My Formula 1 System

"...for the first time since the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, Ansel Hahn of Trampos Racing leads the race for seven laps as they weave through the night!"

"...we can see Albert Derstappen slowly gaining ground. In a matter of time, I believe Hahn will have to put his defensive skills to the test, and we haven't seen much of that all season!"

"...Sean Aaronson in P5, Max Addams in P6!"

"WOOOOOHH!"

**Aaronson just overtook Max Addams! I can't believe it myself!**

Luca bit his lip harshly, glancing at his side mirrors to catch a glimpse of Miles' car gliding into the dark tunnel before emerging into the night breeze seconds later. He wondered what was wrong with Max Addams in this race. By all expectations, Max should have been the one behind him at this moment, not Miles.

The two had locked horns back on Lap 11, executing one of the best wheel-to-wheel battles of the race. To everyone's surprise, Miles had come out on top, besting Max Addams in a remarkable display of skill. Yet, only three laps later, the duel between Max and Aaronson had completely outshone Max's earlier fight with Miles. It was more dramatic, more cinematic, and dangerously close—both cars barely avoiding a race-ending collision. Once again, Max Addams was pushed further down the leaderboard.

Ansel thundered past the grid, the pitlane, and the garages, kicking off Lap 15.

[15th Lap]

Luca didn't even want to think about how Derstappen had overtaken him so effortlessly—not long after Ansel's brilliant double overtake. But what truly unsettled him was a realization that had been creeping up on him for a while now.

Every time Ansel did something remarkable—whether in strategy, overtakes, or sheer racecraft—Luca found himself zoning out. It wasn't a conscious decision; it just happened. A pattern he couldn't ignore, yet one he had no explanation for. Why did he respond this way? Why did his focus waver whenever Ansel left his mark on any race?

[DATA DISPLAYED IN REAL TIME:

-Car Speed: 300 km/h

-Heart Rate: 110 bpm

-Operational Status: 70% (Good)

-Breathing: Slightly Elevated

-Distance covered: 90,000m

-Time: 26 min.]

[Analyzing 4th Position's distance from host and Dallara (F2 04)...] Find exclusive stories on empire

[4th Position is 2 sec away, host.]

[System's prediction: that value might remain constant]

[Analyzing Dallara (F2 04) and host's distance from 2nd Position]

[You are 2 seconds away, host.]n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

[Speed Boosted!]

[Analyzing Dallara (F2 04) and host's distance from 2nd Position]

[You are 1 seconds away, host.]

[Analyzing 4th Position's distance from host and Dallara (F2 04)...]

[4th Position is 3 sec away, host.]

[System's prediction: that value might remain constant]

[Slipstream Mastery +1]

[SYNC BAR: [][][][] 25%]

[Endurance +1]

Derstappen's Dallara was now within touching distance, and Luca believed he had a chance to make a move before Miles disrupted the rhythm of their tightly packed chase, where all cars sped forward at nearly the same pace.

[400m Straightaway Ahead]

Street circuits rarely feature straightaways, but when they do, these sections are notably shorter than those on full courses. The limited length of these straightaways always created intense urgency among drivers. With such little time to exploit, every racer becomes eager to capitalize, knowing that a well-timed maneuver here could mean the difference between gaining or losing a crucial position.

Luca's eyes flickered to the DRS sign beside the track as they opened up into a zoom under the Arabian bridge. The sound of a chopping helicopter loomed above, louder than before.

Luca was in the perfect position for DRS—so was Miles, who had spotted the signboard too. Both drivers activated DRS on the straight, their rear wings flattening to gain every possible ounce of speed.

[DRS Engaged]

Derstappen, however, wasn't in DRS range of Ansel, who was nearing the end of the straightaway. Taking full advantage, Luca and Miles, both with DRS engaged, slotted in on either side of Derstappen, forming a tightly packed three-wide drag race down the stretch.

Luca did his best to work with Side-by-Side King, attempting to stay in control of the situation. But it was called Side-by-Side King for a reason—not Side-by-Side-by-Side King. Luca had no control over Miles, and the influence of his skill could only affect Derstappen as their engines screamed in unison, darting down the straight.

Unfortunately, Luca was on the left, and the next turn—back into the city—was a right-hander, naturally favoring Miles. Luca could have gone for a daring drift-in maneuver, but with three cars running so close together, his trajectory would surely intersect with Derstappen's.

Powerless, Luca watched as Miles claimed P2.

However, Luca still managed to squeeze ahead of Derstappen, relegating him to P4 instead.

"...Miles Bellingham in P2, Albert Derstappen in P4...!"

