Alaric
Saturday in Bahrain felt like judgment day. It was qualifying day.
The desert heat pressed down on everything, turning the air thick enough to chew. By the time the session drew near, the track temperature had climbed so high that the asphalt shimmered like a mirage under the brutal sun.
I sat strapped into the cockpit of my Ferrari, the carbon-fiber frame hugging me tightly. My gloves were already damp with sweat, my helmet secured, but my heart hammered so hard I could feel it pulsing in my throat.
This was my first official qualifying in two years. In Formula racing, these few laps decided the entire grid—and for me, they would decide whether I still belonged here at all.
"Listen, Alaric, you've got this," Dorothy whispered, leaning over the side of the cockpit. "I am so glad you are back on track. Stay confident and trust your instincts. Don't overthink the corners."
