Alex Sun had barely settled onto the pit bench when the fourth red flag suddenly came out. Piastri was still pushing on his second flying lap.
14:42. Race control immediately informed the teams via TR, and the broadcast commentary followed at once: ART's Lundgaard had understeered into the wall at Turn 3. The front wing was torn off, debris scattered across the track, and Prema's pit preparations were instantly thrown off rhythm.
Alex Sun had just finished reviewing the details of his flying lap. Seeing the red flag, he looked up at the strategy screen and said to Mark with a helpless sigh,
"Another red flag. Good thing I've already finished Q2—at least my rhythm isn't affected."
He remained in the pit bay, relaxed and free of pressure, simply observing how the situation would unfold.
Mark quickly composed himself and leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Piastri was almost across the line when it came out. We'd just gone green in the first two sectors—completely wasted now."
There was clear regret in his tone, but he adjusted swiftly.
"Keep an eye on the rhythm from here on. Baku's unpredictable. If we hit another red flag or something unexpected, just stay calm."
René Rosin stood in front of the tactical screen, closely monitoring the race situation while instructing the support crew.
"Bring me the live data feed. Stay on top of race control updates. Safety first—don't let incidents affect our drivers' mindset."
As team principal, he never fixated on short-term gains or losses. His focus was always the overall state of the team, steady and composed.
After a lengthy cleanup, race control announced via TR,
"Q2 has four minutes remaining. All drivers, push for your laps."
The red flag was withdrawn, and the track reopened.
Piastri followed instructions and left the holding area to attack another lap. Alex Sun remained in the pit, continuing his review. He exchanged occasional notes with Mark about racing lines and even pulled up Piastri's onboard feed to follow in real time.
But not long after the restart, the fifth red flag came out.
Race control followed immediately:
"Prema's Piastri has lost control and hit the wall at Turn 16. All teams stand by."
Alex Sun's heart tightened. He shot to his feet, eyes locked on the onboard footage. Piastri had braked slightly too late at Turn 16; the left-front tire locked instantly, and the car snapped out of control into the outside barrier. The front wing was heavily damaged. Fortunately, Piastri managed to stabilize the car in time and avoided coming to a complete stop in the run-off area.
Mark stared at the screen, brow furrowed, quickly relaying the updated information.
"It's Piastri. Brake lock-up into the wall. Front wing and suspension damaged. He's limping back to the pit lane, but there's no way he can continue."
Tracking the car's movement, he added from an engineer's perspective,
"Turn 16 has low grip. Brake half a second too late and you're in trouble. At least he didn't completely lose it. Getting back to the pits is already lucky. But the car's too badly damaged—he's out for the rest of the session."
The broadcast cut to Piastri's car crawling along the edge of the circuit, the broken front wing dragging, occasional fragments dropping from the bodywork.
The commentator's voice turned solemn.
"Piastri relied on experience to stabilize the car and is barely making it back to the pit lane. But from the damage—fractured front wing, deformed suspension—there's no way to continue. That push lap is completely gone."
The live chat mood instantly shifted—regret, concern, and worry for Alex Sun blending together.
"Piastri's out? No more two-car strategy—Alex Sun's on his own!"
"Feel for Piastri! He was giving Alex Sun a tow earlier—what a shame!"
"Stay strong, Alex Sun! Mark and René Rosin will adjust the strategy!"
"This qualifying session is cursed—red flags nonstop!"
"Piastri has retired!" Smedley said with clear regret. "Prema now has only Alex Sun securing a spot in the next stage. His record-breaking Q2 lap is strong enough. He just needs to wait for the final result. Maximum advantage for the sprint race!"
"Is Piastri okay?" Alex Sun asked Mark, unable to hide the concern in his voice—both for his teammate's safety and the loss of a key tactical partner.
Mark checked the official update.
"Race control just confirmed he's fine. But the car's too damaged to continue."
He shook his head lightly.
"He had a real shot at a great result on that lap. Such a pity. Don't overthink it. Your pole position is solid. We'll just wait for confirmation."
René Rosin stepped over as well, his voice steady and firm.
"Stay focused. We'll make up for Piastri's disappointment together. The team will handle everything else. You just keep your mindset stable."
A few simple words, and the atmosphere steadied again.
"Got it."
Alex Sun suppressed the swirl of emotions in his chest. His gaze grew sharper. He wouldn't just defend this pole position—he would carry Piastri's regret and the team's expectations with him.
Only one minute after the restart, the sixth red flag flashed.
Race control urgently reported: HWA's Aitken had collided with Trident's Viscaal at Turn 5. Aitken lost control and hit the wall, the car's side badly damaged, debris scattered across the track.
