"Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable!"
"Is this really a rookie? Who could believe that this time last year, this 'Baby Driver' hadn't even raced in a formal single-seater series?"
"After withstanding over fifteen laps of sustained pressure from Lewis Hamilton, he has shown the poise of a general twice over. Calm, intelligent, simple yet effective defense. Facing a four-time World Champion, he didn't give an inch. In fact, in the details, he outmaneuvered him."
"He considered not just his own car, but his opponent's state. This ability to control the big picture while under fire is nothing short of phenomenal."
"God! What are we witnessing? What is happening at Albert Park?"
David Croft's voice cracked, turning question marks into exclamation points. Passion burned in every syllable.
Everyone had expected a decent performance from the rookie. No one expected him to drag two four-time World Champions off their pedestals and crash the "Hamilton vs. Vettel" party like the Monkey King overturning the Heavens.
But the storm on track wasn't over.
Lap 53. Hamilton refused to rest. He refused to give himself time, and he refused to give the rookie time. With his car pushed to the absolute limit, he launched one final, desperate assault.
He knew the risk. But in that moment, his brain saw only the red blur ahead. His fighting spirit released every ounce of energy.
Turn 3. Whiteford Corner. A 90-degree right-hander.
Hamilton braked late. He went to the outside, carving in from the straight, dancing on the razor's edge of physics. The car teetered, precarious, his eyes burning with determination.
Brake later. Just a little later.
He watched the rear wing of the number 22 Ferrari rushing toward him.
But the tires, five laps older than Kai's, had nothing left to give.
Lock up.
Hamilton's heart sank. It's gone.
It happened in half a second. Hamilton wrestled the car to keep it from spinning, while Kai, smooth and silent as spring rain, swept through the corner and accelerated away.
1.5 seconds. 1.8 seconds. 2.1 seconds.
In the blink of an eye, Kai seized the opportunity and blew the gap open to over two seconds.
It's over.
Toto Wolff stopped breathing. He ripped off his headset and slammed it down. He had anticipated the start. He hadn't anticipated the journey. He certainly hadn't anticipated the ending.
A roar erupted from the Ferrari garage next door. Wolff didn't need to look; he could picture the collective fist-pumps.
"Aaaaaah! Aaaaaah!"
Inside the Ferrari pit, everyone was on their feet. Emotions poured out unchecked.
Jock Clear clenched his fists, channeling all his nervous energy into his palms. The lingering tension finally broke.
He turned to see Laurent Mekies exhaling a long breath. They had all been holding it. The pressure from Hamilton and Mercedes was no joke, even from the pit wall, it felt suffocating.
But Kai's response had been beautiful. To force Hamilton into a lock-up twice? The young calf truly had no fear of the tiger.
"The kid sees us like this, he's going to be insufferable," Mekies joked, relief washing over him.
But the pit wall had to stay cold.
Four laps to go. In a car doing 300 kph, a single deviation could destroy everything. A spin, a crash on the final lap, that would be a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.
"Fuel is sufficient to the end," Greenwood radioed, his throat dry. "ERS is free to deploy for the final two laps."
"Copy," came Kai's voice. Still focused.
From start to finish, he had focused on himself. This moment was no different.
Final lap. He stopped defending. He took the optimal lines, carving through every curve with clean, crisp rhythm.
The steering wheel vibrated gently. He relaxed his shoulders, feeling like he was chasing the wind on a summer afternoon.
The road ahead was clear.
Lu Cheng stood frozen in front of the screen. His body was rigid, terrified that even a slight movement would break the spell and change the result before the line. He was sweating, aching, but he stood tall.
Beside him, Lorenzo lost it. "Champion! Champion! Kai is the Champion!"
The broadcast booths worldwide were in meltdown. CCTV-5, Star Sports, Sky Sports, bedlam.
The suspense was technically still there, but it didn't matter. The cameras locked onto the number 22 Ferrari as it began its final tour.
