The steering wheel felt like it weighed fifty kilograms. Every bump felt like a punch to the ribs.

He crossed the line.

P8. 1:29.8.

[BROADCAST: "Wait, look at the screens! The Arcadia rookie, Leo Kaito, has just jumped into the top ten! A 1:29.8! He was on for a pole-setting lap until he went wide in the final sector. Where has this pace come from? One minute he’s locking up and looking lost, the next he’s setting purple sectors!"]

"P8, Leo! P8!" Elias was laughing now. "That’s a massive improvement. You’re only seven-tenths off Rossi now."

Leo slowed down, the wind cooling his gloved hands as he opened his fingers on the straights. He looked at the timing screen on his steering wheel. He wasn’t happy.

’Sector 3 is still the weak point,’ he thought. ’The setup is a compromise. I’m fast in the air, but slow on the ground.’

He looked at the grandstands as he rolled past. He could see the fans pointing at his car. He could imagine the headlines in the digital tabloids tonight.

"Arcadia’s Pay-Driver Finds a Fluke Lap."

"Technician Stuns Paddock Before Fading in Final Sector."

He chuckled darkly inside his helmet. The sound was dry and hollow. He could see the mock headlines in his mind, the way the "experts" would try to explain away his speed. They would call it a "glory run" or say he was running a low-fuel load to impress sponsors.

’Let them think whatever they want to,’ Leo thought. ’Let them believe I’m at my limit. That’ll be better in the long run.’

He glanced at his "Danger Sense." It was calm. The other drivers on track were moving around him like slow-motion obstacles. He saw Alessandro Rossi’s Prema ahead, cooling down after a run. Rossi didn’t move off the racing line to let Leo through. He stayed right in the middle, a silent statement of dominance.

Leo didn’t weave. He didn’t flash his lights. He just tucked in behind the Prema, using "Slipstream Prediction" to study the air coming off Rossi’s rear wing. He was recording data, even now. He was learning how Rossi’s car moved, how it sat on its haunches under acceleration, where its weak points were.

"Rossi is blocking the line," Leo said calmly.

"Ignore him, Leo. We have what we need," Anya said. Her voice was different now. The frustration was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating edge. She had seen the purple sectors. She knew he wasn’t at his best yet.

Leo pulled into the pits. The mechanics were waiting, their faces no longer showing pity, but a growing, nervous energy. They were starting to realize that the car they were working on wasn’t just a midfield runner. It was a weapon.

Leo climbed out of the car. His suit was soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead. He took the cooling pipe from Pete and shoved it into his helmet, the blast of cold air feeling like life itself.

"The final sector," Leo said, looking at Elias’s tablet. "Show me the tire carcass temps." 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Elias swiped through the data. "They’re spiking at Turn 13. You’re over-working the surface of the rubber because the car is pitching too much under braking."

"Soften the rear, stiffen the front," Leo said.

"But you just asked us to do the opposite!" Pete argued.

Leo looked at him. The "SSS" reaction speed meant he didn’t blink as often as other people. His gaze was steady, uncomfortably intense. "I asked for that to test the limit of the understeer. Now I know where it is. Stiffen the front to keep the aero platform stable. Soften the rear to give me traction on the exit of the hairpins. We’ll find the balance in the middle."

Pete looked at Anya. She just nodded. "Do what he says."

Leo walked to the back of the garage and sat on a stack of tire blankets. He closed his eyes, and the Albert Park map rendered in his mind. He was no longer thinking about the heat or the sweat. He was thinking about the 1,000,000 laps.

’I have twenty-seven days,’ he thought. ’Every tenth of a second I find here is another hour of life. Every rival I crush is a safety margin.’

He thought about the "Hidden Monster" trope. He had spent his life being the guy in the background, the one who fixed the machines so others could be famous. The simulation had taken that man and broken him, then rebuilt him into something that didn’t care about fame.

He just cared about the lap.

"Qualifying is going to be different," Leo whispered to the empty air of the garage.

He could feel the adrenaline cooling in his veins, replaced by a dense, heavy focus. He was P8 in Practice. It was a good result for a "technician." It was a result that kept him in the conversation but didn’t put a target on his back yet.

But he knew the truth. He knew that he had lifted for two-tenths in Sector 2. He knew he had taken a wider, safer line through Turn 12.

He was still sandbagging.

"Leo? Media is asking for a quote," a PR girl said, approaching him tentatively.

Leo didn’t open his eyes, enjoying his momentary rest he lazily replied. "Tell them I’m tired and weak. Tell them the bumps are hard to learn and I don’t think I’ll do that any sooner. Tell them I’m just happy to be here and I don’t think I have what it takes to win the championship."

The girl, one-part shy and three-parts dumbfounded at his reply, nodded and hurried away.

Leo chuckled as he opened his eyes. He looked at the Prema garage across the way. Rossi was standing center-stage, surrounded by cameras, smiling his million-dollar smile. He looked like a king.

Leo stood up, his body aching, his mind already calculating the track temperature drop for the evening session.

’Enjoy the cameras for now, Alessandro,’ Leo thought. ’Because in three hours, I’m going to take those lights away.’