"WOOOOOHH!" A thunderous roar erupted from the grandstands, echoing through the night sky and rippling across the waters beneath the bridge.

**Derst is not too far behind. He's going to try again**

[4th Position closing in]

[5th Position closing in]

"Now who's that?"

**Aaronson. He's coming in fast from the straight. So is Addams. You guys are gonna be clustered by the next lap. Stay focused**

"...the battle for the top three isn't over as Derstappen makes an attempt before the approaching chicane. Both cars are alongside each other now, but they might have to worry about Aaronson! Aaronson is approaching FAST!"

**Ease off**

"Alright. Copy."

[4th Position]

"...Luca Rennick drops to P4, he's in Aaronson's jaws now!"

Derstappen's car fishtailed violently in front of Luca. He clearly hadn't expected Luca to back out of the battle so suddenly, and his momentum carried him dangerously close to the street walls, nearly resulting in disaster.

Aaronson, who was now within striking distance, darted to the right side of the track, snatching P3.

Luca quickly regained speed and tailed him, while Derstappen recollected his chassis. The three cars tilted their wheels in perfect sync as they entered Street Turn 10, which led directly into a tunnel.

Max Addams, having just cleared the bridge straight and the next turn, spotted their red rear lights vanishing into the fourth sector's tunnel chicanes.

The moment they reached the tunnel's midpoint, the interior lights flickered sporadically.

For five seconds, the TV cameras captured nothing.

Nothing but darkness.

Inside, the deafening roar of the engines was amplified by the enclosed space.

Derstappen panicked—he couldn't see a thing and feared slamming into his rivals.

Aaronson, on the other hand, remained fearless. He couldn't see either, but he was convinced he would emerge victorious.

Luca, however, tapped into a small fraction of his Night Mastery skill.

His vision began to adjust to the dim surroundings—faint shadows, fleeting reflections on the tunnel walls, distorted yet readable. He had a good sense of clarity in the darkness when compared to his rivals.

It wasn't perfect. But it was just enough.

Luca gulped. "What a skill," he whispered, gripping the wheel tightly.

His eyes caught Aaronson's headlights reflecting against the tunnel wall.

That told him Aaronson was ahead.

And when the tunnel lights flickered back on for the final second, Luca made his move.

Aaronson realized it too late.

The tunnel's exit flooded the track with artificial light, and Luca blasted out into the open air with fierce determination.

"...Luca Rennick claims P3 in the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix!"

"WOOOOHH!"

[Night Mastery +1]

[SYNC BAR: [][][][] 37.5%]

Aaronson and Derstappen began the clash for P4 behind him, giving Luca precious time to pick up the pace through the final turns and onto the home straight, launching into Lap 16.

**You're clear, Luca. That was masterful. Keep pushing.**

[Analyzing Dallara (F2 04) and host's distance from 2nd Position]

[You are 2 seconds away, host.]

Luca couldn't really see who was in P2, but he could see the large, holographic number 2 hovering over the skyline like a ghostly marker. He asked Mr. Moritz and he said it was Miles. As aggressive as Miles was, Ansel might be in big trouble.

**He's right on Han's gearbox, pressuring him through every sector—especially in the braking zones. Ansel's trying to defend, but you know how relentless Bellingham can get. He's outpaced Han multiple times this season**

Though Luca was supposed to lead Trampos, keeping Ansel in P1 took precedence now. He was determined to make sure it happened.

Luca pushed harder, surging forward alone down the next straight. His Dallara responded with razor-sharp precision as he approached the middle section's technical turns, which snaked through the city like a coiled serpent.

Maybe—just maybe—he could get close enough to disrupt Miles' assault on Ansel and help his teammate hold the lead.

But before he could even hope, Moritz delivered an update.

**Bellingham has him by the throat, Luca. The crowd's reaction says it all**

The roar of the grandstands confirmed it.

"What's their delta?"

**Less than half a second** Moritz replied. **Bellingham is going to try something soon. Probably into the next DRS zone. If Ansel doesn't keep it clean, he'll lose it. Focus on staying consistent, Luca. Their fight might open a window for you.**

"Ah, come on, man, you can hold 'em," Luca whispered, leaning into the turn as his car hugged the apex. Emerging from the curve, he finally got a clear view of the Dallaras ahead, their glowing brake lights piercing the desert night.

There, he saw Ansel's car aggressively weaving on the straight, blocking every angle Miles tried to exploit.

Luca suddenly wished he hadn't gotten such a clear view as he witnessed Miles dive aggressively into the inside line at the next corner, taking the gap sharply and quickly. Whereas, Ansel's car seemed slow in response. He tried to correct, but the huge number 2 switched to his chassis and Miles upheld number one, surging ahead.