David Croft was standing, microphone in hand, screaming until his lungs burned.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing history!"
"A Baby Driver! A rookie who stumbled into the world of formula racing just a year ago! In his debut race, he has delivered a masterpiece! He withstood continuous pressure from four-time World Champion Lewis Hamilton! He took the lead on Lap 20 and never looked back! He is about to cross the line!"
"History is about to be made!"
"The first driver in F1 history to win on debut! The fastest driver to win a Grand Prix! The youngest Grand Prix winner in history!"
"Incredible!"
"When this Baby Driver entered the paddock, there was doubt! Criticism! Slander! No one believed he belonged here! But he has done it! He has silenced the noise with a performance that has thrown the racing world into chaos!"
"He breaks Hamilton's record! He breaks Verstappen's record! He suppressed two world champions! He is shouting to the world: Hey, welcome to Kai's party!"
Then,
"Checkered flag!"
"Kai wins the Australian Grand Prix!"
"Kai has done it, "
Croft's voice was drowned out.
"Ah!"
Wang Lin threw his hands up, spun around, and looked at Song Bo.
Song Bo's thoughts and emotions had burned away in the adrenaline dump. He saw nothing but faces to hug.
"Aaaaaaaaaah!"
Thirty laps of suppression. Thirty laps of torture. His muscles were screaming. But he had crossed the line.
Song Bo roared at the sky, "Boss is the Champion! Boss is the Champion! Aaaaaah!"
He threw his fists up.
"Kai! Kai! Kai!"
The chant spread through the small square. Neighbors joined in, a sea of fists rising into the air, logic thrown into the fire.
"Checkered flag. P1, Kai. P1."
Greenwood didn't realize his voice was trembling. The weight of the race lifted instantly.
"Hmm... not bad," Kai replied.
The nonchalance made Greenwood pause, then smile.
Suddenly, a new voice cut in. "Kai, this is Sergio."
"Beautiful race. Unmatched courage and performance. You are the Champion! Not just the winner of the Australian Grand Prix, but you showed the spirit of a true champion. You deserve every bit of praise."
"Brilliant. Brilliant performance."
It was Sergio Marchionne. Despite his efforts to control it, you could hear the crack in the iron man's voice.
This had been a gamble.
Marchionne knew it. Picking a street racer with zero experience for Ferrari was madness. The pressure from the team, the paddock, the FIA, the sponsors, everyone thought he had lost his mind.
But he had held firm. He put Kai in the red suit.
Today was Kai's repayment.
"I want to say it was for you, for the championship, for the glory," Kai radioed back. "But actually... it was all for the bonus."
Marchionne froze.
Greenwood saw Arrivabene's face stiffen. Oh no, Kai's done it now.
But then, Marchionne laughed. A belly laugh that shook the pit wall. They had never seen him laugh like this.
"Well," Marchionne chuckled, "it's a good thing we have deep pockets."
"Thank you, Sergio," Kai added, finally letting some of his youth show. " 'Baby, baby, baby, oh...' Come on, give me something! Don't leave me hanging!"
The pit wall froze as the singing came over the radio. Then, Arrivabene's face relaxed, like ice melting in the sun.
He looked up and caught Marchionne's eye. The CEO was beaming. The look spoke volumes. Marchionne turned and walked away.
Arrivabene watched him go, then looked out at the sea of red in the pit lane.
The mechanics were sprinting toward the podium, a tidal wave of excitement waiting for the car to return.
Finally, the number 22 appeared.
The crowd surged. Not just the team, but fans were sprinting from the stands to the fence. A living, breathing heat wave.
Pros and amateurs alike, when had they ever seen a miracle like this?
Winning on debut was impossible. No one had done it in over half a century of F1 history. But for a complete outsider to do it? The shock was doubled.
And it wasn't a lucky win. He had beaten Vettel. He had beaten Hamilton.
