The Australian morning sky was a relentless, cloudless blue, promising another scorcher. But in the Raveish Racing garage, the atmosphere was taut, strung wire-tight with the nervous energy of a final rehearsal before the grand performance. Free Practice 3 was the last chance, the ultimate sprint to find the perfect qualifying setup, to wring every last micro-second of pace from the RR27 before parc ferme conditions locked the cars down.
Samuel, strapped into the cockpit, felt a familiar tension coiling in his gut. After a promising FP2, a quiet confidence had settled over him, bordering on arrogance. He'd pushed the car, found a decent long-run pace, and felt the engineers had made progress. Today, he told himself, was about unleashing the beast. His hot-headed nature, usually a driving force, was now a dangerous undertow, urging him to push past caution, to ignore the whispers of limitation.
"Alright, Samuel," Finch's voice came through the radio, calmer than the storm brewing inside Samuel. "We've gone for a slight increase in front wing angle to combat the high-speed understeer. This should help you carry more speed through the faster corners. We'll start on the Mediums for a five-lap validation run, then switch straight to Softs for a qualifying simulation. Focus on clean laps, building confidence."
The RR27 barked to life, a familiar, aggressive growl that vibrated through Samuel's bones. He peeled out of the garage, the pit lane a blur of colour and hurried motion. The track was already busy, the scent of hot rubber hanging heavy in the air. Other teams were on their final, desperate push laps, their engines screaming in fury.
His first flying lap was immediate confirmation of the changes. The front end of the RR27 felt sharper, biting harder into the tarmac through the first sweeping corners. He could carry more speed, the understeer he'd battled in FP2 seemingly tamed. A surge of almost triumphant adrenaline coursed through him. Yes! This is it. This is what she needed.
But the balance was a knife-edge. As he powered out of Turn 3, the rear felt less settled than before, a subtle twitchiness threatening to break away. He caught it, his "Champion's System" a rapid-fire processor of sensory data, making unconscious corrections before his conscious mind even registered the slide. He pushed harder into Turn 6, a tricky, fast right-hander. He leaned on the new front end, carrying more speed, too much speed, perhaps. The rear suddenly snapped, violently, unexpectedly.
His heart leaped into his throat. He counter-steered, hands a blur, trying to catch the slide, but the car was already committed. The RR27 spun, a dizzying, sickening rotation of metal and carbon fibre, kicking up a plume of dust and gravel. He saw the barrier rushing towards him, a terrifying blur of white and red. He braced, expecting impact, but the car spun to a halt inches from the wall, facing the wrong way on the track.
"Whoa! Okay, Samuel, are you alright?" Finch's voice, surprisingly calm, cut through the adrenaline-fueled silence. "Car status?"
Samuel took a shaky breath, his body trembling with the adrenaline dump. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just… lost the rear. Felt a bit snappy. No damage, I think. Facing the wrong way." His voice was raspy, tinged with a raw edge of self-reproach. Damn it. Stupid. Too much.
"Understood. Clear behind you. Engage first gear, positive traction. Try to get it turned around."
He clumsily wrestled the wheel, performed a slow, embarrassing donut on the track, and limped back to the pits, the taste of failure bitter in his mouth. The garage entrance felt like a walk of shame, every eye on him. The mechanics moved quickly, checking the car, scanning for damage.
"Front wing, right side, minor scuffs," a mechanic reported, pointing to a small graze. "Tyres flat-spotted."
Finch met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "It's a more aggressive setup, Samuel. The window is narrower. You'll have to be precise. We'll put on a fresh set of Mediums, give you another ten minutes to build confidence. No heroic lap times, just clean data. You have to learn the limit, not exceed it by that much." His words were a cool stream over Samuel's hot temper, an implicit instruction to rein himself in.
Back out, the car felt different again with fresh tyres. Samuel tried to heed Finch's words, to be smoother, less aggressive. He pushed, but with more caution, trying to feel the car's limits rather than bludgeoning them. The understeer he'd felt earlier seemed more pronounced with his newfound caution, costing him time. He over-corrected, trying to force the car to turn, and the front tyres protested with a screech, locking up. A puff of white smoke erupted from beneath the wheel, a flat spot forming instantly.
"Another lock-up, Samuel," Finch's voice, a shade firmer now, came over the radio. "Ease off the brake pressure, try to trail-brake more effectively into the apex."
