7:00 p.m., London Time.
The lights in the IRC Media Hall flickered once, then steadied. Flashes from dozens of cameras lit up the space like lightning in a summer storm. Reporters from across the globe, clad in crisp suits and holding recorders or notepads, shifted in their seats. The air buzzed with anticipation, tension, and a touch of skepticism.
At the center of the elevated stage, the emblem of the International Racing Council loomed large—an elegant combination of a checkered flag and a golden globe. And standing before it, perfectly poised, was the Chairman of the IRC himself: Castalino Piere.
Tall and silver-haired, with a measured calm that only decades in global motorsport politics could instill, Piere stepped up to the microphone, adjusted his collar, and began.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the media, thank you for joining us at such short notice," he said, his tone grave yet controlled. "As you all know, the first Grand Prix of the season has left us not only with breathtaking performances but also an incident that could have ended in tragedy."
Murmurs rippled across the room. Reporters glanced at one another, exchanging notes and nods.
"We are deeply grateful that Sukhman Singh, driver for Vaayu GP, is alive and recovering. The crash that occurred on the 9th lap was not just a shock to our community—it was a wake-up call."
He paused, allowing the gravity of the moment to settle. Then the barrage of questions began.
"Mr. Piere! What about safety standards? How can we be sure the cars are being properly inspected?"
"Is there any suspicion of foul play?"
"Will the track engineers be questioned?"
Piere raised a hand, signaling for quiet. His eyes were sharp now.
"Let me be very clear. The IRC has always prioritized driver safety. Every team is bound by rigorous pre-race inspection protocols, and track conditions are continuously monitored. However—" He leaned forward slightly. "—when an accident like this happens, we must go deeper."
A hush fell. The next words were delivered with deliberate weight.
"An independent investigation panel will be established by tomorrow morning. This panel will have full authority to inspect telemetry data, car parts, team records, and surveillance footage. Until they complete their report, we will not be jumping to conclusions."
The press room buzzed again, but more subdued this time. Piere concluded with a final statement.
"Racing is a sport of speed, precision, and courage. But above all, it is a sport of trust. We owe it to the drivers, to the teams, and to the fans to protect that trust. Thank you."
He stepped down, ignoring the further volley of questions. The flashbulbs continued, but he was already gone, leaving the crowd to chew over his carefully chosen words.
---
Later That Evening – Vaayu GP Press Conference
A few hours later, in a much smaller but equally tense conference room, Raghav Satyanarayan, team principal of Vaayu GP, sat behind a wooden table, his eyes tired but resilient.
The media was eager, perhaps even more now that the IRC had spoken. A regional reporter from India leaned forward. "Sir, any update on Sukhman Singh's condition?"
Raghav nodded. "Yes. I've just returned from the hospital. He's fine. No broken bones, no internal injuries. Just some bruises and fatigue. The doctors have cleared him for training by the weekend. He's expected to race next week."
A round of relieved gasps, even applause, broke out in the room.
"That's a miracle," one journalist muttered.
Another asked, "Can you comment on the cause of the crash?"
Raghav's jaw tightened slightly. "At this point, we believe it was a mechanical failure, possibly related to the braking system. However, like Chairman Piere said, we're waiting for the investigation panel to give us conclusive evidence."
"Do you suspect foul play?"
Raghav hesitated just for a second, then answered. "I believe in facts. And I believe in my team. We'll wait for the facts."
He ended the session soon after, citing the need to return to the team's base and begin diagnostics on the damaged vehicle. The moment he stood, a flurry of camera flashes burst through the room, illuminating his weary expression. Reporters scribbled furiously, some whispering theories to each other, others already drafting headlines. The Vaayu GP press assistant escorted him out, murmuring something about scheduling future updates, but Raghav barely heard it.
As he walked through the narrow hallway beyond the conference room, the sound of clicking shutters and muffled voices grew distant—but the unease did not. It clung to him like a shadow.
His footsteps echoed down the marble corridor. Raghav's mind wasn't on logistics or the car's telemetry reports anymore—it was on possibility. The possibility that someone had interfered with the vehicle, that this wasn't a tragic coincidence or mechanical oversight, but something deliberate.
---
Midnight – in a Hotel Room, Nottingham
The soft hum of the ceiling fan rotated gently above Sukhman's bed, casting moving shadows across the ceiling. The room was dim, with only a night lamp on. The TV in the corner was muted, playing a news recap of the crash—again.
Sukhman stirred in his sleep, twitching slightly at the memory of the hairpin curve. His breathing was uneven.
A gentle knock on the door stirred him. Three taps. Then silence.
Sukhman opened his eyes groggily. "Huh...? Who's there?"
He rose and padded to the door in a loose T-shirt and joggers, hair messy. When he opened it, he found Siddharth—wearing a hoodie, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Siddharth?" Sukhman blinked. "It's midnight."
"I had to talk to you. It's important."
Sukhman stepped aside without a word. They sat down on the bed, the tension in the air heavy.
Then Siddharth dropped the bomb.
"The car was sabotaged."
Sukhman stared. "What?"
Siddharth nodded, voice low. "I've been going over the post-race inspection data from the team, the fragments from the crash, and talking to a few engineers. Something doesn't add up."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small USB stick.
"I compared the brake wiring from your car to the standard wiring used in all of our Vaayu GP cars. Yours wasn't just worn out—it was replaced. Someone swapped the brake wires with older, fragile ones."
Sukhman felt a chill run down his spine.
"So all those laps… when I kept saying the brakes felt off…"
"That's why," Siddharth said grimly. "You were riding a time bomb. And it went off at the worst possible place—the hairpin curve."
Sukhman's fists clenched. His voice trembled with rage. "So it wasn't an accident."
Siddharth leaned forward. "No. Someone did this intentionally. But we can find out who."
Sukhman looked at him. "How?"
"There's CCTV footage of the garage zone at Nottingham—every car's bay area is monitored, including Vaayu GP's. The IRC will take time to get to it. But I know someone who works in the facility's private security. He can get us access to the raw footage before it gets tampered with."
Sukhman's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"
Siddharth hesitated. Then: "He wants money. Nothing crazy, just a small bribe. But I'm broke after repairs to my own bike last month. I was hoping… maybe… you could pitch in from your salary advance?"
Sukhman didn't hesitate. "Done. I'm in."
Siddharth blinked. "Really?"
Sukhman stood up. "You helped me through my training. You taught me how to spot a faulty tire by sound alone. If you say the car was sabotaged, I believe you. And if we can find out who did this… we have to."
Siddharth stood too. For a second, the two of them just looked at each other—equal parts anger and determination in their expressions.
"Then pack something warm," Siddharth said. "We will leave in 15 minutes."