— The Present: Monaco, 2048 —
The lights above the grid burned like judgment.
Five glowing red eyes stared down from the gantry, unblinking. Waiting. Measuring. Threatening.
Adrian Archer sat on pole, helmet down, fingers wrapped around the wheel like he was trying to crush it. The cockpit was quiet, except for the pounding of his heart and the buzz of static in his ears.
Rain slicked the street circuit of Monaco in silver. Puddles shimmered under the floodlights. Thunder grumbled in the distance like a tired old god, too bored to intervene.
"Conditions worsening," came the voice of his race engineer. Calm. Cold. British. "Sector three standing water confirmed. Watch the braking zone at the tunnel exit. If it gets any worse, box."
Adrian didn't reply.
The visor fogged faintly with each breath. The world outside was blurred, wet, unreal. But the memory was clear.
So clear.
Not of Monaco. Not of F1.
But of grease-stained gloves, a broken engine, and a ghost of a kart on a track that time had forgotten.
Four red lights.
Three.
His grip tightened.
Two.
The rain struck harder.
One.
"This isn't the hardest race I've ever run…"
"Not compared to what came before."
The lights went out.
The world exploded into motion.
Adrian launched forward like he'd been shot from a cannon, tires spinning, rear twitching under him. Behind him, 19 other drivers poured into the chaos — billion-dollar machines carving through rivers of light and rain.
By the first corner, Adrian held position. Barely.
By the second, it had already begun.
— The Past: Emilia-Romagna, Italy —
Fifteen years earlier.
The kart was a mess.
Its frame was crooked, patched together with parts that belonged to at least three different decades. The rear axle creaked every time it turned left. The chain jumped teeth under hard throttle. It smelled like rust and dying dreams.
But it started.
That was all Adrian needed.
He stood back and watched it idle, coughing smoke into the cold spring air. His boots were soaked. His fingers were blackened with grease. But he was smiling. Just barely.
"Still works," he muttered. "Still counts."
The track was empty. No one came out this early, especially not after the storm last night. Mud streaked across the asphalt. Leaves swirled at the apexes. The timing box was dark.
But for Adrian, it might as well have been Monaco.
He pulled down his visor. It cracked slightly at the hinge but held.
Then he sat. Tight fit. Low grip.
His world shrank to the size of the wheel.
He gave it everything.
The lap was ugly. Sloppy. Rough.
But fast.
He cut every corner like a thief. Braked too late. Accelerated too early. The kart stuttered, twitched, nearly spun — but never broke.
And when he crossed the line, the old digital timer blinked awake. Just for a moment.
59.47.
He looked at it, blinking.
Then again.
59.47.
Faster than the track record. Faster than any of the rich kids from the academy down the hill. Faster than the smug bastard who called him "garbage with an engine" three days ago.
He took off the helmet, letting the wind slap him with cold air and disbelief.
"Holy sh—"
A slow clap echoed from the gate.
Adrian turned.
A man stood there, hands in the pockets of a raincoat, watching him like he'd been there the whole time.
He wasn't from around here.
The way he carried himself. The accent. The logo on his collar.
Nova Apex Racing.
Adrian swallowed hard.
"Nice lines," the man said. "Rough setup. Rear was dancing too much into Turn 6."
Adrian said nothing.
The man tilted his head. "That your kart?"
"I fixed it."
"No team?"
"No money."
"No license?"
"No problem."
The man smiled.
Adrian didn't.
He was used to people showing up, offering things, then leaving when they saw the dirt under his nails.
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a card.
"No promises. No scholarships. But if you want to try out for the academy qualifiers next month… be there. Bring the kart."
He walked away.
Left nothing behind but the card.
And a spark.
Back in the present, the Monaco race was on lap five.
Adrian was still in front.
But the tires were fading fast, and his mirrors were filled with the wrong name.
A name he hadn't heard since F2.
A name that shouldn't be here.
"How the hell is he on my tail?"
He gritted his teeth.
The real race hadn't even started yet.
— The Past: Emilia-Romagna, Italy —
The card sat on Adrian's nightstand for three days before he touched it again.
White. Clean. Sharp edges. No logo. Just the name:
Nova Apex Racing – Satellite Tryouts
May 14, 2033 — 07:00 AM | Milan
And a line at the bottom, scrawled in actual ink:
"If you're serious, don't be late."
He hadn't told his mother. She wouldn't understand. After the accident, after everything with his father, racing was a ghost they didn't speak of.
But Adrian had never been afraid of ghosts.
So he packed the kart into the back of an old utility van, borrowed a week's worth of fuel, and drove across half of Italy in a machine held together by zipties and prayer.
