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"For over a century, qualifying at Monza has meant pure speed. Home of Ferrari, and their legendary Tifosi, this is set to be one of the very best qualifying sessions of the season."
"That's right, Serval! Round thirteen, and an ultra-important hour for the championship. Though the formidable Polemos is in the lead, his two-point margin is threatening to slip away with every waking moment! That, my friends, is the stuff of dreams for his ferocious rival. Could this finally be the moment when Phainon Khaslana puts the Little Lion on the back foot?"
"Hah! You just want to see those two butt heads, Mr. Koski. After Khaslana's accident in practice yesterday, it'll be a miracle if his car is up for the challenge. Who knows, though? He's been known to work miracles around here before."
"Your word is law, madam, and I bet the Tifosi wouldn't mind. They are here, and they are raucous. The grandstands are positively boiling! Perhaps it is time for some of that Ferrari magic once again?"
The chequered flag flits by in Phainon's peripheral vision. One glance at the timing screen has his heart soaring; the prancing horse leaps to the top. Next to it, his name. In the confines of his helmet, Phainon beams, lightheaded.
"How's it looking, Chartonus?"
"Close," is all he gets out of his engineer. Cool, collected. Not celebrating prematurely. "I'll keep you updated."
Pole position. Phainon's fingers tremble as he thumbs over the myriad buttons on his steering wheel. The motions come to him as easy as breathing, as practiced as a child who's learned how to do something by heart. Breathe. Strat 13, downshift. Roll shoulders as far as the seatbelt allows to release tension. Breathe.
P1 at home, in front of the fans. The Tifosi. The beating heart of Ferrari. To give them pole position here would be beyond his wildest dreams. It's so close he can taste it. Or perhaps that's just the rubbery drinking tube tickling the side of his mouth.
A sea of fiery red greets Phainon in the grandstands, both sides of the racetrack ablaze in Rosso Corsa. Lit by passion, kept alive by loyalty. Tifosi are standing in their seats, one row after the next, as Phainon passes them. Their caps and flags are held aloft in the air, waving like he's a hero returned home. With his name on the top of the timing screen, he might as well be. P fucking 1. And that damn Mercedes is nowhere to be seen.
Electricity buzzes throughout his entire body. What a lap. Roaring, his heartbeat echoes in his skull, only drowned out by the rhythmic, staccato purr of the engine as he downshifts for the chicane. Music to his ears. He is squeezed against one side of his seat, then the other. The deep pressure massages his sore shoulder, still smarting from his date with the barrier yesterday. Then, overtaken by constant pulses of adrenaline, the pain ebbs away. Never say cloud nine isn't real. In this moment, Phainon could personally fist fight God and win.
His car held up. Considering the state it was in yesterday, it's nothing short of a miracle. Twenty-four hours ago, his monster of a machine had been reduced to little more than the carbon-fibre and Kevlar of his survival cell. Phainon has to kiss his mechanics when this is over. He has half a mind to beg Chartonus to put Aglaea on the radio. He needs to tell her to give his crew the fattest bonus the budget allows. Maybe even more than that. It can come out of Phainon's paycheck, if needs be.
"Wood behind on a flyer, turn four," Chartonus announces. Then, a split second later, "Wood turn five."
Phainon veers as far off the racing line as the track allows. The ground rumbles as the navy blue blur of the Red Bull shoots past, expertly hugging the apex of the first Lesmo corner. They've been doing well this season, only trailing the top contenders by a couple of tenths. Robin, though stuck in the cursed second seat, seems content, all things considered. Her fifth position in the championship is nothing to scoff at.
As the navy Red Bull disappears through the corner, whatever distraction it provided disappears along with it. Phainon's blood runs hot. His stomach twists itself into knots. The buzzing in his body has turned into an antsy murmur, keeping his heart fluttering, hummingbird-light. Sweat drips into his eyes. On his lips, a tentative question takes shape long before he actually says it. "Who's left?"
It was one hell of a gamble to go early, of course. The later you leave it, the nicer the track becomes. Warmer, grippier. Faster. A perfect, smooth surface for your car to make love to. A flawless lap is almost pornographic, so sinfully filthy that the prudish are forced to look away. In that sense, every other driver has an advantage over Phainon. Every other driver gets to drag their tyres across the tarmac like a tongue over skin.
