"Insane. Ferrari has completely lost it."
"Four months from nothing to F1. How is this reasonable? What is the FIA even doing?"
"So… is it that time of year again when the FIA just 'looks the other way'? After Verstappen, are we getting another Crash King?"
"Has Ferrari really fallen this far, pinning their hopes on a baby driver?"
"What are Vettel and Räikkönen supposed to do now?"
"Baby driver, get out. You don't deserve Ferrari red."
"Tragic. My Ferrari is dead. Light some incense."
Insults. Curses. Sarcasm. Mockery. Pile-ons.
All of the above, and that was just the mild stuff.
Those were only the polite samples – the "sprinkling of water" on the surface. The really filthy comments were too vile to quote. They didn't just go after Ferrari; they went after Kai personally. Every kind of personal attack flooded the timeline, ugly enough to make even neutral onlookers flinch.
But in the end, those were just emotional outbursts. Loud, but not lethal.
The real damage came from professionals.
Will Buxton, veteran NBC F1 reporter, known for sharp takes and a flair for drama, published a long-form "analysis." He broke down Kai's situation, the shape of the paddock, Ferrari's decision-making, one layer after another. And his conclusion was:
"Is this a political stunt, or a high-stakes gamble on talent?"
It was framed as a question. But everything in the article pointed squarely at the first option.
In Buxton's view, this was pure theatre a PR push, a marketing campaign, a political move, a capital play. There was a grand blueprint behind the scenes.
Kai Zhizhou? Just a prop. A puppet whose job was to hit his marks and finish the show. His talent and ability were secondary. Maybe even irrelevant.
"No one expects him to perform. This is a commercial spectacle, nothing more."
Harsh words. But Buxton's take lined up neatly with the paddock's mainstream view.
Almost no one believed Kai was ready for F1.
No matter how spectacular he'd been in GP3, GP3 was still just GP3. F1 was a completely different beast. Kai had less than four months of single-seater experience. In their eyes, he was the very definition of a rookie. Putting that kid in an F1 cockpit? Disaster waiting to happen. The ending wrote itself.
Even if it was "just" FP1, Ferrari's move was too reckless.
It wasn't just the media. Other team bosses weren't thrilled either.
Sure, it was only FP1. But what if Kai hit the wall and caused yellows or worse, a red flag? What if he triggered a multi-car pileup, wrecked other people's sessions, damaged equipment, or destroyed someone else's chassis?
Ferrari might be willing to let a rookie run wild in their car. But did they have the right to endanger everyone's weekend?
One Verstappen had already made plenty of enemies. Now they were adding "Baby Verstappen 2.0"?
What the hell was going on?
The world spun. The ground shook.
On social media, Sky Sports dropped the news first. In the comments, someone asked:
"Who is he?"
In under three minutes, there were three thousand replies.
None of them matched.
Each one was more exaggerated and off-base than the last. It was chaos, but one thing was clear: no one had any idea who this "Kai Zhizhou" actually was.
For neutral fans, that was the real needle:
Who the hell is this guy? How did he just drop out of nowhere into a Ferrari F1 seat?
But negativity wasn't alone. The flood of abuse and suspicion rose on one side; on the other, another tide swelled cheers and hype.
Especially from the fans who'd been following GP3 all season.
Their expectations were rising by the day.
"Can't wait to see how Kai performs. Can the God of GP3 handle an F1 car?"
"I'm so happy I could cry. I knew the baby driver was worth it!"
"After Hamilton and Verstappen, are we witnessing another genius arrive?"
Excitement, adrenaline, joy completely overflowing.
Professionals hate surprises. Surprises mean chaos. They like order, procedure, predictability. A clean step-ladder: F3/GP3 → F2 → F1. One rung at a time.
Casual viewers? They thrive on the opposite.
The bigger the surprise, the better the show. Black horses stomping on established order. Underdogs rising. Losers flipping the script, last-second reversals that kind of story always sells. And a genius who breaks the rules? That's peak content.
Now, a whole chunk of the internet was already rubbing their hands together. They wanted Kai to step onto the F1 stage and do what he'd done in GP3 shake everything.
Punch Verstappen. Kick Hamilton. Drag the big names into a knife fight. The more chaotic, the better. They waved flags and spammed memes in his name.
As for the "shortcomings" the professionals listed? To the general audience, those weren't problems they were catalysts.
Who wants to miss a show like that?
