Post-Race Chaos – Interlagos Circuit, Brazil
The champagne hadn't even dried on Sukhman's racing suit.
The Indian flag still fluttered behind him on the podium. A smile — his first in weeks — had just begun to form when he noticed the shift in the crowd's mood. A ripple, like cold wind slicing through summer heat.
First responders raced across the paddock. Two ambulances swerved onto the track apron, lights flashing — not for celebration though, but for crisis.
> "What the hell is going on?" he asked, stepping off the podium, heart quickening.
Rajan's face had already dropped, headset askew.
> "Charlotte… Diego," he said. "They're not walking out."
---
Medical Emergency – Paddock Lockdown
Charlotte Reid was pulled from the cockpit unconscious. Helmet cracked. Her fire suit bloodied near the temple.
Diego Montoya, slumped sideways in his seat, had suffered internal bleeding. Medics worked with terrifying urgency, oxygen masks pressed tight, chest compressions in motion.
The screens at Interlagos were shut down to the public.
The celebration music stopped.
And the cheers curdled into gasps.
---
Later That Night – Media Meltdown
Every motorsport channel, from Brazil to Australia, ran breaking news tickers on loop.
> 📰 "REID & MONTOYA IN BRAZIL GP HORROR CRASH"
📰 "TECHNICAL FAILURE OR FOUL PLAY? IRC LAUNCHES FORMAL INQUIRY"
📰 "CHARLOTTE REID REPORTED BRAIN DEAD – RACING COMMUNITY IN SHOCK"
Video replays flooded social feeds. Slow-motion footage of Charlotte's snap oversteer. Diego's sudden steering lock. Pundits speculated — was it a double software glitch? Sabotage?
IRC officials released a brief, grim statement:
> "A full investigation panel has been initiated. All data logs, black box units, and team telemetry are to be submitted under sealed oversight."
Sukhman sat in his hotel room, still in half his gear. The lights off. The phone buzzing non-stop — he ignored it all.
---
Nightfall – The ICU Report
Harinder came in quietly, holding two cups of warm milk, setting one down on the bedside table. His eyes had dark rings, his voice barely above a whisper.
> "Diego made it through surgery," he said. "Still in ICU. Heavy sedation. But they think he has a chance."
Sukhman didn't respond.
> "Charlotte..." Harinder hesitated, clearing his throat. "They say she's…brain dead. No electrical response. Her parents are flying in from Melbourne."
Silence.
And then—
> "I raced beside her this morning," Sukhman whispered. "She laughed during the pre-lap. She was trying to fix her telemetry. She was — alive."
> "I get it. You are upset. But try to hold onto yourself. Please. We... I mean they need you." Harinder says.
Sukhman gets back to silence.
Harinder tried to lift the air with one of his notorious impressions.
> "If she heard us now, she'd call me a tragic knockoff of Trevor Noah, and tell you to stop brooding like a tortured poet."
No reaction.
> "Alright," Harinder tried again, contorting his face into an exaggerated expression. "Tell me this, who breaks a car's steering and still manages to take out three other drivers? Classic Diego, man. Always has to go out in style."
Still nothing.
So he kept pushing.
> "Come on, Sukhu. You just won a GP. That was legendary! You pulled off a sand drift like an F1 rally car. Man, you know how proud we are of—"
> "Shut up."
Harinder froze.
> "Just. Shut. Up," Sukhman repeated, eyes burning now. "You think this is some stupid locker room moment? You think jokes fix this?! Charlotte's gone. Diego's halfway there."
> "Hey, I'm just trying to—"
> "You don't get to try, Harinder! Not when all you've done is keep pretending it's all okay. Like this is still a game!"
Harinder stepped back, stung.
> "Don't turn this on me, man. You know I care about others. I just want to lighten up the mood. That's all."
> "That's all! To be honest, I didn't ask you to be here. You came because you wanted the ride. The noise. The spotlight. You think being on the pit wall makes you family? You don't even know how to sit still in silence. (Sukhman gasps) I shouldn't have brought an uncivilized vermin like you."
The air between them became unbearably thick.
Harinder clenched his jaw. "Fine. If that's waht you want—"
He left without another word.
The door clicked shut.
---
News Montage – Racing World in Mourning
Charlotte's old team, SBA Motors, held a candlelight vigil.
FIA president issued a statement of "deep sorrow and renewed focus on safety."
Fans at Melbourne Circuit gathered in silent tribute — her hometown.
Diego's condition was now being updated hourly; his team refused to comment on speculation about software failure.
---
The IRC Panel – Day One
Inside a frost-white room in Geneva, ten senior engineers, two legal officers, and one former racer met behind closed doors.
On the screen:
– The final laps.
– Charlotte's throttle mapping.
– Diego's wheel input telemetry.
– Anomalies in the software handshake logs.
> "Two cars. Same issue. No shared supplier. No cross-linked software. But identical pattern spikes," said one investigator.
> "That shouldn't be possible unless..."
No one finished the sentence. But they all thought it.
> Someone had access.
And someone had chosen to act. NOW!
---
Closing Scene – Ghosts of the Grid
That night, in a dark hotel room overlooking the São Paulo skyline, Sukhman stared at the podium medal in his hand.
The gold shimmered.
But his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to drive until the road ran out.
He wanted someone to tell him this isn't the cost of greatness.
But all he got was the cold hum of a hotel minibar and the ghosts of racers who didn't make it to morning.