The morning sun at Nottingham Circuit painted the paddocks gold as interviews flooded the media tent. Broadcasters from multiple countries buzzed around, eager to speak with the ten qualifiers. Among them, one name sparked a ripple of surprise and chatter: Sukhman Singh.
"He kept his head under pressure," said Luciana Fernandez in her post-qualifying interview. "That pass on Charlotte? Clean. I respect that. Not many rookies have that kind of nerve."
Ryan Brooks, typically short with words, cracked a rare grin. "Didn't expect him to make it, not gonna lie. But he earned it. Smart driving."
Even the commentators who'd once been skeptical were warming up.
"He might be green," Whitney remarked on the post-race panel, "but he's got the instincts. Give him time."
Social media lit up in tandem. A clip of Sukhman's overtake on Charlotte at Turn 9 had already crossed half a million views. Racing forums buzzed with words like "tactical," "composed," and "cool under pressure." Hashtags like #SinghSurge and #VaayuVibes trended in several regions.
Back at the Vaayu GP garage, the mood was upbeat. Sukhman leaned against the wall, sipping a protein shake as mechanics moved around, prepping for the next day.
Yudhvir approached, dropping a towel on his shoulder. "You're officially on the radar now."
"Feels weird," Sukhman admitted. "I mean, I'm glad, but... it's a lot."
Yudhvir chuckled. "That's why I say we take a breather. There's a game station ten minutes from here. Old-school arcade stuff. You in?"
Sukhman grinned. "You had me at 'game station.'"
---
The place was dimly lit, pulsing with neon, electronic music, and the rhythmic bleep of arcade machines. Kids and teens crowded around racing sims, shooters, and claw machines. Yudhvir grabbed tokens from the counter and tossed half to Sukhman.
"Let's see if your reaction time works off the track."
They started with air hockey. Sukhman narrowly lost, then beat Yudhvir in a zombie shooter. They were in the middle of a kart racing sim when someone else dropped into the adjacent machine.
"Mind if I join?"
It was Diego Montoya.
Sukhman hesitated for a split second before nodding. "Sure."
They raced, trash-talked lightly, and even laughed when Diego's kart flew off a virtual cliff. After a few games, the tension faded. They moved to a basketball shooting game and then to a rhythm-based dance machine.
Diego wiped sweat from his brow after missing a beat. "Okay, I admit it. You're not just lucky on track. You're good."
"Same to you," Sukhman replied. "That defensive move on Lap 8? Slick."
They grabbed sodas and sat by the snack counter, chatting about racing in Argentina, the grind of sponsorships, and family expectations.
Diego sipped his drink. "You surprised a lot of us today. Charlotte especially. She doesn't take well to losing."
Sukhman offered a shrug. "I didn't mean to piss her off. I am just here to race."
---
Later, outside the station, the air had turned cooler, the buzzing city mellowing under the weight of twilight. The streetlamps cast long shadows on the sidewalk, and a soft breeze rustled the trees lining the path.
Yudhvir checked his watch, his brow briefly furrowed.
"Hey, I've got to stop by the team office to check something," he said. "You go ahead. Shouldn't take long."
Sukhman nodded, tossing the last of his soda into a trash bin. "Cool. Catch you later."
He started off alone, his steps casual, hands in his pockets. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional hum of passing cars. To shave a few minutes off his walk, he turned into a side alley—a shortcut he'd used before, bordered by an old brick building and the fenced perimeter of a parking lot.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps behind him. Fast. Sharp.
He turned.
Charlotte Reid emerged from the shadows, her boots scraping against the pavement.
"Hey!" she called out, her voice like a whip crack in the silence.
Sukhman barely had time to register her before she grabbed his arm and yanked him forcefully into a narrow gap between two buildings, cloaked in shadow.
"What the hell?" he barked, stumbling back and wrenching free.
Charlotte stepped closer, her face twisted with something between fury and pain. Her breathing was uneven, and her fists were clenched at her sides. "You don't belong here."
Sukhman's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"You heard me," she spat. "You don't belong in this league. You're just some one-season wonder with a lucky break and a team desperate for points."
He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Look, I don't want to do this. Just let me go."
But Charlotte wasn't done. "I've been racing since I was thirteen. I've poured my life into this sport. Then some rookie with zero credentials slides in and takes my spot?"
Sukhman stood his ground, expression firm. "I never took your spot. I earned mine. You tried to block me—and I passed you fair and square. That's racing."
Her jaw locked. Her eyes flicked with something almost like panic.
Then she snapped.
She lunged forward, spinning into a tight kick aimed at his ribs—sharp and precise. It struck with a dull thud, knocking the wind out of him as he stumbled backward and braced against the wall.
"Don't think I don't fight," she hissed. "Stop ignoring me!"
Sukhman raised his arms in defense, heart racing, stunned by the sudden escalation. "Are you nuts? Why are you attacking me? What is this even about? I beat you in a fair game!"
"You humiliated me!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "In front of everyone! Do you know how many times people have questioned my place here because I'm a woman? And now some unknown kid from a new team shows me up in front of the cameras?"
He shook his head, struggling to process her words. "This isn't about me, is it? It's about you. Your fear, your pressure, your pride. I didn't humiliate you—your choices did. I didn't block you, didn't cut corners. You did."
Charlotte stared at him, face trembling—not with weakness, but rage tangled with hurt.
Before she could strike again—
"Oi!" a voice rang out, strong and unmistakable.
Both turned.
Ayanda Nkosi stepped into the alley, her expression unreadable. Tall and composed, arms crossed over her casual jacket, she looked between the two with a cool, assessing gaze.
"Is there a reason I just saw you kicking a fellow driver in a back alley, Charlotte?"
Charlotte's fists trembled. "This has nothing to do with you, Ayanda."
Ayanda stepped forward slowly. "It does when it involves assault. This isn't how you deal with competition."
Charlotte's jaw flexed. She gave Sukhman one last glare, then stormed past Ayanda without another word, vanishing into the night.
Silence lingered.
Sukhman exhaled, shaking out his arms. "Thanks… that got out of hand fast."
Ayanda raised an eyebrow. "You all right, kid?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "Just… surprised. She really snapped."
"She's always been intense," Ayanda said, then extended a hand. "I'm Ayanda Nkosi, by the way."
Sukhman blinked, then smiled as he took her hand. "I know. You're a legend. Seven-time African Championship winner. You raced in Dakar too, right?"
She gave a low laugh. "Ah, so you're a fan boy."
"Maybe," he said, grinning. "You were one of the reasons I even started watching rally cross."
Ayanda patted him on the shoulder. "Well, keep your head down. You've got talent—but this world? It can chew people up. Stay sharp."
And with that, she turned and walked off, leaving Sukhman standing in the quiet alley—shaken, a little bruised, but not broken.
This world was fierce. Unforgiving.
But he belongs here.
And now, he knows it.