The Australian blistering sun hung low and heavy in the late Friday afternoon sky, painting the Albert Park paddock in long, molten shadows. The air still carried the bite of earlier heat, but now it was mixed with the sharper scents of fresh fuel, hot brakes, and overwhelming crowd anticipation.

Engines growled in nearby garages as teams made their final preparations for the Qualifying section. The paddock buzzed like a kicked hive — mechanics shouted clipped instructions, journalists darted between hospitality units with microphones ready, and the distant roar of a lone car doing installation laps echoed off the grandstands.

Leo Kaito stood at the back of the Arcadia garage, arms crossed, watching the number 24 car on its stands.

The mechanics swarmed it with practiced urgency, adjusting the front wing angle by a fraction of a degree, checking tyre pressures, and feeding fresh data into the laptops. The car looked alive under the harsh overhead lights — matte black and deep purplish-gold livery gleaming, the Arcadia logo sharp on its nose.

It was no longer just a machine to him. It was an extension of the simulation. A weapon honed across a thousand digital deaths.

"Leo." Anya’s voice cut through the controlled chaos. She approached with her tablet in hand, earpiece dangling, her expression a mix of professional focus and barely concealed nerves. "We’ve gone with the medium downforce package for the Qualifying Round, just like we discussed. The track evolution is playing in our favour currently — rubbering in nicely after FP2. Temperatures are dropping two degrees every twenty minutes. We want you to be aggressive on the first push lap, then manage the tyres for the second if we make it through."

Leo nodded once, his face impassive.

Inside, the numbers flowed through his mind like a clear code. ’The track temperature now is 41°C. And it’s expected drop to 37°C by end of Q1. Grip window is shifting forward by 0.8 seconds per lap.’ He had already run the scenarios in his head during the short break after FP2. The simulation hadn’t ended. It had simply scaled up to a whole-nother level.

"Understood," he said, voice steady. "Brake bias starting at 52.3. I’ll adjust on the fly if the rears overheat in Sector 3."

Anya studied him for a beat longer than necessary. "I’m very confident that you can do this, Leo. And seeing you so calm makes that even better. Most rookies I’ve ever seen or heard of were vibrating on their first Race Weekend." She glanced toward the pit lane where other teams were already rolling cars out. "Prema are running their full attack setup early. Rossi looked untouchable in FP2. So keep your head up, don’t chase ghosts."

Leo allowed the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

’Ghosts?’ If only she knew how many top-tier ’ghosts’ he had already beaten.

---

A heavy set of footsteps approached from the other side of the garage.

Marcus Berg, still in his race suit with the top half peeled down and tied at the waist, wiped sweat from his brow. The Swede’s broad shoulders filled the space, his usual easy-going demeanour replaced by the sharp edge of a veteran protecting his turf.

"First Qualifying in F2, kid," Berg said, voice carrying just enough volume to draw a couple of mechanics’ glances. "Don’t overdrive it. The car’s got bite today, but Albert Park punishes greed. I went P9 in FP2, which I believe is a solid outcome. We can both make Q2 if we play it smart. No heroics." 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

Leo met his teammate’s eyes.

Berg’s words were coated in the kind of faux camaraderie that barely hid the territorial tension underneath. The Swede had expected to be the clear number one at Arcadia for the F2 Championship Season. Instead, a technician-turned-rookie had outpaced him in the long runs during FP1 and sat two tenths clear on single-lap pace in the morning session. Berg hadn’t forgotten. He wasn’t the type to forget.

"I’m not here to play it smart, Marcus," Leo replied quietly. "I’m here to qualify where the car belongs."

Berg snorted. A short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. "Big words for someone who dropped to P12 in FP2. The paddock is already writing your story: one-hit wonder. Don’t give them more ammunition."

Leo didn’t answer.

He simply turned back to the car as a mechanic handed him his gloves. Berg lingered for a second, then shrugged and walked off toward his own side of the garage, muttering something about "fucking rookies" under his breath.

Anya shot Leo a warning look. "Ignore him. Focus on your own screens. We’ve got telemetry overlays ready — your purple sectors from FP1 are still the benchmark. The data says you can match Rossi in Sector 1 if you nail the throttle trace out of Turn 3."

Leo pulled on the gloves, flexing his fingers. The material was tight. Familiar in a way that was different from the haptic gloves of the pod — looser, less precise, the feedback muted by layers of real-world material between his skin and the wheel. In the Simex pod, every input had been direct.

Here, the real world added layers — vibration through the chassis, the raw smell of rubber, the way G-forces pulled at his organs rather than simulated them.

He welcomed it. Every discomfort was another variable to be processed.

---

He walked to the pit wall while Anya finished her briefing with the engineers and looked out at Albert Park.

The circuit wound around the lake, its smooth tarmac catching the last of the afternoon sun in long gold strips. Temporary grandstands rose on both sides of the main straight, already filling with colour — Australian flags, team merchandise, the specific noise of a crowd that had come to see something real and fast and dangerous.

It looked nothing like Monaco. Nothing like Suzuka.

It looked smaller, somehow. The barriers closer to the track than the images on screen had ever made them seem. The run-off areas narrower.