On the other hand, those same drivers also suffer the risk of someone else binning it. The probability of someone putting their car in the barrier is never zero. Yesterday, Phainon himself was the prime example of that.
Someone has to go first, but no one wants to do it. It's a tale as old as time. At some point, the game of chicken becomes unbearable, and someone reaches their limit. This time, that someone was Phainon. Going early is the only way to avoid the chaos, and the ridiculous queue in the pit lane. They made the right call. Phainon is sure of it. His lap time was the stuff of legend. Regardless of how fast the others are, he should still come out on top. Everything will be just fine.
Chartonus is silent for a second, no doubt eyeing the data in front of him. He starts rattling off names, most of which are inconsequential. A Red Bull here, a Mclaren there. Then, he is quiet for just a second too long. Long enough for Phainon's skin to start crawling.
"Polemos is pushing."
Shit.
How could Phainon have missed that? How could Chartonus? If the Mercedes duo have yet to complete their laps…
No. Phainon's lap was a whole tenth clear of Cipher's, and she's rapid around here. If her best effort can't even scratch his, there's no way the Mercedes drivers are getting anywhere close. Their straight line speed is worse than the Ferraris. This is Monza, damn it. The temple of speed. Mercedes can save their supreme cornering traction for another track.
Besides, wasn't Dan Heng supposed to take a pit lane start this week? Phainon distinctly remembers him mentioning something about having to take a devastating engine penalty to Stelle in the hotel lobby the other day. Why, then, is he fighting so hard in Q3? His own qualifying doesn't matter. He's only out there wasting tyres and horse power, and for what?
In an instant, the haze of cloud nine clears. There's only one reason a driver would put up this much of a fight, despite having a penalty looming over their head. "Don't tell me he's getting a tow."
"Negative. No tow."
Phainon eyes the big screen for a second, and his heart sinks. Sure enough, there's Polemos, blazing through turn 3 with speed that makes the track tremble. Calling it 'pushing' would be putting it mildly; green sector one, purple sector two. This goes so far beyond pushing it's bordering on incomprehensible. Phainon isn't sure whether to be impressed or pissed. Had it been any other driver, any other track, it would've been the former. As it stands, however, this is his championship rival making a joke of his home race. Pissed it is.
However, one thing stands out. There's no Dan Heng in sight. The blinding pace Polemos is going at is his, and his alone. He is grabbing this titan of a track by the scruff of its neck and making it obey him. Like a conqueror, he's encroaching on Ferrari territory and taking it for himself.
"Polemos turn eight."
Phainon hears the Mercedes before he sees it. Before Chartonus even has a chance to give him the heads up. One second, it's just the faint whine of an engine somewhere behind him. The next, there's a bright flash of silver in his mirrors, and the Mercedes is right beside him.
It's by a hair's breadth that Phainon manages to get out of the way through Ascari. His rear steps out of line, his car over-rotating. A flurry of dust blows up behind him where he dips into the grass. For a split second, he prepares to brace for impact. Even with his evasive manoeuvre, he gets so close to touching the Merc he's sure it clips his front wing. Maybe it will put a gaping hole in Polemos' side pod and ruin his aerodynamics. In the liminal space between panic and wrath, Phainon almost hopes it does. It would serve him right.
By the grace of God, or sheer human stubbornness, Phainon manages to right his car again. The rotation straightens out. An ache blooms in his lower jaw. Lactic acid burns in his legs. Through his gloves, the indentations of the symbols on his steering wheel brand the pads of his fingers.
"Shit!" he pants through gritted teeth. "Chartonus, I need you to tell me that earlier!"
Whatever response Chartonus gives falls on deaf ears. Phainon's gaze is trained on the track ahead, on the spot where it meets the sky.
Ahead, the Mercedes is barely a speck on the horizon like nothing ever happened. Parabolica awaits him, and then it's just him and the finish line. The world shrinks, in that moment, to the size of a driver, their car, and the timing screen. An incident earlier in the lap, no matter how major, no longer matters. Phainon no longer matters.
Phainon counts the seconds in his mind. It's all he can do. Whatever happens next is out of his hands. Approximately, twenty seconds separate Ascari and the finish line. Twenty seconds to decide the starting order.
By Phainon's count, fourteen have already passed. Fifteen. Sixteen.
A crackle sounds through the radio. Phainon thinks he can make out the sound of a tense swallow.
