’s suspension.
If Piltover learns that Caitlyn knew, and said nothing…

She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

She was trapped between two worlds again — just like always.
The councilor's daughter, raised to defend the order that had broken so many others. And now, the driver caught in the crossfire between two cities — one of which she was supposed to represent.

But Caitlyn had made up her mind already.

She believed Vi.
She always had — even when she didn’t want to.

And if helping her meant using her family’s influence, or bending rules, or standing quietly against the council she’d grown up respecting — then so be it.

She’d do it.

Because somewhere between rivalry and friendship, between arguments and podiums and the chaos of two worlds colliding, Caitlyn Kiramman had found something worth protecting.

She wasn’t sure what to call it.
But she knew what it felt like.

The city lights glittered like scattered jewels across the skyline, but inside the bistro, the mood was warmer — copper tones on the walls, the gentle clink of cutlery, laughter humming in the background.

Maddie leaned back in her chair, swirling the stem of her wine glass with one hand, eyes watching Caitlyn from across the table with obvious amusement.

"You know," she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips, "for someone so terrifyingly efficient on the track, you’re very hard to fluster.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, the candlelight catching in her slate-blue eyes. She was dressed simply — dark trousers, a fitted grey blouse with the sleeves buttoned to her wrists. Hair swept back, not a single strand out of place.

“Flustered,” Caitlyn repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “Is that your current mission?”

Maddie grinned. “Wouldn’t call it a mission. More like... a fun side quest.”

Caitlyn set down her fork with that slow precision she was famous for — the kind that suggested control in every motion. Her lips curved, not quite a smile, more like the idea of one. “Then let me save you time — it’s a doomed quest.”

“Ooh, now that sounds like a challenge,” Maddie teased, leaning forward slightly, chin resting on her palm.

Caitlyn didn’t rise to it. Instead, she cut a neat piece of her meal and took a bite, gaze calm, unfazed. “You do make dinner... entertaining.”

Maddie laughed, then groaned. “Please. You know what? I’ll earn my redemption with a story so embarrassing it’ll haunt me forever.”

Caitlyn leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms lightly. “This, I want to hear.”

---

Maddie launched into a tale about a misadventure at the Monaco GP — a drunk bet, a karaoke machine, and a very poor rendition of a Whitney Houston song that somehow ended up in a team group chat. She acted it out, voices and all, hands gesturing wildly.

Caitlyn listened, one brow arched in amusement. When Maddie finished, red-faced and laughing at herself, Caitlyn rested her chin lightly on her knuckles.

“Monaco,” she said thoughtfully. “I missed that weekend. Apparently, fate was kind to me.”

“Rude,” Maddie said, but her smile didn’t fade. “You’re meaner than people think.”

“I prefer the term ‘honest.’”

“Well,” Maddie said, swishing the last of her wine, “if I make it to P3 in the next race, you owe me another dinner.”

Caitlyn tilted her head, thoughtful. “That sounds suspiciously like bribery.”

Maddie pointed at her with her fork. “Call it... incentive. Motivation.”

Caitlyn studied her for a second. “You think dinner with me is motivating?”

“I think,” Maddie said slowly, “that dinner with you is worth chasing. Even if you keep looking at me like I’m part of your data telemetry.”

Caitlyn didn’t laugh. But the corner of her mouth lifted just enough to be dangerous.

“Fine,” she said. “You get your podium — you get your dinner.”

Maddie exhaled, mock-relieved. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

---

The walk back to the hotel was slow.

The air was crisp, and the streets alive with nighttime chatter. They didn’t talk much — the kind of quiet that didn’t demand filling.

Until they turned a corner.

A small crowd had gathered — a few young fans with phones clutched in shaky hands, eyes wide the moment they recognized them.

“Oh my god, it’s them!”

The shout made both drivers pause.

Caitlyn smiled first — that calm, composed kind of smile that made her instantly recognizable. She stepped forward, polite but never cold.

“Would you like a photo?” she asked one girl, who looked like she might cry.

Maddie stood a few paces back, watching.

She watched the way Caitlyn knelt to speak to a child in a wheelchair, crouched low and genuine. The way she signed autographs with care, asked names, shook hands. The way she posed but didn’t perform.

The way she treated people — soft, but never fake.

And somewhere between that and the laughter of the group, Maddie felt something shift in her chest.

It hit her like the realization that came too late.

She was falling. Stupidly, hopelessly — falling for a girl who didn’t even need to try to pull people in.

When Caitlyn turned to her again, waving her over for a group selfie, Maddie smiled so wide it hurt.

