The alarm went off at 5:30 AM, a shrill beeping that dragged Marco from dreams of crashing cars and disappointed fathers. Across the room, Yuki was already up, dressed in workout gear, stretching methodically.
"Good morning," Yuki said. "You should eat something small. Banana, maybe. Training on empty stomach is bad idea."
Marco groaned and sat up. Every muscle in his body ached from yesterday's car session, the G-forces having worked muscles he didn't know existed. "What's the training like?"
"Intense." Yuki handed him a banana from a small stash in his desk. "James is former military fitness instructor. He does not accept excuses."
Twenty minutes later, Marco understood what Yuki meant.
The gym was state-of-the-art, filled with equipment Marco had only seen in YouTube videos. James—the same fitness coordinator who'd tested Marco yesterday—stood at the front with a clipboard and an expression that suggested he enjoyed other people's suffering.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," James said. "Welcome to your first group conditioning session. For those who weren't here earlier this week—" his eyes found Marco "—let me be clear about expectations. Professional racing drivers are athletes. Your neck will experience forces equivalent to five times your head weight. Your heart rate will spike to 170-180 BPM and stay there for two hours. Your core will be under constant tension. If your body isn't prepared, you will fail. My job is to make sure you don't fail. Your job is to not quit."
He smiled, and it wasn't a friendly smile.
"We start with a warm-up. Three kilometers run. Outside. You have eighteen minutes. Go."
The group filed out into the predawn darkness. The air was cold and damp, typical English autumn. Dominic immediately set the pace at the front, running smooth and easy. Amélie kept pace beside him. Carlos, Henrik, and Petra formed a second group. Marco found himself in the middle pack with Yuki, James Park, and Michael.
By kilometer two, Marco's lungs were burning. He'd never been a runner—his fitness came from working in the garage, lifting engines and turning wrenches. This was different, sustained cardiovascular effort that his body wasn't trained for.
"Pace yourself," Yuki said quietly beside him. "Don't try to match Dominic. He has been training for years."
Marco nodded, not trusting himself to speak without gasping.
They finished in seventeen minutes and forty seconds. Dominic looked barely winded. Marco felt like his lungs might explode.
"Adequate," James said. "Inside. Next exercise."
The next two hours were systematic torture. Neck strengthening exercises with weighted harnesses. Core work that involved holding plank position until Marco's abs felt like they were tearing. Resistance band work for upper body. Medicine ball throws. Box jumps. Burpees until Marco's vision started to blur at the edges.
Through it all, Dominic performed flawlessly, his form perfect, his breathing controlled. He'd clearly done this before, had been training properly for years. Every exercise was an opportunity to demonstrate his superiority.
Marco pushed through on stubbornness alone. His form deteriorated as fatigue set in. His times got slower. But he didn't stop, didn't quit, kept moving even when his body screamed at him to just lie down and accept defeat.
"Time," James finally called. "Cool down. Stretching. Five minutes."
Marco collapsed onto a mat, chest heaving. Around him, the others were in various states of exhaustion. Even Amélie looked worn out. Only Dominic seemed relatively fresh, stretching with perfect form while shooting glances at Marco.
"First session is always hardest," Yuki said, stretching beside him. "Body adapts. Gets easier."
"When?"
"Six to eight week."
Marco groaned. Six to eight weeks of this, every morning.
"Venturi," James called. "Stay behind a moment."
The others filed out, Dominic making sure to walk past close enough that Marco could hear him mutter, "Can't even handle basic conditioning."
"Your cardiovascular fitness is below standard," he said bluntly. "Your core strength is adequate but not competitive. Your neck strength is particularly weak—that's going to be a problem in the car." He paused. "But your mental toughness is good. You didn't quit, didn't complain, kept pushing even when form broke down. That matters."
"So what do I do?"
"Extra sessions. Evening conditioning, three times per week. I'll design a program specifically for your weaknesses." James made notes on his clipboard. "You're starting from behind, Venturi. The others have been training properly for years. You're going to have to work twice as hard just to catch up. Are you willing to do that?"
Marco thought about Dominic's smirk, about the times board showing him fifth out of ten, about his father's warnings that he wasn't good enough.
"Yes," he said. "Whatever it takes."
"Good. First extra session is tonight, 7 PM. Don't be late."
Breakfast was in the dining hall at 8 AM. Marco loaded his plate with eggs, toast, and fruit, his body craving fuel. The cohort table was already full of conversation.
"—and my trainer back home says neck strength is the most important—" Dominic was holding court, explaining his training regimen to Carlos and Henrik.
