The sun had long dipped behind the olive trees surrounding the Tuscan circuit, bathing the hills in a soft golden afterglow before surrendering to twilight. Evening descended with a quietness that contrasted starkly with the roaring engines of the day. The paddock was still alive, but calmer now. Mechanics fine-tuned machines under flickering floodlights, engineers compared data with low, concentrated voices, and drivers retreated into their respective sanctuaries.
Vaayu GP's garage glowed dimly under a pair of hanging bulbs. The team had finally found something to smile about. Their rookie, Sukhman Singh, had qualified seventh—right between legends and veterans, right where the world would finally take notice.
Sukhman, however, sat alone outside the team tent, elbows resting on his knees, gaze lost in the distance where the circuit curved into darkness. A half-empty bottle of water dangled from his hand, forgotten.
His chest still buzzed from adrenaline. Every hairpin he took, every straight stretch he pushed through, replayed in his head like an endless loop. He could still hear the thrum of the engine in his ears, could feel the jolt of the last corner where he clinched that final time. But alongside the thrill came an edge of disbelief, and behind it, doubt.
The flap of the tent rustled, and out stepped Arne Schultz — head coach, former racing prodigy, and the man who'd once said Sukhman had "potential buried beneath layers of nervous ambition."
He held a pair of mugs in his hand, steam curling out of them into the cooling night.
"Chamomile," Arne said simply, offering one to Sukhman.
Sukhman took it, nodding a silent thanks.
Arne sat beside him on the bench. No words for a while. Just the sound of motors winding down in distant garages and the occasional call of a nightbird from the woods.
"You surprised me today," Arne finally said.
Sukhman gave a short, tired laugh. "I surprised myself."
"That's good. Sometimes the best victories are the ones we don't expect."
Sukhman sipped the tea. It was warm and calming, grounding him.
"You know," Arne continued, "when I qualified third at Monaco back in '02, I didn't sleep the entire night. Thought it was luck. Thought maybe the other guys had bad runs. Spent hours convincing myself I didn't belong there."
Sukhman glanced at him, surprised. "You? You were the golden boy."
Arne chuckled. "The golden boy was terrified. I kept waiting for someone to walk up and tell me there'd been a mistake."
Sukhman stared into his mug. "So it's normal?"
"To doubt? Absolutely. Especially when you're climbing faster than expected. That's the thing no one talks about. Success is loud, but fear is quieter—and far more convincing."
Another long pause. The lights from the main track shimmered faintly through the trees.
"You looked calm out there," Arne said. "Calculated. That second lap in Sector 2? Beautiful. You didn't just drive—you read the track."
"I didn't think I had it in me," Sukhman muttered. "After what Callum said... after how shaky I was before."
"Callum's a legend. But legends aren't teachers—they're gatekeepers. They make you prove you belong. And today, you knocked."
Arne leaned forward, elbows on his knees, mimicking Sukhman's posture.
"But tomorrow," he said, "that gate opens. And they won't be guarding it anymore. They'll be racing you."
Sukhman felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"And let me be clear," Arne added. "They won't be kind. Not because they hate you. But because that's how this sport works. Callum? Ayanda? Finn? They don't care that you're new. They care that you're a threat."
He turned to face Sukhman fully now.
"So tell me, kid—do you believe today was a fluke? Or do you believe you belong?"
The question hung there, heavy and raw. Sukhman didn't answer right away. His heart beat harder, the way it did when he approached a dangerous corner at full throttle.
"I... I want to believe I belong," he finally said.
"Wanting is a good start," Arne nodded. "But belief is a choice. And tomorrow, every time you hit that throttle, every time you defend a position, you have to choose to believe it."
He placed a hand on Sukhman's shoulder.
"You earned this. Not because of luck. Not because someone else failed. But because you showed up and fought for every inch. That's what racers do."
The old coach stood, stretching slightly.
"Get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow isn't about shocking the world. It's about proving to yourself that Nottingham wasn't a one-off. You've already made them look once. Make them watch again."
Sukhman looked up at him, something settling behind his eyes—a steadier resolve, a silent fire.
"Thanks, Coach."
Arne smiled faintly. "Let them see the storm, Sukhman. Let them feel it."
As Arne walked back toward the team area, Sukhman remained seated, his tea now cool, the stars blinking above him. He thought about Callum. About Charlotte. About Sid and his encouragement. About every corner of the circuit that tomorrow would test him.
But most of all, he thought about that gate—and the sound of it creaking open.
And this time, he wouldn't knock.
He would charge through.