---

Social Media

> @paddockpulse: “THESE PICS. Maddie and Caitlyn out in the wild??? Signing autographs together?? STOP IT”

> @f1tiktok: [Video of Caitlyn gently fixing a fan’s phone grip for a selfie, Maddie in the background laughing]

> “Caitlyn is so soft with fans I’m actually going to cry. And Maddie is the luckiest rookie."

> @f1shippingchaos: “Future Mercedes teammates"

The private jet hummed softly, slicing through the clouds with effortless grace. The sky outside was streaked gold and rose, the kind of light that made everything feel too still, too fragile.

Vi sat slouched across from Caitlyn, one leg draped over the other, fidgeting with the strap of her glove. She looked utterly out of place — and she knew it. The polished cabin, the quiet hum, the faint scent of bergamot tea that lingered near Caitlyn’s seat — it all screamed Piltover.

And Caitlyn… she fit right in.

The Mercedes star embroidered subtly on her navy blouse, the neatness of her posture, the calm stillness in her expression. She didn’t even have to try to look composed — it was simply how she existed.

Vi hated that it got to her.

She broke the silence first. “You really don’t do normal, huh?”

Caitlyn looked up from the document she was half-reading on her tablet. “Pardon?”

“This,” Vi gestured around them. “Private jet, perfect lighting, tea that probably costs more than my entire gear set. You don’t even wrinkle.”

Caitlyn’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. “I don’t wrinkle?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I think you mean I prepare,” Caitlyn said smoothly. “It’s different.”

Vi smirked. “Right. You ‘prepare.’ Guess that’s what the dinner with Maddie was, too?”

That earned Caitlyn’s attention.

Her eyes lifted — calm, assessing. “I didn’t realize my social calendar was of interest to you.”

Vi shrugged, leaning back. “It’s all over social media. You two looked... close.”

Caitlyn didn’t react right away. She simply set the tablet down and reached for her cup, her movements slow, deliberate. “We had dinner. That’s all.”

“Looked fun,” Vi muttered, feigning nonchalance. “Didn’t think you’d have time between interviews and saving the world.”

Caitlyn took a sip of her tea before replying, “You seem… unusually invested.”

“I’m not,” Vi shot back too quickly.

Caitlyn’s eyes softened, but her tone carried that quiet frustration that only came from knowing someone too well. “Vi.”

“What?”

“Must we keep doing this?”

Vi frowned. “Doing what?”

“This,” Caitlyn said, gesturing vaguely between them. “You throw little jabs like you’re testing how far you can push before I stop caring.”

Vi froze, caught off guard by the directness.

Caitlyn sighed quietly, setting her cup down. “You don’t have to keep reminding me where you come from. Or where I do. I’m quite aware.”

Vi looked away, jaw tightening. “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” Caitlyn said, her voice still soft but firmer now. “I get that you think we’re built from different worlds. Oil and water, isn’t that the line?”

Vi’s eyes flicked back to her, surprised she remembered. “Something like that.”

“And yet,” Caitlyn said, folding her hands neatly, “here we are — in the same world, same jet, working toward the same thing.”

Vi scoffed, but there wasn’t much strength behind it. “Yeah. For now.”

Caitlyn inhaled slowly, the quiet frustration flashing just for a moment across her composed features. “You make it sound like inevitability is a curse.”

Vi blinked, unsure how to respond.

Caitlyn leaned back slightly, her eyes distant for a moment. “You keep saying we’re too different, Vi. That Zaun and Piltover can’t mix. But you’re wrong.”

Vi frowned. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Caitlyn said simply. “Because it’s not about where we come from. It’s about what we do with it.”

Vi studied her — that calm, grounded certainty. It made her want to punch something and hold onto it at the same time.

“You always talk like that,” Vi said, her voice quieter now. “Like everything’s just logic and choice. Like feelings don’t make people ruin things.”

Caitlyn’s expression softened, but her eyes stayed on her. “You think I don’t feel?”

“I think you hide it better than anyone I know.”

Caitlyn’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak right away. When she did, her tone was low. “Sometimes that’s the only way to survive where I come from.”

That silenced Vi. For once, she didn’t have a comeback.

Caitlyn didn’t press her advantage. She simply sipped her tea, watching Vi with that composed, unreadable calm she wore like armor. The cabin felt smaller now. More honest.

Then Caitlyn asked, her voice smooth but curious, “What’s it really like? The Undercity.”

Vi raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “Why?”

“If we’re going there,” Caitlyn said evenly, “I’d rather not be the idiot walking in blind.”

Vi huffed a short laugh and shook her head. “You? In that outfit? They’ll eat you alive.”

