Earlier in the garage...

Qualifying had not yet begun, but the circuit was already alive in the way only Formula 1 places could be before release. Nothing was loud without purpose; it was a blend of technical preparation while the pit lane lights were still red.

Seated in Trampos’s base was the Ferrari JYX-81, its nose pointed toward the lane, its bodywork highlighted crisply – hands down one of the coolest-looking machines on the grid.

Around it, final preparations continued.

Front wing flap settings checked again. Brake ducts inspected. Tire pressures logged. And ride height measured one last time.

Among the flurry of activity were the FIA technical delegates and stewards. As always, their job was to enforce the rulebook. But while most garages received a standard, professional sweep, Trampos’s felt a little more crowded today.

At first, there were no raised eyebrows, no second requests, and no delays. But one steward lingered longer than the rest, to the annoyance of the young Trampos mechanics.

His name was Marcel Fournier, a Senior Technical Delegate. He was the sort of man who looked happiest around machinery.

Circling Victor’s chassis with visible interest, he crouched and stood at regular intervals, inspecting the rear suspension, the floor edge, and the sidepod transition. He checked what he needed to check—but there was also something else there.

Admiration, perhaps.

Being the newest car on the grid, the JYX-81 was naturally a subject of fascination. It represented a different school of thought in aerodynamics, with its aggressive sidepod inlets and a rear-wing assembly. These newer ideas often attracted old experts.

The Senior tapped notes into his device before stepping aside.

"Car compliant," he said.

Everything was in perfect acceptance. The car was legal and was ready for the green light.

However, after he’d signed off on the digital manifest, the Senior didn’t head for the exit. Instead, he adjusted his clipboard and walked over to where Mr. Ruben was standing.

"Bold decision today," Fournier said.

Ruben glanced up. "What’s that?"

Fournier gestured with his chin toward the tire racks where Victor’s first sets had been prepped.

"The rubber. I can see the car is slated to go out on the Hard compounds for the start of Q1. On a track like this, that’s quite the surprise. I won’t question it. I’m just pointing out the conventional departure."

Mr. Ruben stared at him until a slow, confident grin spread across his (Ruben’s) face.

"We know what we’re doing," he said.

Fournier almost smiled at that.

"Every team says that."

"Indeed. They do," Ruben replied, unwilling to spill any strategy to a steward.

The Senior exhaled and finally turned away. As he walked out toward the pit lane, he couldn’t help but glance back one last time.

**********

Back to Vic.

The roar of the Ferrari engine drowned out the world, leaving him in a vacuum of his own making. Behind the visor, his face remained composed, his focus so narrowed, the grandstands were streaks of grey, and the only things that truly existed were the glowing digits on his dash and the white lines of the asphalt.

To think he hadn’t even completed his outlap, nor had he crossed Sector 1 yet, and was already moving this fast just showed how ridiculous the circuit was.

The sequence: Turn 1. OK. Turn 2. Stable. Turn 3. Clean.

Then the short run toward Turn 4.

Victor’s eyes were already there before the car arrived. As he approached the left-hander, the glass film became visible, sitting right where his instincts told him to place the car.

Victor kept the inputs of his car clean. By committing measuredly, he tasked the chassis over the uncertain section, searching for its full bite.

"WOOOOOOOHHH!"

For a brief instant, it felt like stepping across thin ice that did not break. But somehow, Victor had placed the car in such a way that the hazard had only affected his front left tire.

The car danced on the edge of the abyss, hissing as the hard rubber scraped against the grit. Then, with a sudden, violent bite of grip, the JYX-81 hooked back up. The numbness vanished, replaced by the kick of traction.

The Ferrari settled.

The exit opened.

Victor punched through.

"WOOOOOOOHHHHH!"

Shock and awe rippled through the circuit.

A delayed wave of noise rolled across the stands once everyone understood what they had just seen.

In one grandstand, a boy wearing a faded Trampos cap grabbed his father’s sleeve and shouted something lost in the crowd. A woman near the railings stood up so suddenly that she dropped her drink. Three university-aged fans who had been laughing moments earlier now stared open-mouthed at the giant screen.

Because nobody expected it to be clean.

The general consensus in the paddock was that Victor would be the sacrificial lamb, and a lesson for the senior drivers to watch and learn from. They expected a spin, a cloud of dust, and a sheepish radio call back to the pits. Instead, the JYX-81 continued its outlap with a terrifying, smooth momentum, as if the laws of physics had simply decided to look the other way for a moment.

Inside rival garages, mechanics glanced at one another. Engineers leaned forward, and a strategist from Jackson Racing actually rewound the live feed on a side monitor.

Had he missed it?

No.

Victor really had crossed it.

And kept going.