"And that'll be P2, P2," Chartonus mutters. Monotone as he usually is, but with a tired edge. He sighs, "three hundredths to Polemos."
Three hundredths. Three hundredths. It's shorter than a blink. Shorter than the shutter of a camera. In three hundredths of a second, Phainon's weekend is ruined before the race even begins. His palm stings where it hits the steering wheel in frustration. He bites back the swear words that crowd his mouth, pushing against his teeth. The last thing they need right now is an unsavoury radio message on the broadcast.
"Well done, Phainon," Aglaea chimes in. Her disappointment is tangible; a physical thing, sitting in the sound waves connecting their radios. She wanted this too. "It was a hard fight out there. We'll throw everything at them tomorrow."
Phainon opens his mouth to say something in response. He's failed her. Shame burns the back of his neck, sweat trickling down and pooling around the collar of his race suit. He has to make this right somehow. An excuse, an apology, anything—
"We'll talk in the debrief."
Phainon hits the brakes hard enough for his car to groan in protest. There's a hint of smoke in the air he can only hope is from the Mercedes. Perhaps, if God is feeling generous, it'll choke to a standstill on its own exhaust fumes when the lights go out tomorrow. Phainon's head throbs, neck straining against the HANS device. There is no way. His cheeks burn. The numbers and symbols on his steering wheel melt together into one, a white-hot blur burning in the centre of his vision. He pants, jaws aching. Copper floods his mouth from where his teeth have grazed his cheek hard enough to break skin. There is no way. There is no way.
With an audible crack, his knuckles pop when he releases his vicelike grip on the steering wheel. His fingers brush the seatbelt keeping him strapped to his seat. He is leashed. A feral animal kept in chains. The damn points are so close he can practically taste them. Twenty-five points for the winner of tomorrow's spectacle, seven more than the runner-up. The championship lead will be back in Phainon's hand if he wins, regardless of where Polemos finishes. All he needs to do is overtake the brat. Which has proved easier said than done this season.
To his left, the hideous silver arrow belonging to said brat pulls up to the sign reserved for the first place finisher. Bumps it. Knocks it over. Such lack of finesse. This is how Formula 1's next big thing cherishes his successes? Phainon would never — he'd drop to his hands and knees on the tarmac and kiss that sign if he could. Pole position at Monza… He has half a mind to lunge for the Mercedes' beating heart, rip the pistons out of the engine with his teeth and drag them to the stewards like a dog. It is illegal. It must be. They weren't this quick before the summer break.
That's it. They must've broken curfew, worked through the summer shutdown. Maybe they even had someone on the inside, feeding them Ferrari's schematics. That would explain why their new rear wing is identical to Phainon's own. That's it! Phainon is a hero, he'll expose the entire team, he'll—
"You okay in there, lil' bro?"
There's a knock on the top of his helmet, and then Cipher leans in through the halo of his car, sweaty bangs clinging to her forehead. Red lines run over her cheeks from where her balaclava has pressed into her skin, with one particularly angry line bisecting the space between her nose and mouth. A smudged lipstick stain decorates one side of her flushed face — courtesy of Castorice Epieikeia, no doubt. If you looked up fraternising with the enemy in a dictionary, Cipher's face would cover the entire page. She's lucky Phainon covers for her whenever Aglaea asks what Cipher is doing in Red Bull's motorhome so often.
"Relax, delivery boy," Cipher says. "It's just quali. You'll smoke him in turn one tomorrow."
Easy for her to say. She has to stay optimistic. Thanks to her grid penalty, she'll start the race from a humble ninth position. She'll be lucky if she even sets foot in the top five, come tomorrow. It's a grim task, even for a driver as quick as her. Weaving her way through the stray midfielders won't be a problem, but as soon as she catches that second Mercedes, there'll be hell to pay. Dan Heng has barely been overtaken all season — only twice on track, by Phainon's count. Cipher will have her hands full.
As much as they prefer to wrangle their competitors together as teammates, Phainon will have his own Mercedes-shaped problem to contend with at the front. It's been a couple of races since they occupied the front row together, following a streak of mediocre quali performances from Phainon's side. His race results speak for themselves, but this was his chance to prove he's still as lightning-quick as the fans believe him to be. For it to slip through his fingers with such a tiny margin stings.