"...Miles Bellingham leads the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix!"

"....Miles Bellingham in P1!"

"... WOOOOOHH!"

"...Ansel Hahn in P2!"

"... WOOOOOHH!"

**I freaking had him** Ansel muttered over the radio, repeating, **I just freaking had him**

**More than 30 Laps to go. Relax, stay focused** Mr. Moritz assured, though he was bummed that Ansel couldn't defeat Miles Bellingham for like the fourth time now they'd gone head on.

[Analyzing Dallara (F2 04) and host's distance from 2nd Position]

[You are 2 seconds away, host.]

Luca's heart tightened, not from Ansel's P1 loss, but the fact that Ansel was before him now—2 seconds away. He cleared his throat to the radio, trying to remind them of his presence.

Mr. Moritz cleared his throat too. There was an elephant in the room, and the tension was growing with each passing second as they zoomed into the next tunnel.

Luca knew what was coming. Mr. Moritz knew. And Ansel was starting to figure it out too. The eerie silence seemed to press down on all of them, broken only by the hum of engines reverberating off the tunnel walls. Ansel's side mirror caught the gleam of red and black—the unmistakable colors of Luca's Dallara creeping closer.

According to their new strategy, in situations like this, where Player A was directly behind Player B. It was required of Player B to deliberately relinquish his position to Player A no matter the circumstances. And right at this moment, Luca was right behind Ansel.

Player A was behind Player B. The hallmark of Tiered Pursuit strategy was supposed to be executed right now, and Mr. Grant clenched his jaw as his drivers stalled.

**Han?** Mr. Moritz's cautious voice slowly broke through the static. **You're supposed to give up P2 for Luca**

Ansel cursed under his breath. Damn it.

Luca cursed under his breath. Damn it.

They both hated this.

But there was no way out.

The Team Principals—Mr. Grant and Ms. Vallotton—were watching.

Disobeying wasn't an option.

After a long, tense silence, Ansel's voice finally came through. Low. Unenthusiastic. "OK."

Slowly, Ansel began to adjust his chassis, making the necessary movements to let Luca through. It wasn't dramatic, but every small shift in his Dallara felt deliberate, measured, and heavy with reluctance.

Luca spotted the changes immediately. His grip on the wheel tightened, his heart pounding, a lump forming in his throat.

This wasn't how he wanted it.

Not like this.

He steadied himself, easing into the gap Ansel created just like they had practiced in training. As they approached the next corner, Luca crossed ahead, the two cars gliding past each other with a precision born of their shared understanding.

**P2 is yours, Luca** Ansel muttered over the radio.

[2nd Position]

"Thanks, man," Luca replied quietly, though the words felt hollow.

"WOOOOOHH!". "WOOOOOHH!" "WOOOOOHH!"

**Good one, boys**

"…AND WHAT JUST HAPPENED IN THIS F2 SAUDI ARABIAN GRAND PRIX?! The crowd can't believe it! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT, JON!"

"...ANSEL HAHN HAS JUST RELINQUISHED P2 TO HIS TEAMMATE, LUCA RENNICK, IN WHAT APPEARS TO BE A STRICT ENFORCEMENT OF TEAM ORDERS! ABSOLUTELY SHOCKING!"

"WOOOOOHH!" "WOOOOOHH!"

Luca's heart was still hammering.

Why were they cheering so loudly?

Did they support what had just happened?

Or did they hate it?

"...Shocking indeed, Steve. You can see the disbelief rippling through the stands, and I don't think Ansel himself is too happy about it! Look at his body language in the cockpit—he's clearly frustrated!"

"...and who can blame him?! Hahn was holding off Miles Bellingham with masterful defensive driving earlier! Losing P1 to Bellingham was one thing—but NOW to give up P2 under team orders? That's GOT to sting!"

"…WHEN DID TRAMPOS HAVE SUCH TEAM ORDERS?!"

Mr. Grant and Ms. Vallotton nodded softly as Luca surged ahead of Ansel, who regained momentum after feathering his throttle. Both drivers had executed it well, and now, Luca—Player A—was now deemed to be a better driver in prime position to chase Miles down. But at what cost to team morale? Would this keep happening all over again?

Even Mr. Lugo, Bueseno Velocità Jnr Team Principal was astonished at what just happened. He was out on the pitlane, watching the race upclose for himself as the cars zipped by, and witnessing Trampos Racing execute something like that was strangely funny while also disturbing.

He shook his head and returned to his paddock, the crowd roaring in disbelief.