Samuel gritted his teeth. The frustration was a hot coal in his chest. Why won't this car just obey? He felt like he was fighting it every inch of the way, the promise of FP2 dissolving into a series of frustrating errors. He could feel the pressure of the clock ticking down, the precious minutes of FP3 dwindling away.
He completed the lap on the flat-spotted tyre, the vibration through the steering wheel a constant, irritating reminder of his mistake. He came in again. Another tyre change, another precious chunk of time lost. His body language was tense, shoulders hunched, jaw tight.
With only ten minutes left in the session, the team decided to send him out on a fresh set of Softs for one final qualifying simulation. This was it. One chance to redeem himself, to put a decent lap on the board before qualifying later today.
"Okay, Samuel. This is the last run," Finch said, his voice clipped, efficient. "New Softs. Focus on getting a clean run, don't overdrive. Bring the car home."
Samuel nodded, his eyes fixed on the pit lane exit. He needed this. He needed to prove to Finch, to Marcus, to himself, that the previous mistakes were just blips. He fired the RR27 down the pit lane, the Softs immediately biting harder, offering a glorious, almost addictive level of grip.
He attacked the first sector, pushing the car to its absolute maximum. The front wing angle change was finally paying dividends in the high-speed corners; the car felt incredible, sucked to the road, responsive, alive. He carved through the Turn 9-10 chicane with breathtaking speed, dancing on the edge of the kerbs, his "System" guiding him through the fastest line. He was flying. He could feel the lap coming alive.
He pushed into the final sequence of corners, the tricky Turn 13-14 chicane. He carried too much speed, clipped the inside kerb too aggressively, just a fractional misjudgment, a hair's breadth beyond the limit. The car lurched violently, the impact a sickening crunch that resonated through the chassis. A sharp, cracking sound, distinct even over the scream of the engine.
Immediately, the car's balance evaporated. The front end lifted, the steering went light, the carefully calibrated downforce gone. His heart plummeted. No. No, no, no! He wrestled the wheel, barely keeping the car out of the wall, but the damage was done. The car was wounded.
"Samuel, what happened? We're seeing massive front-end downforce loss!" Finch's voice was sharp, laced with alarm.
"I hit the kerb, Alistair. I think the front wing's gone. She's not turning." The words were ripped from his throat, a raw cry of frustration and despair. He eased off the throttle, the RR27 limping around the final corner, the broken carbon fibre of his front wing flapping precariously, scraping along the ground.
He nursed the car back to the pits, the damage painfully obvious. The left side of the front wing was a mangled mess of broken carbon, a jagged, useless shard. His final push lap, the one that was supposed to redeem him, was ruined. He pulled into the garage, the silence heavier than ever, punctuated only by the low hum of the data logging.
He slammed his fists on the steering wheel, a raw, primal burst of anger and frustration. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip the wheel off its mountings. His body trembled, not from the G-forces, but from the sheer, suffocating weight of his failure.
He unbuckled his harnesses, tearing off his helmet with a savage yank. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his face flushed with exertion and impotent rage. He glared at Finch, then at Marcus, then at the shattered front wing on his car. The price of greatness was proving to be a heavy one.
"Damage assessment now!" Marcus snapped, already on the phone, his face a grim mask. The cost cap loomed large, and a broken front wing was a multi-thousand-pound problem, a painful hit to their already stretched budget.
Samuel stepped out of the car, his movements stiff, his body language screaming defeat. He avoided eye contact with the mechanics, who were already moving to assess the damage. He walked past the monitors displaying the final FP3 times. He saw his name, P19, a dismal end to a disastrous session. His eyes scanned further down the list, and then, a punch to the gut.
P17. Théo Pourchaire (Raveish Racing)
Théo, his new teammate, had beaten him. Not by much, barely a tenth, but it was enough. Enough to sting, enough to twist the knife of disappointment deeper into Samuel's gut. The hot-headed rookie, the self-proclaimed reincarnated champion, had spun, locked up, broken his wing, and been outpaced by his own teammate in the crucial final practice session before qualifying. The track, the unforgiving mistress, had taught him a brutal lesson. The limit had been found, not with a triumphant breakthrough, but with the sickening crunch of shattered carbon fibre.