"Morning," Amélie said as Marco sat down. "You look like death."
"Feel like it too."
"Welcome to racing school. It gets worse before it gets better." She pushed a sports drink toward him. "Electrolytes. Trust me."
The morning classroom session was technical education: aerodynamics basics. An instructor named Dr. Patterson explained downforce, drag coefficients, and ground effect with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved the subject.
Marco tried to focus, but his body kept demanding attention. His legs ached. His core burned. His neck felt like someone had attached weights to his head.
"Venturi," Dr. Patterson said. "Can you explain the relationship between ride height and downforce?"
"Venturi," Dr. Patterson said. "Can you explain the relationship between ride height and downforce?"
Marco snapped back to attention. "Uh... lower ride height increases ground effect, generates more downforce?"
"Correct, but incomplete. Anyone want to expand on that?"
Dominic's hand shot up. "Lower ride height increases downforce but also increases the risk of bottoming out, which disrupts airflow and causes sudden loss of grip. It's a balance between maximum downforce and maintaining consistent aerodynamic performance."
"Excellent, Ashford. Textbook answer."
Dominic shot Marco a smug look.
The afternoon was simulator work. They were split into pairs, taking turns running race simulations while the other observed and provided feedback. Marco was paired with Maya, who turned out to be sharp and analytical.
"You brake too early into turn four," she observed during his run. "You're carrying more speed than you think. Trust the car more."
Marco adjusted, found she was right. The lap time dropped by two-tenths.
"Better," Maya said. "Now your exit form turn seven is lazy. You're not using all the track."
They worked together for two hours, trading observations, pushing each other's times down. It was the first time since arriving that Marco felt like someone was actually helping rather than competing.
"You're good at this," Marco said during a break. "The coaching thing."
Maya shrugged. "My father is an engineer. I grew up analyzing data, looking for advantages. Driving fast is one thing. Understanding why you're fast is more important."
"Is that what you want to do eventually? Engineering?"
"Maybe. Or team management. I love racing, but I'm realistic. Making it to F1 as a driver—" she gestured at the simulator "—the odds are terrible. But there are other ways to stay in the sport."
It was the first time Marco had heard anyone at the academy acknowledge that failure was possible, even likely. Everyone else seemed to assume they'd make it, as if their presence here guaranteed success.
The evening was supposed to be free time, but Marco had his extra conditioning session with James. While the others relaxed or did additional simulator work, Marco was back in the gym, doing targeted exercises for neck strength and cardiovascular endurance.
James pushed him hard, correcting form, demanding more reps, never satisfied.
"Your weakness is that you came from karting," James explained during a water break. "Karts don't generate the same forces as cars. Your body isn't adapted to the physical stress of proper racing. We need to rebuild you from scratch."
By the time the session ended at 8:30 PM, Marco could barely walk. He stumbled back to his room, where Yuki was studying technical diagrams.
"How was extra training?" Yuki asked.
"Brutal."
"You have dinner?"
Marco realized he hadn't eaten since lunch. "No."
Yuki pulled out a protein bar and an apple from his desk stash. "Eat. Body needs fuel for recovery. Tomorrow is even harder—we do track session in morning."
Marco ate mechanically, showered, and collapsed into bed. His phone showed messages from Luca asking how things were going, from Elena checking in, from his father—
He stopped. A message from Giuseppe.
I hope you're safe. The garage is quiet without you.
Not forgiveness. Not approval. But acknowledgment. Marco stared at the message for a long time before typing back:
I'm safe. Training is hard but I'm managing. Miss you too.
He hit send before he could overthink it.
Sleep came quickly, but with it came dreams. Racing dreams where he couldn't reach the pedals, where the car wouldn't respond, where Dominic was always ahead, always faster, always better.
Marco woke at 3 AM in a cold sweat, heart pounding. Across the room, Yuki was sleeping peacefully. The window showed darkness outside, the track invisible in the night.
Marco lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how many nights like this he'd have to endure. Wondering if the physical pain, the constant proving himself, the knowledge that he was starting from behind—if it would ever get easier.
His body ached. His mind was tired. And tomorrow he'd have to do it all again.
But he was here. He'd made it this far. And quitting wasn't an option, because going back meant admitting his father was right, meant accepting that dreams were for people with money and connections and not for mechanic's sons from small towns.
So he'd endure. He'd suffer. He'd work twice as hard as everyone else.
And maybe, eventually, it would be enough.
The next morning's alarm came too soon. 5:30 AM, same as before. But this time Marco's body didn't want to move. His legs were stiff, his core screaming in protest.
