Finally, it was time for GP3.
Kai stood up. His custom-fitted race suit was on, and his helmet was in his hand. He took a deep breath. The air, thick with the smell of high-octane fuel and hot rubber, felt familiar, and his blood began to sing.
He opened his eyes and saw that everyone in the pit garage was staring at him.
A total outsider, with no karting or formula racing experience. Is he really going to be okay?
Kai's eyes were clear, his expression serious. "Don't fall in love with me, everyone. You'll only get hurt."
The line shattered the tension. No one had expected that response. The garage erupted in laughter, jeers, and catcalls.
Amidst the noise, Kai pulled on his helmet, fastened his HANS device, and slid into the cockpit, getting himself settled.
"Radio check. Are you ready?"
The voice of his race engineer, Pierre Borreipaire, came over the headphones. It was a little tight. He was the one responsible for this rookie, and the pressure was immense.
The moment he was in the cockpit, all of Kai's other emotions vanished. He was completely in his element. "Received," he replied, his voice low and steady. "Loud and clear."
In the world of Formula racing, a driver is never a lone hero. It is, without a doubt, a team sport.
Even in the resource-limited world of GP3, each driver has their own team, including a technical engineer and a race engineer.
GP3 is a "spec series." The engine, chassis, and tires are all identical. On paper, it's a level playing field. But on the track, the gaps are obvious.
Why? Because even if the parts are the same, the setup is not.
On the surface, all the cars look like twins. But their personalities can be completely different—one might be lively and responsive, another dull and sluggish. The engineers are the ones who define that personality.
The Technical Engineer is like a piano tuner, adjusting the car's parameters before the race to match the driver's feel and style.
The Race Engineer is the driver's "eyes and brain" during the race. He's responsible for strategy, timing, analyzing the competition, and anticipating moves. He also needs to understand his driver—not just their data, but their habits, their personality, even their emotional state.
The driver can only see what's in front and behind. The engineer can see the entire track and all the data, but he can't feel when the tires are sliding or if the braking point is off.
They are two adventurers, each holding half a treasure map. Only by working together can they find the treasure. One hiccup in rhythm, one delayed piece of information, and the entire race can be lost.
This was precisely what worried Borreipaire. A rookie driver already required extra attention, but he and Kai had no pre-season testing together. They barely knew each other. And now, they had to go straight into a race weekend.
He took a quiet breath, steadying his nerves. Since they were starting from zero, he would be as thorough as possible.
"We're not worried about lap times in this practice session. Let's just start by learning the car and the track."
"We've planned a six-lap stint: two laps to warm the tires, two laps at simulated race pace, and two laps to cool down. You decide when you want to start pushing."
He was being detailed, accurate, guiding him by the hand, but without being overly restrictive.
"We call this rhythm a 'stint'," he added. "It's the window of data collection between pit stops."
The GP3 free practice session was only 45 minutes long. A driver would typically use two sets of tires, running two separate stints.
"Received," Kai's reply was short and to the point. He was already rolling down the pit lane, about to enter the track.
Borreipaire paused. The reply was too simple. Was he nervous? Did he not have any questions?
"Remember to focus on the left-front tire temperatures," he added, "and your braking points for Turns 3 and 13. If you feel any understeer or if the brakes feel soft, remember to hit the 'mark' button on the lower right of your wheel."
The steering wheel had a button that drivers could press to "mark" a spot on the telemetry data. After the session, they could review that exact moment with their engineer.
Borreipaire worried he was being too much of a "mother hen."
Just then, Kai's voice came over the radio. "Received. I'll also be focusing on load transfer and rear-wing stability."
Borreipaire's eyes lit up. In just two short sentences, the communication was clean, direct, and efficient. He already had a feel for Kai's style.
The wheels rolled over the red and white line of the pit exit. The car gave a small jolt, and the track—so familiar, yet so new—opened up in front of him. The wind rushed in, carrying the smell of sunlight and the faint sound of the ocean, the colors on either side of the track blurring into a rushing river.
No nerves. No excitement. Just a sense of familiarity. He had spent all day staring at this track on a monitor, analyzing it, memorizing it. This was his first time driving it, but the memory was already imprinted in his mind.
He didn't push. He knew a lot of eyes were on him, but he had his own plan. He wasn't going to get into a stupid pissing match and ruin his entire strategy.
On the first lap, he was almost coasting, just gently guiding the car, feeling the bumps in the road, the distribution of the grip.
He could clearly see the "racing line," that clean, darker patch of tarmac where layers of rubber had been laid down. Driving on that line gave you more grip and saved your tires.
But everyone knew that. Just blindly following the line meant you weren't understanding the track. And in a real, split-second dogfight, you needed to know more.
So, Kai was observing, scanning, experiencing. He was analyzing every corner, in his own way. He looked like he was on a casual Sunday drive.
This was the scene Russell was watching on the monitor back in the garage.
He was still waiting to go out. He stared at the screen, his elegant eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
What is that guy doing? Is he learning to walk?
Does he really know nothing about a Formula car?
His first day, and he's already embarrassing us. He's making the whole team look like a joke.
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