Lila stepped up beside Ian at the pit wall, her heels clicking softly against the concrete. The sky was streaked with drizzle, the wet track glinting under the afternoon light. She leaned slightly toward him, voice low.
"How's everything with the car?" she asked, trying to keep calm, fingers tapping nervously against the railing.
Ian didn't flinch, eyes locked on the timing and scoring screens in front of him. "Nothing wrong with it," he said, clipped. "It's fine."
Lila's gaze flicked to the live circuit feed — Jaxon's Artura sitting dead last, thirty cars ahead of him. Her brow furrowed. "Fine? That's… late. Really late for that."
Ian's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. In GT4, they didn't have the luxury of live telemetry from the car. They had lap times, sector splits, and the occasional radio message from Jaxon if something was critical. That was all. They couldn't see exactly how his tires were gripping, or how the car was squirming under throttle. They had to infer everything from limited data and the occasional camera feed from the grid or corners.
The gravity of the situation pressed down. Their jobs, their reputations, the trust McLaren had placed in them — all riding on a fourteen-year-old navigating two hours in torrentially unpredictable conditions from the back of the grid.
Lila's eyes met his, sharp and nervous, the kind of look that said: we both know how badly this could go if he doesn't manage it. She exhaled slowly, letting a tense beat hang between them. The pit wall hummed with monitors showing timing, live track cameras, and half-muffled team chatter, but for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to that one wet, winding circuit and the car at the very end of it.
Ian's fingers tapped briefly against the console, not touching anything that would interfere. In GT4, they could watch, wait, and hope that Jaxon's instincts and skill would be enough. The tension came not from knowing every detail — but from the constant uncertainty, from knowing that at any moment, something unseen could go wrong.
At the far end of the grid, the red lights glowed. Jaxon's Artura was perfectly aligned, the wheel straight, tires sitting quietly on the slick asphalt. He pressed the clutch, selected first, engine note low, controlled. No hesitation. No overreaction. No theatrics. Just readiness.
The lights went out.
Power came through in a measured pulse. Rear tires spat water without drama; traction control managed torque seamlessly. Jaxon felt the weight shift through his seat, pedals delivering feedback through subtle micro-movements. The car squirmed slightly, perfectly normal, instantly corrected with a gentle flick of the wheel and nuanced throttle modulation.
Spray boiled off the tires. Cars ahead bobbed in mist, but he maintained rhythm, precise and unshaken. The main straight approached; brakes modulated, weight transferred, downshift sequential. Front dipped slightly, tires gripping just enough.
Turn 1 arrived — damp, tight. The Artura pivoted around the apex with effortless grace. Rear stepped out fractionally; he corrected without thought. Wheels bit, suspension settled, car exited clean. Thirtyth to twenty-ninth — position gained silently, no struggle, no drama.
Turn 2 medium-speed right-hander with camber. A slower car braked early on the inside line. Jaxon adjusted — brakes light, throttle gentle, steering minute and precise. Rear squirmed just enough, grip returned. Wheels kissed the apex, exit carried wide but controlled.
From the pit wall, Lila's fingers hovered over the console, tense. Ian's jaw remained tight, eyes following splits and camera angles. They weren't impressed — they were alert, aware that perfection left no room for error. Every movement counted.
Turn 3 and the downhill kink loomed. Spray masked the apex; reflections shimmered. Yet the Artura danced through the wet asphalt, suspension and tires delivering exactly what Jaxon needed.
The Artura hunkered down behind a slower Cayman, spray from the Porsche rising in a shimmering cloud. Jaxon's eyes narrowed, reading the car ahead like a book he'd already memorized. He stayed patient, letting the slipstream pull him closer, body poised, hands light on the wheel.
The Cayman darted slightly wide on the entry, its tires hunting for grip on the wet line. Jaxon feinted right — a flick of the wheel that suggested an inside move — then shifted left at the last moment, his Artura threading the gap with inches to spare. The rear squirmed ever so slightly, traction control whispering corrections, the car alive under him, perfectly balanced, perfectly poised.
From Turn 5, the Bearmans leaned over the railing.
Adam exhaled slowly, eyebrows raised. "That's…woah."
Terri's face broke into a smile, a soft clap against the railing. "He's up a place!" she said lightly, eyes bright.
Thomas leaned on the railing, chest pressed forward, eyes wide. "Oh… wow." He didn't move, barely breathing, just following the Artura as it threaded past the Cayman, the subtle slide of the car ahead barely masked by spray.
Ollie's jaw tightened, lips pressed into a thin line, umbrella half-forgotten. His hands gripped the railing, eyes locked, silent for a beat before he muttered, "Holy—…" The word caught somewhere between awe and disbelief, leaving the rest unsaid.
Ian leaned toward the radio, hand steady on the console. "Good pass, Jaxon. Smooth, controlled."
"Yep," Jaxon replied, voice calm, even through the visor, barely above the hum of the rain on the canopy.