"Morning two is always worst," Yuki said, already dressed. "Body is in shock from previous day. By end of week, you adapt."
The run was agony. Every step felt like his legs might give out. Dominic, of course, looked fresh as ever, setting the pace at the front while Marco struggled to keep up with the middle pack.
During core exercises, Dominic positioned himself next to Marco, close enough to offer commentary.
"Struggling already? It's only day two."
Marco gritted his teeth and held his plank.
"You know what I heard?" Dominic continued, his own plank perfect. "They only accepted you because they needed a good story. The poor Italian, overcoming adversity. Makes for great PR."
"Save your breath," Marco grunted. "You're going to need it."
"Am I? Because where I'm positioned, I'm doing just fine. You, on the other hand, look like you're about to collapse."
Marco's arms were shaking, his core burning, but he held the position out of pure spite.
"Time," James called.
Marco dropped to the mat, gasping. Dominic stood smoothly, barely winded.
The track session was worse. Fresh off the morning conditioning, with bodies already fatigued, they had to perform at racing speed. Marco's lap times were slower than yesterday. His reactions were off. His confidence was shaken.
Dominic, naturally, was faster. His times were consistent, his driving smooth. He was in his element, showing everyone why he'd been fast in F4, why he belonged here.
Marco finished the session in seventh place out of ten. Two positions lost from yesterday.
At lunch, he sat with Maya and Yuki, too tired to deal with Dominic's table.
"It gets better," Maya said, reading his expression. "First week is meant to break you down. They want to see who quits."
"I'm not quitting."
"I know. But your body doesn't know that yet."
The afternoon technical session was about race strategy—tire management, fuel saving, when to push and when to conserve. Marco's brain felt like mud, struggling to absorb information.
That evening's extra conditioning session with James was even harder than the first. More neck work, more core, more cardiovascular. James pushed until Marco literally couldn't do another rep, until his form completely broke down.
"That's your limit," James said, making notes. "Tomorrow we'll push to the same point. Eventually, that point moves further out. That's adaptation."
Marco showered and fell into bed without dinner, too exhausted to eat. Yuki placed a protein bar on his desk anyway.
Day three. Day four. Day five.
The routine became a blur of pain and effort. Wake at 5:30. Run. Condition. Breakfast. Technical classes. Track session. Lunch. Simulators. Evening conditioning. Study. Sleep. Repeat.
Marco's times on track stopped dropping. He plateaued at seventh, sometimes eighth depending on the day. Dominic remained consistently in the top three, usually first.
The physical training was slowly destroying Marco. His body was in constant pain. He lost weight he couldn't afford to lose. Dark circles appeared under his eyes from inadequate sleep.
On Friday evening, after another brutal extra conditioning session, James sat him down.
"Your body is in shock," James said bluntly. "You're not recovering properly because you're not eating enough, not sleeping enough. You can't train twenty-four seven, Venturi. Rest is part of training."
"I can't afford to rest. I'm already behind—"
"And you're going to fall further behind if you break down completely." James's expression was serious. "I've seen this before. Talented driver, desperate to catch up, pushes too hard too fast. Either they get injured or they burn out mentally. Either way, they're done."
"So what do I do?"
"This weekend, you rest. Actual rest. Sleep late. Eat properly. Let your body recover. Monday we'll adjust your program—smarter training, not just more training."
That weekend, Marco slept twelve hours straight on Saturday. Woke up to find Yuki had left breakfast items on his desk. Ate, studied technical materials at a relaxed pace, watched F1 race replays, and actually let his body recover.
Sunday he felt almost human again.
Monday morning, the alarm at 5:30 didn't feel quite as terrible. The run was still hard, but manageable. The conditioning was brutal but not impossible.
And on the track, something clicked.
Marco's body, finally recovered and adapting, started responding properly. His reaction times sharpened. His consistency improved. His confidence returned.
His lap time dropped. Seventh place became sixth, then fifth again.
Not first. Not yet. But improving.
After the session, Amélie caught up with him. "There you are. I was wondering when you'd stop looking like a zombie."
"I'm adapting."
"Good. Because we have our first race simulation next week. Full grid, real competition. That's when things get serious."
Marco watched Dominic across the pit lane, saw him talking to Carlos and Henrik, saw him gesture dismissively toward Marco's direction.
The physical training had been the first test. Marco had survived it, barely, but he'd survived.
Now came the real test: proving he could actually race against drivers who'd been training for this their entire lives.
The morning run had gotten easier. The conditioning had gotten manageable. His body was adapting, just like James said it would.
The question was whether it was adapting fast enough.