Undone with practiced ease, Phainon's seatbelt snaps apart. The steering wheel follows suit soon after, detached from its perch. Despite the burning sunshine, the halo is cool through the fabric of his gloves. The carbon fibre offers little in the way of grip, but he wraps his hands around the structure and manages to haul himself upright anyway. As easily as it was removed, the steering wheel slots back into place.
The routine offers a strange sense of comfort. It is at the very least a welcome distraction from Polemos going through the same song and dance on Phainon's left. The only difference between them is the spring in Polemos' step as he completes his tasks, finished with a pump of his victorious fist into the air. His body is balanced on the tips of his toes, back arched in a sinful curve, face tipped back and reaching for the sky. It'll make a great picture. By tonight, it'll be front and centre on the social media accounts of teams and fans alike, followed by a picture of his sweaty face with the caption 'locked in'. Cheeks flushed, amber gaze focused.
So much for distraction.
With a nimble leap, Phainon hops down from his car. Through the soles of his shoes, the tarmac burns hot enough to blister. Late summer's heat is clinging to the track, making it blend into the sky on the horizon at the end of the straight. Cooling vests and ice baths be damned — sometimes some good old overheating is exactly what the drivers need. Or something along those lines. In the autobiographies written about their lives 20 years from now, aspiring authors will claim it made them strong, resilient. What doesn't kill you, et cetera.
The second his helmet is off, Phainon gulps down a mouthful of air. Gasoline lingers over the track still, mingling with burnt rubber and sweat. Not exactly the kind of scent the high-brow elites promote in perfume ads, but it's the smell of home. It's familiar, calming. At the very least, it beats inhaling his own condensation through his balaclava for the past hour. Phainon makes a mental note to get a stronger mouthwash.
Three steps away, Polemos has tugged off his own helmet. Without it, without the visor to shield him, his facade falls. Polemos fades away, and he morphs back into Mydeimos.
Headstrong, hardworking, honourable Mydeimos. Mydeimos, who whooped Phainon's ass in the karting races, and let him have his celebratory ice cream after. Mydeimos, who let Phainon borrow his spare kart after Phainon ran his own off the track. Mydeimos, who always let Phainon into his parents' motorhome. Kind, generous, charming Mydeimos. So far removed from the rival who can barely spare Phainon a handshake these days.
It's hard to pinpoint when, exactly, they grew apart. Somewhere between the regional youth championships and now, winning became more important than their childlike delusions of friendship. Mydeimos died, and Polemos took his place. Phainon's only competitor. His only equal. Mydeimos. Mydei.
A glint of light reflects straight into Phainon's eyes from the paddock pass of a journalist. Whether it's divine intervention or sheer, dumb luck, it's enough to break Phainon out of his stupor. The truth burns in the centre of his chest. He can't afford to stare at Mydeimos for too long. The press will find a way to twist even the most innocent glance into a scandalous headline.
Parc Fermé is all cameras. Always has been, always will be. They line up in a neat row as though they're sentient beings, clinging to the barricade shielding the drivers from the vicious horde. Phainon never sees the faces behind the cameras — the journalists are stuck so close to their lenses that they meld into a single entity. He never sees them, but they see everything.
'Breaking!' they'll write. 'Formula 1 championship battle escalates to new heights! Following the qualifying hour at Monza, this look from Ferrari's Phainon Khaslana could only be described as murderous. The sport hasn't seen a rivalry this intense since the legendary Skemma-Kalos battle of the 90's, could this end just as explosively?'
With the way this season is going, Phainon wouldn't be surprised if it came to that. So far, there have only been some minor scuffles — pure, hard racing, nothing more — but it's only a matter of time before they cross that line. He feels it in the tense line of his own shoulders, he sees it in Mydei's closed fists.
One wrong move, one reckless overtake, and they will tumble headfirst into mindless, petty violence.
Absentmindedly, Phainon eyes the slip handed to him by a nearby track marshal and steps off the scales. The numbers are fine, he's sure. Inconsequential. His team makes sure of that. The fate of the championship won't be decided by a stray milligram.
Overhead, fans lean as far over the railing as physically possible. Several strong arms hold one woman back, her entire upper body bent over the metal fencing. Her hands are outstretched, flailing frantically when she catches Phainon's eye. She shrieks his name, along with some choice words in Italian Phainon would rather not repeat. He ducks behind a concrete pillar just in time to dodge the bottle of something she throws in his direction. Security will handle it.