Lila exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening a fraction. She let her fingers trace the edge of the pit wall, eyes on the screens. Maybe this isn't so bad… she thought, but the thought was cut by the flashing sector times and the tiny gaps between cars. …but how the hell is he going to make it to a podium at least?
The rain darkened patches of tarmac, reflections of the Artura and the cars ahead shimmering in wet streaks. Jaxon's voice came again, measured. "How's the weather looking?"
Ian's eyes flicked from radar to timing, catching a brief swirl of gray across the track. "Changing every second. Really… worst of it's still ahead, expect rain for a bit, so keep your lines flexible."
Jaxon adjusted his grip lightly, eyes narrowing under the visor. "Got it."
The pit wall was quiet for a beat, save for the soft hiss of the rain and the occasional clack of keyboards from the team. Lila's fingers tapped lightly against the railing, her mind following every movement on the live feed. Even from here, she could see the precision in Jaxon's car, how it rode the wet surface without any overcorrection.
Jaxon exited Turn 10, the long sweeping right-hander barely tight enough to test the rear tires in the drizzle. The Artura dipped lightly as he fed in throttle, the weight shifting with smooth intention, every input measured. Spray from the cars ahead hung in the air, but he didn't flinch — just followed the line, the rhythm of the track flowing under him.
Turn 11, the hairpin at the end of Kettle Bottoms, demanded more attention. Braking point came early; tires on the wet apex betrayed no confidence. Jaxon eased back on the brake, feeling the Artura's nose dive, then modulated the throttle to balance the rear. He tucked in behind the car ahead, steering perfectly along the inside curb, keeping momentum through the tight left, the car's suspension flexing under the wet weight.
No dramatic slides, no overcorrection — just control, precision, and a complete understanding of the slippery limits. Every inch of the Artura responded instantly, the driver's touch confident, calm, and completely aware of the cars ahead and the conditions underfoot.
The Artura dipped into the Carousel, the continuous, flowing right-left sequence demanding fluid precision. Jaxon's hands were steady, steering input smooth, weight shifting subtly as the tires bit through the wet line. He wasn't looking for overtakes just keeping the rhythm.
Out of the Carousel, Thunder Alley opened. The long straight stretched before him, glistening under the drizzle. RPMs climbed smoothly, the Artura surging forward, torque gently modulated, the car's nose lifting slightly as he carried as much speed as grip allowed. The spray behind churned in a white mist, the windshield offering only a narrow window through which to anticipate the braking zone ahead.
Canada Corner loomed — a tight right-hand hairpin at the end of the straight. Jaxon eased back on the brake, letting engine braking settle the car, the rear remaining planted even on the slick asphalt. He followed the inside line, tires tracing the apex perfectly, the Artura's suspension flexing under each subtle weight shift.
The braking zone for Canada Corner came up fast. Jaxon's eyes were locked on the car ahead, tires tracing the wet asphalt. He felt the familiar rhythm of downshifts, the Artura settling into brake bias and weight transfer, all clean, all controlled.
Then — chaos.
The car directly in front locked up, the rear stepping out, and before he could blink, it collided with the car ahead. Metal clanged, tires screamed, spray boiling in every direction. Jaxon's instinct took over. No thinking — just feel.
He veered slightly right to avoid the pileup, brushing the edge of the grass. The rear dipped, the car hopped, and for a split second, the Artura tilted onto its side. He grabbed the wheel, subtle counter-steering, modulated the throttle, coaxed the car back onto all fours.
Heart rate spiked, but his mind was quiet, zero panic. Wheels spinning, tires skimming wet grass, grip returning slowly under careful throttle. The Artura bit back, sliding a fraction, then stabilizing.
By the time he settled fully on the tarmac, he had lost significant momentum. Speed bleeding off, throttle light, tires scrubbed, but the car was intact. He exhaled softly into his helmet, shifting focus forward.
Turn 5, the Bearmans' section, and the crowd saw it differently:
The camera feed caught only a fleeting shot: the Artura sliding violently, sideways across the track, spray and rain masking the details. The crowd froze, gasps erupting, some hands flying to faces.
Terri's fingers tightened around the umbrella, eyes wide, body stiff.
Thomas leaned forward, silent, chest pressed to the railing, heart racing.
Ollie's jaw was tight, hands gripping the railing, eyes locked on the car as it slid and corrected. He didn't need commentary; the impossibility of that control was obvious in the seconds the camera captured.
Even the spectators farther along Turn 5 murmured in panic, some whispering to each other, pointing, craning for another glimpse.
The camera caught the Artura sliding sideways, rain spray masking the details. For a heartbeat, everything froze on the screen.
Terri leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening on her umbrella. "Is that… him?" Her voice was soft, almost a question to herself as much as anyone else.
Thomas pressed his chest against the railing, eyes following the fleeting image. "He held it," he said quietly, a note of awe in his voice. No need for explanation—he'd seen the impossible happen in a split second.