"...I—I’m not sure everybody appreciated how significant that was!" the lead commentator burst out.

"...Victor Surmann has just gone through Turn 4 first attempt, first representative lap, on a dirty evolving track—and he’s looked absolutely secure...!"

"...Look at the onboard! Look at the hands! No panic correction, no second bite of steering—he commits, loads the car, and just... holds it...!"

In the replay, everyone could see the Ferrari clipping the curb zone, and skimming a tighter approach than many expected. But even there, geometry alone should not have saved him completely. The line still intersected the dusty sheen enough to unsettle the chassis. Yet it hadn’t.

Another replay zoomed onto the wheels, tracking the Ferrari as it raced solely on Autodromo Hermanos.

The color rings became clear.

"Ohhhhhh, wait a second."

"There it is!"

"He’s on the hards!"

"...That’s not the red stripe of the Softs. That’s white. Victor Surmann is on the Hard compounds! In Q1! At this altitude..!"

"WOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!"

The realization hit the broadcast like a bolt of lightning.

That was the secret. The Hard compounds were tougher and drier. Instead of letting the patch bond to the rubber, the Hards just crushed right through the grime. They stayed smooth and rigid, allowing the car to glide over the filth like it was on ice skates rather than sneakers.

It was the gamble of the century.

Using the least grippy tire to find the most grip?

Vic had played the entire grid for fools!

"Go, go, go, go!"

What had been caution a minute ago now became panic not to lose track position as all garage doors widened. Victor had solved the puzzle; now, everyone wanted to ride his coattails.

Seeing the success of the gamble, a couple of teams, including Haddock Racing, swapped out their Softs for the Hards in a bid to find that stability.

Within minutes, a snarling train of multi-million dollar machinery was thundering toward Turn 4. The fear that had paralyzed the session was replaced by a shameless mimicry of the rookie’s line. One by one, the world’s best drivers tilted their heads and aimed their front wings at the inner curb exactly where Victor had placed his. They mounted the concrete, short-shifted on the exit, and gritted their teeth as they felt that same momentary, sickening slide.

Meanwhile, the track began to heal.

Because of the regular passing of these machines, the shimmering film of dust didn’t stand a chance as the tires acted like vacuums, kicking up the grit, and dispersing it into the air.

By the fifth or sixth car, the patch had faded significantly.

Back to Victor.

With the lap building beneath him, with sectors turning green and then purple on timing screens around the world, Victor still looked like a man driving home alone at night. Calm and controlled.

The JYX-81 flowed from corner to corner, now fully alive on temperature and balance. What had been an out-lap was becoming something else entirely.

**Purple Sector One**

**Yes Victor! Keep this up! Beautiful start, beautiful start!**

**You are three tenths up. Three tenths up. Carry on, mate**

For the first time in his Formula 1 career, something improbable hovered in front of Victor.

Q1 Fastest.

Around the circuit, engineers from other teams noticed the same thing and frowned at their monitors. Victor was well ahead of the pack, the clean air in front of him acting like a vacuum, pulling him faster into the record books. It looked like he might actually finish Q1 as the fastest man on track.

As he banked into the long sweepers of the middle sector, a thought drifted through his mind, unbidden but powerful. He thought of his stepfather’s voice from his childhood: "Be good to people when you can. Life returns strange things."

At the time, Victor had thought it was just parent talk. But this morning, if he hadn’t taken that jog and if he hadn’t stopped to truly thank those workers, he never would have spoken to Rogelio.

FLASHBACK!

"What about Sector 1?" Victor asked, turning back.

Rogelio pointed down the circuit instinctively, as if he could see through walls.

"Turn 4," he said. "That corner catches dust."

Victor listened without interrupting.

"The wind comes across that side in the mornings and pushes everything there. Also, the way the barriers and open spaces sit... it settles more than other places. You clean it, then it comes back again."

Rogelio stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing trade knowledge.

"If qualifying starts soon after a quiet period, first cars can find it ugly."

Victor’s expression did not change, but his focus sharpened.

"Ugly how?"

Rogelio gestured with his hands, mimicking a car losing its front end. He then advised Victor that while most drivers would try to sweep wide to carry speed, the only safe way through was to hug the inside curb like a lifeline.

"And if you have the choice, use the hard tires. They don’t ’squish’ like the soft ones; they’ll cut through the film instead of skating on top of it."

Rogelio also assured Victor that the problem was temporary. Once the cars were running consistently, the sheer force of the engines would blow the track clean, but for a session like Qualifiers—where the track sat empty between the rounds—T4 was a trap.

Victor stood there in the quiet morning light, absorbing the information with a calm, analytical focus.

As he listened, he visualised the racing line and the hazard. He then realized that this man had given him a tactical masterclass.

"Thank you.

I won’t forget this."