An odd numbness spreads through his body, replacing the anger and adrenaline. Sure, he can hope the stewards hand Mydeimos a fat penalty for impeding or some other punishable offence, but what good will it do? Phainon was still the undisputed loser today. Beaten, in the quali for his team's home race. He won't get to sign the pole trophy, or any of the other things he's previously taken for granted. That honour belongs to one Mydeimos Polemos, and him alone.
The media pen is always a mess. Today is no exception. The hustle and bustle of this circus doesn't stop simply because Phainon would rather drive headfirst into the wall of champions than respond to a single question. He doesn't have any real answers, doesn't know where or how Mercedes suddenly found that extra tenth.
He runs through his practiced, pre-approved responses until they make little laps of their own in his head. It's a shame F1 doesn't race on ovals anymore. In the camera lens, his tired face stares back at him. If his PR team could see him now, he'd get more than a slap on the wrist. He should say something positive, something about how points are scored on Sundays and nothing is over until the chequered flag flies, but the words die on his tongue. He stands there, dumbfounded, without a single smart thing to say.
His saving grace arrives a moment later. In sync, the journalists in front of him turn their heads to the entrance to the media pen. A flock of press officials practically trip over themselves getting over there, swarming around whoever just arrived. Through a gap between their bodies and flashing cameras, Phainon can see strawberry blonde hair peek through underneath a black Mercedes cap.
Sure enough, there's the man of the hour. The object of Phainon's obsession and his worst nightmares. The bane of his existence.
Mydeimos Polemos. Number 60. Son of racing royalty. The one who leaps into the arms of his adoring father in Parc Fermé. The one who kisses his mother's signet ring before every race, and atop every podium. The one who never forgets the champion who came before him, who watches over him like an angel on his shoulder.
Mydeimos Polemos. Number 60. Youngest ever rookie driver. The one who was so frighteningly good the FIA had to change their regulations for fear of creating another like him.
Mydeimos Polemos. Number 60. The championship leader with a two-point lead. The pole sitter. The one whose gaze now meets Phainon's from across the media pen and makes his hand shake with rage.
It's Monza, damn it. Two religions in Italy, and all that. God above, and Ferrari below. Phainon should be basking in the love of the Tifosi right now — signing caps, taking selfies, blessing babies. All the stuff the pope does. Instead he's here, in a boiling media pen, biting back his words because the poor journalist in front of him has done nothing to deserve his anger. It roars to life in the pit of Phainon's stomach once more, fire stoked by the look on Mydei's face.
One of the stragglers pointing their microphone at Phainon clears their throat. "Could you comment on what happened through Ascari in Q3?"
The voice sends a shiver of dread down his spine. Pearl. Of course. Phainon never learned her last name, but the IPC badge shines bright enough from her lanyard for her to be recognisable from a mile away. Whenever she opens her mouth, he can feel his patience shrivel up and die inside him. She knows exactly where to poke and prod to make it hurt — her heavy-hitting questions are legendary at this point.
"Do you believe Polemos should be punished for that manoeuvre?"
A scandalised gasp propagates through the small horde of journalists in front of Phainon. One woman in the second row starts furiously scribbling in her notepad, while the person next to her does the same on their phone. Safe to say, whatever Phainon says next will be quoted and misinterpreted to hell and back. He hums for a second to buy time.
Mydeimos still holds his gaze, steady and constant, while answering questions of his own. He's leaned forward, braced against something out of Phainon's line of sight. An easy smile graces his face, satisfied and proud. Phainon has never been good at reading lips, but he can clearly make out the shape of 'Ascari', at the same times Mydeimos' smile twists into something unintelligible.
The audacity. In Phainon's stomach, the flame of anger explodes in a blaze. He's back in his car again, nearly careening into the barrier to get out of the way.
"It was dangerous," he spits out, turning his attention back to Pearl. "Is that what you want me to say? His lap was already good enough for pole, and he had plenty of space on the inside. I don't know what he was trying to prove."
Whatever Pearl thinks about that statement remains a mystery. Nothing is given away by her expression. She nods, slowly, robotically, and clicks her digital pencil against the tablet in her hand. Next to her, the poor soul who must be her henchman reaches forward, putting the microphone closer to Phainon's face.
"Do you think there's any risk this newfound aggression will affect tomorrow's race?"
Against his better judgement, Phainon takes the bait. He's entertained this drivel for long enough.