Caitlyn blinked once. “Eat me?”

“Not literally,” Vi said, grinning. “But they’ll spot you as a Topside royal from a mile away. And trust me — that kind of look doesn’t earn you discounts.”

Caitlyn glanced down at herself — the pressed blouse, the silk-lined jacket, the neat slacks that probably hadn’t known a stain since the day they were made. “What would you suggest, then?”

Vi stretched her arms behind her head. “Something... scuffed. Lived-in. Clothes that look like they’ve seen a fight or two.”

“I don’t suppose you carry a spare set of those on you?”

“No, but I know a guy. He won’t ask questions if you don’t look him in the eye.”

Caitlyn nodded slowly, absorbing the details like facts on a case file. “You said it’s loud.”

Vi nodded, gaze distant. “Yeah. Loud. Messy. Chaotic. Smells like oil and fire and something always rotting. But it’s alive, Caitlyn. It’s real.”

She glanced at Caitlyn and caught her staring — not with judgment or pity, but with the kind of interest that unsettled Vi. Not just curiosity. Not fascination.

It was care.

And Vi wasn’t used to it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Vi muttered.

Caitlyn didn’t look away. “Because I’m listening.”

Vi shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her stare.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before,” Vi added, her voice quieter. “What Zaun’s really like. What it means to grow up there.”

“They should have,” Caitlyn said gently.

Vi didn’t know what to say to that.

Then Caitlyn leaned forward slightly, hands laced on her knees. “We’ll find her, Vi.”

Vi blinked. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Caitlyn said. “Because we won’t stop until we do.”

Vi looked at her, a cocktail of emotion swirling beneath her stern exterior. She wanted to believe her. She did believe her. And that made everything harder.

Especially after Suzuka.

She turned her eyes back to the window, jaw clenched.

Caitlyn noticed. “What is it?”

Vi hesitated. Then: “I meant what I said in that press room. About you. About... regretting what I said.”

Caitlyn was quiet.

Vi rubbed her face with both hands. “I was angry. I was scared. That penalty — it felt like everything was slipping again. And I didn’t know where to put it, so I put it on you.”

Caitlyn exhaled slowly. “You made me the villain in your spiral.”

Vi nodded, ashamed.

But Caitlyn didn’t say anything cruel. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t even correct her posture. She just sat there, calm and composed — but not cold.

“I was hurt,” Caitlyn said. “You knew exactly how to cut me, and you didn’t hesitate.”

“I know.”

“But that’s not all I heard.”

Vi looked up.

“I also heard someone trying to protect something she’s not ready to admit she cares about.”

Vi’s heart beat faster.

“And I can’t say I didn’t see it coming,” Caitlyn added, her voice softer now. “You flinch every time I get too close.”

Vi swallowed, throat dry. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You’re not.”

“I have before.”

Caitlyn tilted her head. “Then don’t run this time.”

Vi laughed bitterly. “Easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up thinking trust is just bait in a trap.”

Caitlyn leaned forward. “No, I don’t. But I know what it’s like to walk into a room and wonder if everyone’s just waiting for you to fail because of your name.”

Vi looked at her — really looked. The perfect lines of her uniform, the way she held herself like she was holding up more than just her own weight.

And maybe she was.

Caitlyn broke the silence this time. “This isn’t about Maddie. Or the press. Or even your sister.”

Vi frowned. “Then what is it about?”

“You and me.”

Vi froze.

Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “You and me in the middle of all this madness, trying to make sense of something that shouldn’t work — but somehow still does.”

The silence stretched between them like a held breath.

Then Vi muttered, “You’re really bad at staying mad.”

Caitlyn smiled faintly. “I’m very good at knowing what matters.”

Vi looked away again, but not out of avoidance this time — more like she was trying to hide the way her walls were crumbling.

They sat in silence for a while longer.

Then Caitlyn reached into the side compartment of her seat and pulled out a sleek, dark duffel bag.

“I brought something,” she said, placing it on the seat beside Vi.

Vi raised an eyebrow. “More bergamot tea?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

Vi opened the bag and froze.

Inside was a set of Zaun-style clothing — not just dirty scraps, but carefully curated pieces. Worn denim. A patched leather jacket. Scuffed boots that looked authentic, not store-bought.

She looked up, stunned.

“You thought of this?” Vi asked.

Caitlyn gave a small nod. “Told you. I prepare.”

Vi stared at the clothes, something aching behind her ribs. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Vi ran her hand over the jacket. “But you did anyway.”

Caitlyn’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Because I know how much she means to you.”

Vi looked back at her — eyes a little shinier than before.