In the sea of gazes, Kai climbed out of the cockpit. He grabbed the halo, vaulted up, and stood on the nose of the car.
He clenched his fists and screamed.
"Ah!"
One punch to the sky. Then a roar, primal and uninhibited, standing on top of the world.
"Aaaaaah!"
Below him, hundreds of fists punched the sky in unison, screaming with him, as if they had made history too.
In the crowd, Lorenzo lost his mind. "Kai!"
Jock Clear looked around, smiled, and joined in. "Kai!"
Laurent Mekies shook his head helplessly. "Kai!"
One voice, then another. A ripple turning into a wave.
The fans arriving at the podium joined in, especially the Chinese fans. Seeing a familiar face in the paddock was rare enough. But witnessing this?
The boos, the mockery, the doubt, gone. Only one sound remained under the blue sky.
"Kai!"
Kai jumped down. He saw the sea of red and ran toward his team.
He sprinted, leaped, and flew through the air.
Like a rock star diving into a mosh pit, he threw himself into his mechanics. Hands patted his back, his helmet, his shoulders, sharing the glory.
Until,
"Dad!"
Kai found Lu Cheng in the crowd.
Lu Cheng, usually so bad at expressing emotions, usually hiding behind jokes, stood quietly looking at his son. He tapped Kai's helmet gently, then pulled him into a crushing hug.
"Good job."
He repeated it, over and over.
"Good job."
Kai knew the weight behind those simple words. He hugged back hard. "Dad, this is just the beginning."
Celebrations were brief. Lu Cheng knew the post-race protocol. He patted Kai's shoulder and pushed him toward the cameras.
Kai took off his helmet. Martin Brundle and the Sky Sports crew were waiting.
But next to them, the Netflix crew looked lost. The cameraman stared at his lens, realizing they had missed the story of the century.
This wasn't the press conference, just the parc fermé interview. Standard questions.
Brundle asked for his thoughts. Kai grinned. "The taste... it's not unfamiliar."
Standard question, standard answer. But Brundle paused.
From GP3 to F1, Kai had maintained a 100% win record in Feature Races. No one in single-seaters had ever beaten him on Sunday.
But... this was F1. It wasn't GP3.
Yet, Brundle didn't know how to refute it. Was that a humblebrag?
James Gay-Rees, producer of Drive to Survive, was at the race.
He wasn't surprised by the result, Ferrari vs. Mercedes was the expected narrative. Since those two teams refused to participate in the show, he had prepared to focus on Red Bull and Haas.
But the winner was Kai?
Rees admitted they had been caught with their pants down.
From the VIP lounge, Rees watched Kai chatting with Brundle.
"Kai!"
A scream tore through the crowd. It was in Mandarin.
Kai stopped, turned, and flashed a brilliant smile. He raised his right fist.
The crowd erupted again, the energy spiking to a fever pitch.
Rees felt a chill.
Superstar aura.
F1 is full of handsome drivers. It's often joked that it's a modeling contest with cars. Kai fit the mold.
But Rees realized true charisma wasn't about looks. It was an energy. A freedom. A swagger that said the world was his playground.
Kai stood there, sweaty, exhausted, looking like a drowned rat, hair a mess. But you couldn't look away. His smile was magnetic. He commanded the paddock not with arrogance, but with pure, infectious joy.
He had conquered the sport, but he looked like he was just happy to have driven fast.
If this was just a one-off win, fine. The road to being a legend is long.
But this aura? It was unique. Untamable. Like lightning illuminating the sky.
Rees regretted it. Not missing Ferrari or Mercedes, but missing Kai. They might have missed a global icon.
That's more than a hundred million dollars.
Kai didn't notice Rees. The world was spinning.
Weigh-in. Leclerc running over to congratulate him like a puppy. The cool room.
Walking past a stone-faced Stroll and Alonso.