"Who knows with that guy," he says, and he wants to leave it at that, but the words spill out of him in an unstoppable flood. "If that's how he wants to handle things from now on, so be it. I won't back down either."
He should add some corny line about doing this for the Tifosi, that their love makes him stronger or something like that. It's what would be expected of him, after dropping a bombshell like that.
One look at Pearl, however, makes it clear she'd never believe him. The die has been cast, the gauntlet has been thrown down. Without a doubt, Mydeimos will be asked to comment on it at the drivers' parade tomorrow, and he'll say something brutally honest without mincing his words, as he always does. He'll be hailed as a calm, level-headed hero while Phainon will be noted as the hothead who keeps falling for obvious bait.
No matter. He'll just win tomorrow, and put that spoiled brat in his place. Then, his words to the press will miraculously be interpreted as 'winner mentality' instead of bitterness.
Phainon pushes through the rest of the burning questions the journalists throw his way as fast as humanly possible, only causing a few more minor controversies along the way. His PR team can handle those. The couch in his motorhome awaits him. Maybe he'll order junk food, personal trainer be damned. After this day, he's more than earned it.
Getting out of his sweaty race suit is always a relief at the end of a long, hard day. Luckily for Aglaea, photographers usually don't bother with snapping pictures of the drivers as they leave the paddock. That means Phainon is free to slip into the deep purple hoodie his team principal deemed 'hideous' at the start of the season, with no one around to judge him. He slips his things into a backpack, puts on his cap, and sneaks out of the Ferrari motorhome.
At night, the paddock is strangely eerie. The tall buildings on either side stand mostly abandoned, with only the dimmed fluorescent lights keeping the night shift company. Phainon's footsteps echo as he ambles towards the parking lot to pick up his car. The keys swing between his fingers, twiddled around like its some cheap toy and not a million dollar piece of machinery. He should be more careful, but he's had enough of musts today.
The sound of another set of footsteps behind him freezes him in his tracks.
"Khas— Phainon, wait!"
A hand lands on his shoulder and tugs on the strap of his backpack with hard enough to turn him around.
Mydei. He's wrapped up in a Mercedes windbreaker, with a matching cap on his head, so black he nearly blends into the night. His hair is tied back into a neat ponytail sticking out of the gap in his cap. Only his face is visible in the darkness, along with the silver seams of the sponsors on his outfit. Wide-eyed, open-mouthed.
"Listen, about what happened in Q3…"
He trails off, breaks eye contact to check their surroundings. He stays quiet for several, agonising moments. His cheeks flush despite his neutral expression, almost as scarlet as the tattoos Phainon knows he hides beneath his jacket. He swallows once, twice, then schools his expression into one of impenetrable calm. Cold, standoffish. "Get your head out of your ass. It wasn't personal, okay?"
Phainon's stomach sinks. So he's already seen the interview. It's too late for damage control, then. He grasps his backpack strap and yanks it out of Mydeimos' hand with more force than is probably necessary. "I never said it was."
Clearly not the response Mydeimos was expecting, judging by the way his brows pinch together. A faint line forms there, and some small, unspeakable thing in Phainon's chest yearns to reach out and smooth it out. He's not allowed to be unsure. It doesn't suit him. When that helmet goes on his head tomorrow, there's no room for doubt.
Mydeimos takes a step back, and crosses his arms. With the added distance, it allows a warm breeze to blow between them. Mydeimos' bangs sweep across his forehead, barely held intact by his cap.
"You love being difficult, don't you?" he says, then sighs. "It was an honest mistake, alright?"
Phainon scoffs. "Fine."
"Fine."
An uneasy silence settles between them, with neither of them looking away. A thousand unsaid speeches and apologies hang in the air between them, thick with tension and anticipation. One of them should say something, but neither does. Phainon's tongue feels ten times too big for his mouth. How did it come to this?
In the end, it's Mydei who breaks first. "See you on the track tomorrow."
He makes it sound so simple, even when it's his race to lose. He's expected to win, and anything else will be considered a failure. That's the burden of the pole sitter, especially with the championship battle being as close as it is. The press will be on him like rabid dogs if he loses the lead now. How he can remain so calm is beyond Phainon. Maybe he's simply that confident he'll win that he can dismiss what's to come so easily.
Phainon would do anything to wipe that smirk from his face. Anything.
Fine. Whatever. Game on.
"It's a date, Mydeimos."