The commentator exclaimed,
"That's the sixth red flag of this qualifying session—a new F2 record!"
Smedley sounded astonished and resigned.
"Six red flags! The circuit's in chaos, and there are less than three minutes remaining. Race control will likely end Q2 early. Alex Sun's pole is basically secured!"
His co-commentator added gravely,
"Alex Sun's 1:53.987 stands as the final pole time. What a journey—on the brink in Q1, record-breaking in Q2, and then weathering his teammate's retirement. He and the team have passed every test."
Moments later, the official announcement came:
"Due to repeated on-track incidents, Q2 is terminated early. Q3 is canceled. Final grid positions will be determined by Q2 lap times."
Alex Sun let out a breath and smiled lightly at the team.
"Finally over. That Q2 was more exhausting than a race. Glad I didn't let everyone down."
There was exhilaration in his voice from breaking the record—and disbelief at surviving six red flags.
The trackside leaderboard updated slowly, confirming the final standings:
Alex Sun – 1:53.987 (New Pole Record)
Lawson – 1:54.217
Vips – 1:54.355
Piastri – 1:54.508
Pourchaire – 1:54.639
Ticktum – 1:54.830
Armstrong – 1:54.914
Boschung – 1:54.962
Guanyu Zhou – 1:55.112
Daruvala – 1:55.122
(The remaining 11 drivers omitted.)
The live chat exploded.
"Pole position! Record broken! Alex Sun and Prema are insane!"
"René Rosin steady as ever, Mark on point with strategy—total team victory!"
"Rebecca Lin's mysterious reward time! Waiting for the double payoff!"
"Turn 16: Alex Sun takes me like a stroll; everyone else treats me like a tribulation."
After the results were confirmed, Alex Sun went straight to the pit lane entrance to wait.
When Piastri was escorted back by the staff, he stepped forward immediately.
Piastri patted his shoulder, sounding calm.
"I'm fine. Just a shame. You've got pole locked in—go fight in tomorrow's sprint race."
Alex Sun nodded firmly.
As he turned back toward the pit bay, Mark hurried over, clapping him on the shoulder while handing him a tablet. His voice carried pride and relief.
"Look at this data. Your trail-braking precision at Turn 16 is 0.02 seconds better than Leclerc's back then. I was overthinking it earlier—too narrow-minded. Lawson's 0.23 behind you. Tomorrow's sprint race will be a battle."
At that moment, Rebecca Lin squeezed through the crowd. Before Alex Sun could react, she stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed his cheek. The tips of her ears turned red instantly, her voice bright and shy.
"This is the mysterious reward! Congratulations on your first pole position!"
Alex Sun froze for a second, instinctively touching his cheek. Then he curved his lips, deliberately teasing her.
"That doesn't count. That's way too perfunctory."
Rebecca Lin flushed deeper, fingers curling around the towel in her hands. She avoided his eyes, though there was stubborn resolve in them.
"Then… then I'll grant you one condition. After you finish the ceremony, we'll talk properly!"
She quickly turned and hid behind a mechanic, only her reddened ears visible.
René Rosin walked over with a smile.
"Enough teasing. Go get ready for the ceremony. This honor is yours."
Alex Sun changed into his award suit and stepped onto the podium under flashing lights, raising the pole trophy high. Cheers from the Prema team echoed through the pit lane. Rebecca Lin, Piastri, and Mark applauded among the crowd. The ceremony was brief but spirited.
Afterward, the team returned to the rest area for a quick debrief.
Mark held up the strategy board.
"Sprint race grid is reversed for the top ten. You'll start P10, with Lawson and Vips ahead of you.
The key overtaking spot in Baku is Turn 1—the heavy braking zone at the end of the long straight. You drop from over 350 km/h to around 150. Perfect for late braking and diving up the inside.
Turn 3 is our secondary option. If someone misses their line, you can capitalize. We'll feed you real-time data on the cars ahead so you can anticipate their braking points."
Alex Sun nodded, eyes fixed on the circuit. A sharp glint flashed in his gaze.
"Don't worry. Starting P10 is just right. Tomorrow, I'll give the team a proper overtaking show."
The setting sun painted the circuit in gold. Engine noise gradually faded, but the cheers from the Prema team still lingered in the pit lane.
Alex Sun's first career pole position had everyone thrilled, already imagining the sprint race ahead—starting from tenth and carving through the field.
Yet the shadow of six red flags and multiple crashes still hung over the paddock. And with Turn 1 in Baku—long notorious for heavy-braking incidents—awaiting at the end of the straight, tomorrow's sprint race carried another layer of uncertainty.
For the promised overtaking spectacle, a thin veil of tension had already fallen.
...
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