By the time he reached the cooldown room, Kai's brain was mush. His knees were jelly. His stomach was burning. He drank water, but his mouth remained dry. He felt hollowed out.
F1 was different. The adrenaline crash left him feeling numb, empty, unable to think.
So this is what 'giving everything' feels like.
He saw Vettel sitting stone-faced. Kai slurred slightly, "Sebastian, great race."
Vettel forced a polite smile. "For you, yes. Perfect race. Couldn't be better."
The subtext was clear: For me, it sucks.
Vettel had lost to Hamilton and the rookie. He was fuming.
Hamilton walked in. He saw Vettel sulking and Kai staring blankly at the wall.
"Kai, great race," Hamilton said.
Kai looked up, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Great battle. Couldn't relax until the last second."
Hamilton raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips. "You think you can relax now?"
Kai paused.
"The season has just begun," Hamilton said.
The implication was heavy. You won't get lucky next time.
The air tightened.
"Where's your helmet?" Hamilton asked. "We need to bring them out to the podium. Like trophies."
Kai blinked. "My helmet?"
"Is it at the scales?" Hamilton suggested. He noticed it was missing but didn't offer to help get it.
Kai smiled, sensing the hidden blades in the conversation. "It's okay. Next time I won't forget. First time for everything, right?"
It wouldn't be his last time on the podium. He was ready for the storm.
Arise, ye who refuse to be slaves...
Thump. Thump.
Kai's hand rested on his chest. He felt his heart beating, steady and strong. A wave of emotion surged as he watched the bright red Ferrari flag and the Five-Star Red Flag rise together.
He stood tall and sang.
The anthem ended. Kai looked around. What now?
GP3 protocol he knew. F1? No clue.
"Champagne!" Arrivabene yelled from below.
Kai looked at the trophy in his hand, then the magnum of champagne at his feet. He picked it up clumsily.
How do you open this?
Before he could figure it out, his "bodyguards", Hamilton and Vettel, exchanged a look. They popped their corks and aimed at Kai.
Fire!
Kai was instantly soaked. He turned his back to shield himself from the crossfire, put down the trophy, and tried to open his bottle to retaliate against Vettel.
But,
"Why won't it open?"
Kai stood there, defeated by the cork. He looked up, eyes wide and innocent, as Hamilton and Vettel closed in for the kill.
Unable to fight back, Kai spread his arms, closed his eyes, and accepted the champagne shower with a look of pure resignation.
The crowd roared with laughter.
The "Baby Driver" nickname suddenly made a lot of sense. On track, he was a killer. On the podium? He was a rookie.
"Baby!"
Someone shouted it. Then the chant spread.
"Baby! Baby!"
But this time, it wasn't an insult. It was affectionate. It was the name of a miracle.
The chant echoed over Albert Park. The 2018 season opener was over.
Kai: Winner.
Hamilton: P2.
Vettel: P3.
Ricciardo finished P4, missing the podium at home. Verstappen recovered to P6.
McLaren was the surprise of the day. Alonso P5, Vandoorne P9. Double points.
Leclerc finished P13, beating Stroll, but missed out on points.
But the headlines belonged to one man.
"The New King? Youngest F1 Winner Born!"
"Speed from the East - Kai Challenges the Champion and Wins!"
"Baby Driver Crashes the Party!"
"History Witnessed! Kai Breaks 67-Year Record."
Front page. Everywhere.
Social media melted down. The hashtag #KaiWins hit number one globally. #BabyDriver trended right behind it.
From street racer to Ferrari driver to Grand Prix winner. It was a fairy tale.
It was so absurd that people checked their calendars. April Fools' was six days away.
Is this real?
Especially in China. F1 had arrived. The sport had never been this hot.
Amidst the frenzy, the haters emerged.
"Luck. Pure luck. If Haas didn't fail twice, if the Safety Car didn't come out, this wouldn't have happened."
But the moment the haters arrived, one thing was certain.
Kai was famous.