Ollie's lips curved into a small, teasing grin. "Never doubted him for a second," he muttered, half to himself, half to Thomas, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The camera feed cut to the chain of cars tangled in the crash, debris and spray mixing in the gray rain. Ian's hands froze over the console, eyes sharp on the timing screens, trying to figure out where Jaxon was.
"Shit… he's in that pack," he muttered, voice tight, a dry edge to it. Fingers tapped against the desk, tension coiling in his shoulders.
Lila pressed her palms to the pit wall, leaning close. "Is he—?" Her voice faltered, and she didn't finish the question.
Michelle, Kurt, and the rest of the team were silent, staring at the monitors, all movements slowed. Each second stretched painfully as the three-car crash unfolded, and all they knew was that Jaxon was in the same group, somewhere in the chaos.
Lila's gaze flicked from the screen to Ian, then back to the spray-filled chaos on track. Her stomach tightened. What have I done?
She swallowed hard, palms pressed flat against the pit wall as if it could somehow ground her. This was her call, her responsibility—she had greenlit a fourteen-year-old in a full GT4 stint, trusting him because he talked her into it, because he had that insane confidence that made you believe in him.
Now… now she wondered if she'd just signed her own professional death warrant. Every wobble of a car in the spray made her heart jump. Fingers drumming nervously against the railing, she tried to steady herself. She had to look calm—had to seem collected—but inside, her mind raced through worst-case scenarios.
The team started clapping, some slapping consoles, others just cheering quietly. Lila spun around, and there he was—Jaxon's Artura slicing through Bill Mitchell Bend, spray hissing off the tires.
Ian's grin was impossibly wide, eyes bright. He gave a quick, sharp nod toward the radio.
"Jesus Christ…" Jaxon's voice came through, breathless, a mix of relief and disbelief.
The pit erupted around them, claps and low cheers bouncing off the walls. Lila pressed a hand to her chest, laughter and tension tangled together. He'd made it through, somehow.
Lila's eyes stayed glued to the monitor, replay looping Jaxon's Artura sliding sideways through the chaos.
Ian's hand went to the radio. "Safety car deployed," he said, then paused, voice a little lighter. "Hell of a save, Jax. Really—well done."
"Yeah," Jaxon replied, voice steady but edged with adrenaline.
Lila leaned back slightly, exhaling, letting a small, relieved smile slip onto her face. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.
Jaxon's voice cut through the static, calm but deliberate. "Weather?"
Ian leaned forward, eyes darting across the monitors. "Same as it was. Keep behind the car in front of you. Safety car's out—no passing. Just maintain pace, stay smooth."
Jaxon exhaled softly, letting his hands settle on the wheel, feeling the Artura ride the damp asphalt. He followed the car ahead, matching its lines, weight balanced, tires just barely singing in the spray. The rhythm was different now—no risk, no sudden moves—just focus, patience, keeping the car poised.
Behind the pit wall, the team shifted, still tense from the earlier chaos. Kurt and Michelle exchanged quick nods. Ian's jaw loosened just a fraction, and even Lila's hands unclenched from the railing, though her eyes never left the screen.
"Copy," he added, confirming the instruction, voice steady but carrying that subtle edge of adrenaline. The Artura tucked in behind the safety car pack, poised, ready for the green to come back out.
Ian gestured for Lila to come closer, his voice low over the pit wall hum. "We're still at the back," he said, eyes flicking between timing screens. "Jaxon's driving clean, smooth so far—but two hours, rain, back of the grid… who knows if he can even touch a podium. We're better off just going for broke."
Lila's stomach tightened. She leaned over, fingers gripping the railing. "I just… I don't want him to get caught up in something. One mistake and—" Her voice trailed off, caught somewhere between nerves and the weight of responsibility.
Ian's gaze softened slightly, scanning the sector times. "I know. But he's handling it. So far, so good."
Lila hesitated, chewing the inside of her lip. The idea of letting a fourteen-year-old navigate all this, even with skill like his, made her uneasy. But the thought of McLaren watching—of showing them exactly why she had pushed for this—shifted something inside her. She pulled out her phone, thumbs moving quickly, firing off a terse text to the bosses at the track.
He's managing it. Clean lines, alert, back of the grid, safety car period. Watching closely.
Lila gave a small, shaky nod. "Yes… okay, we just—keep him steady," she murmured, tension in her shoulders, but a flicker of reassurance in her eyes. She could feel it—he was doing exactly what needed to be done.
Ian picked up the radio mic, voice steady, controlled, cutting through the pit chatter. "Jaxon," he said. "You're at the back. Twenty-seven cars to get through to win, twenty-four for a podium. We're better off just going for broke. You got this?"
"Copy. Yeah, I'm going for the win."
He eased the Artura along the slick racing line, palms firm on the wheel, gaze scanning the pack ahead, mist flicking from rubber with every subtle adjustment. The engine hummed low and steady through the cockpit, rear grip shifting just enough, the machine ready for the first maneuver once the safety car pulled away.