Sukhman lay on his bed, eyes open, staring at the faint pattern of the ceiling. The fan above spun in lazy circles, casting slow, dancing shadows around the room. The events from earlier still clung to his mind, refusing to let go.
Charlotte's face. Her rage. Her voice.
"You don't belong here."
Those words echoed over and over in his head. But beneath the surface of her hostility, he had seen something else. Something raw. Something broken.
She had snapped. No doubt about it. Dragging him into an alley and attacking him was inexcusable. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized it hadn't been about just a racing move. It had been about pride. Frustration. Years of proving herself in a world that probably hadn't made it easy.
Sukhman rolled onto his side, the moonlight casting a silver arc across the room. He had never thought about what it meant to fight for recognition before getting into the car. For him, it had been about speed, reaction time, instinct.
But for someone like Charlotte—a woman in a sport still dominated by men—every mistake was magnified. Every slip-up interpreted as proof that she didn't belong. And then he came along, the rookie, and passed her like she was standing still. Her place, her hard-fought position, was at risk.
He sighed.
None of that made what she did right. But it made it... understandable. At least a little.
He stared at the glowing green digits on the clock: 12:44 AM.
"Tomorrow's the big day," he muttered to himself. He pulled the blanket over his shoulder and turned away from the light, finally letting his eyes close.
---
The morning sun rose to the sound of engines and excitement.
Grand Prix Sunday.
The entire paddock was alive. Crew members bustled about, tuning engines, checking tire pressures, coordinating final strategies. The media swarmed like bees in a garden, cameras and microphones capturing every inch of the energy building like a storm.
The official broadcast had already begun.
"Welcome, racing fans, to what promises to be an unforgettable Grand Prix Sunday!" Whitney announced from the commentary box, her voice bright with anticipation. "The grid is set, the teams are ready, and the stage is perfect for drama."
Jack's voice followed. "And at the heart of that drama? A young rookie by the name of Sukhman Singh, driving for Vaayu GP. He grabbed the final qualifying spot with a stunning Sector 9 overtake yesterday—but the question now is: can he deliver again today? Or was that a one-lap wonder?"
The camera cut to Sukhman, walking toward the pre-race lounge in his racing suit, helmet tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable. Calm on the outside. But inside?
Nervous.
Even in the lounge, surrounded by familiar faces and teammates, a quiet tension weighed on his shoulders. He tried to sip from his water bottle, but his hand trembled slightly.
Vaayu GP's lead engineer, Siddharth, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You earned your place on this grid. Just drive like you did yesterday. Stay clean, stay smart. Let the others make mistakes."
Sukhman nodded. "Thanks."
He moved to the window, watching the grandstands fill. Flags waved, cheers erupted from the crowd. The smell of gasoline, tire rubber, and adrenaline filled the air. And the hum of engines, distant but rising, grew louder by the minute.
The team's PR assistant approached him with a tablet. "Media buzz is high. You're trending. Want to see?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
Headlines flashed across the screen:
"Singh the Surprise: Rookie's Sector 3 Heroics Spark Hope for Vaayu GP"
"Sukhman vs. Charlotte: Tension Heats After Last-Minute Overtake Drama"
"From Underdog to Dark Horse? Rookie Sukhman Singh Draws Eyes in Grand Prix Debut"
Social media was ablaze.
Clips from the qualifying laps had gone viral. A slow-motion breakdown of Sukhman's daring pass on Charlotte at Turn 9 played side-by-side with legendary overtakes from names like Callum Graves, Omar Irani, and even an old clip of Ayanda Nkosi overtaking two racers in a single corner during her third African Championship win.
Hashtags like #SinghSurge, #VaayuRising, and #Turn9Masterclass trended across multiple platforms. Fans and pundits debated furiously in comment sections, forums, and livestream chats.
"That move was clean and gutsy. This kid's got ice in his veins."
"One race doesn't make a legend. Let's see him do it when it counts."
"He passed Charlotte Reid like it was a karting session!"
Some posted side-by-side telemetry overlays, comparing Sukhman's throttle and brake timing with top-tier drivers. Others made memes of Charlotte's reaction, editing in explosions and dramatic zoom-ins. But there was also a growing respect building beneath the noise.
Then came the racer voices.
Luciana Fernandez, in her characteristic calm poise, was caught on camera during a press moment before race day. She adjusted her gloves, half-smiling.
"He doesn't drive like a rookie," she said. "His cornering instinct was sharp. Most drivers flinch when blocked—he adapted. That tells me he's thinking five turns ahead. That's rare."
Ryan Brooks, known for his blunt, no-nonsense attitude, was stopped outside the Sebastopol paddock by a reporter who asked if he was surprised by Sukhman's qualification.
He raised an eyebrow, smirked slightly, and said, "Surprised? Yeah, I'll admit it. Thought he was just another name filling out the grid. But that pass? That took nerve. If he drives like that again, we've got another wildcard in the mix."
The fanbase took those words and ran with them.
"Even Brooks is giving props? This kid might be real."
"Luciana's never been wrong about a driver's talent. That's huge."
It wasn't just hype anymore—it was validation. A wave of cautious optimism started to grow.
Would Sukhman Singh back it up on race day?
Everyone was waiting to find out.
Sukhman set the tablet down.
He was grateful. But it also meant expectations. And pressure.
He took a deep breath, then turned to his locker and began suiting up.
As he slipped on his gloves, a quiet voice crept in the back of his mind. "You don't belong here."
He clenched his fists.
Prove them wrong.
Outside, the starting grid awaited.
The moment is near.
And everything will be decided by the roar of engines and the grip of tires on tarmac.
Tomorrow has arrived.