He arrived five minutes early.
And he was the poorest one there by a mile.
The paddock was lined with polished haulers, sponsor tents, and twenty-kart teams dressed like they'd walked out of a commercial shoot.
Adrian pulled up in silence, engine ticking as it cooled. Nobody even looked at him. He liked it that way.
Until one kid did.
Tall, sharp-faced, with a perfect suit and perfect hair. He watched Adrian unload his kart like someone watching a waiter drop a dish.
Then he smiled.
But not in a nice way.
"Nice paint job," the kid said, walking over.
Adrian ignored him.
The kid squatted down beside the kart and tapped the chain with his index finger.
"Outdated sprocket. You'll burn through that by lap three."
"I'll be done by lap two," Adrian replied.
The kid laughed. It was practiced — a social weapon.
"Name's Elias," he said. "Elias Grey."
Adrian didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
They placed Adrian in Heat 3 — with Elias.
The track was unfamiliar, but it didn't matter. It was smooth. Clean. Fast. No potholes. No oil slicks. The kind of surface he could bleed speed from if he found the line quickly enough.
He started in P9. No one expected anything from him.
By Turn 4, he was in P5.
By Lap 3, P3.
By the final lap, he was behind Elias.
And Elias knew it.
The kart ahead began weaving on the straights. Blocking. Playing games.
Adrian adjusted. Waited. Let him think he was holding the lead.
Final sector.
Hairpin.
Adrian braked late — too late — slid under Elias like a whisper, clipped the apex with the front-left tire by a centimeter, and launched out of the corner with just enough bite to hold traction.
The checkered flag fell.
Adrian won.
The paddock went quiet.
Nobody clapped.
But the man from before — the scout — met his eyes from the tower.
And nodded.
After the race, Adrian found a piece of paper stuffed under his kart seat.
It read:
"That move won't work twice. And you just made the wrong enemy."
— E.G.
He didn't tell anyone.
He folded the paper and slipped it into his glove.
— Present: Monaco — Lap 12 —
The rain hadn't stopped.
Neither had Elias.
Adrian's team radio crackled again. "Grey is pushing hard in Sector 2. Gap 0.4. He's on the attack."
"I know," Adrian muttered.
He could see the white helmet in his mirrors. Aggressive. Calculated. Like a shark testing the water.
Every lap, a little closer.
Every turn, a little wider.
The past had finally caught up to him.
And it wanted blood.
— The Past: F4 Entry, 2035 —
Adrian got his first real contract at 16.
It wasn't glamorous. A midfield F4 team running second-hand chassis and praying for sponsorship. But it was real. And it meant he had a seat.
Elias had a seat too — but at the front.
Same league. Different worlds.
They didn't speak much.
But they raced.
And every time Adrian finished ahead, something went wrong after. A paddock rumor. A failed tech check. A suspicious sponsor pullout.
He couldn't prove it.
But he felt it.
And then came the accident.
Final round. Rain race. Adrian leading.
Final lap. High-speed corner.
Sudden lock-up behind him. A kart slamming into his rear wheel. A spin. A crash. A broken rib.
Red flag.
Race voided.
No podium. No points. No review.
Just a quiet withdrawal from the team two days later by Elias Grey's father — who happened to fund half the league.
Adrian never got justice.
But he got smarter.
— Present: Monaco — Lap 14 —
A warning light blinked on his wheel.
Adrian cursed.
"Talk to me," he snapped.
"Telemetry's showing something weird in the rear-left brake caliper. Pressure variance. Possibly sabotage."
Of course.
Of course it would happen here.
Not when he was losing. But when he was winning.
He took a deep breath, eyes flicking to the mirror.
Elias was closer now. Too close.
Adrian flicked the regen dial to 2, dialed down the brake bias by one click, and whispered under his breath.
"Not today."
— The Past: F3 Season, 2037 —
Adrian made headlines for a triple overtake in the wet at Spa.
He also made enemies.
His rise was too fast. Too clean. Teams didn't like clean.
So they started testing him.
False media leaks.
Stolen data accusations.
Late-night sabotage attempts in the garage.
But he survived.
With grit. With help. With people who believed in him.
And with something more.
Anger.
Not loud, not explosive. Just a slow, controlled burn that refused to die.
The kind that fuels champions.
— Present: Monaco — Lap 17 —
Turn 8. Hairpin.
Adrian's brakes slipped — just a little. Enough to make him miss the apex.
Elias saw it.
And lunged.
Wheel to wheel, paint scraping, tires locking.
But Adrian held.
He didn't yield.
He never had.
And he never would.