Most of them barely knew who Kai was some couldn't even spell his name. But the hunger for drama had already taken over. They were more than ready to cheer this total unknown onto the stage and watch him trigger a storm.
The noise didn't stop. It felt like a never-ending party, no invitation required. After a long, boring summer break, all the bottled-up energy and boredom finally had a target.
The motorsport world was ready for a storm.
In China, the storm was even more visible.
On the trending list of the major platforms, a new tag blasted in at #8, punching straight through the feed.
"Who exactly is Kai Zhizhou?"
Normally, GP3 news never broke out of the hardcore-fan circles. No matter what happened on track, it stayed niche.
Not this time.
This time it wasn't just GP3. It was F1. And not just F1
Ferrari.
That was all it took to break orbit.
After all, this was Ferrari. Even if you didn't know anything about racing, you knew that name.
"After Ma Qinghua, a second Chinese driver is about to step onto the F1 stage."
"A Chinese driver will drive a Ferrari in an official F1 session."
"History in the making Kai Zhizhou is about to set a string of 'firsts.'"
News outlets erupted. One, then two, then five, then ten. Articles, push notifications, opinion pieces. Professionals, normally resigned to shouting into a niche void, suddenly found themselves at the center of a national conversation.
The traffic was insane.
For most Chinese netizens, this was a jump from zero to a hundred. A person they'd never heard of was suddenly representing Ferrari in F1?
It sounded like a fairy tale.
And precisely because it was so unbelievable, people were even more stunned and more curious.
Kai had jumped out of a crack in the rock again, straight into the spotlight.
Once the digging began, the story only got crazier. On the one hand, there was Kai's bizarre, compressed career path. On the other, there was Ferrari's track record.
Since 2014, the FIA had been encouraging teams to give young drivers FP1 chances.
But it was never a hard rule.
Ferrari and Mercedes had always been conservative. They simply did not hand their cars over to rookies. Among the big teams, only Red Bull truly opened the door letting juniors fight through FP1 auditions for a shot at a race seat.
Most of the time, it was the midfield who took the risks.
Last year and this year, Charles Leclerc had appeared in FP1 for Sauber and Haas. This year, George Russell had driven FP1 sessions for Force India.
But now?
Ferrari themselves were opening the door.
They were putting Kai China's first Ferrari-backed F1 hopeful in Räikkönen's car for FP1.
No wonder the entire Chinese internet went nuclear.
Ferrari. Mercedes.
Both old-school. Both stubborn. Neither willing to turn their FP1 slots into a rookie sandbox.
Even the braver midfield teams weren't that generous. Two or three FP1 chances a year was considered a lot.
That was exactly why the Super Licence Commission wanted to hard-wire FP1 opportunities into the rulebook force teams to give juniors track time and build a proper ladder.
But the FIA knew it wouldn't be simple. The politics were tangled. The teams wouldn't agree easily. It would take meetings, bargaining, and compromise.
And now?
Ferrari the most conservative of them all had just gone first. Voluntarily.
What did that mean?
Outsiders watched for fun.
Chinese netizens dove into the chaos, shouting over each other. Who was Kai? What level was GP3? What did FP1 actually represent? Driving for Ferrari did that mean you could basically round it up and call him an F1 driver already?
The chatter was deafening.
For once, motorsport the sport that was neither fully niche nor truly mainstream found itself dead center in the public eye.
Insiders watched the angles.
In the paddock, Toto Wolff, Christian Horner and the rest had already smelled something off.
Ferrari giving a young driver a shot was one thing.
Ferrari giving a young driver a shot in their own car was something else entirely.
If it were purely about development, they could've done what they did with Leclerc: send him to Sauber or Haas for FP1.
But they'd made a different choice.
So, like Buxton had asked was this politics and marketing? Or was there something deeper?
The storm was already massive on the surface.
Underneath, it was far bigger than anyone outside realized.
Friday morning. The moment Kai arrived at Spa, he felt the stares.
At Silverstone, the crowds had been thick, and plenty of fans already knew GP3. There, most of the attention had come from the grandstands.
Here, it was different.
At Spa, the glances were closer. Heavy. Calculating. Curious.
Not from fans. From inside the paddock. Mechanics. Engineers. PRs. Officials. Drivers. The number of "professional eyes" on him had multiplied.
It was like someone had hung a spotlight over his head. Every step, every gesture, every small pause felt amplified, the pressure turning into a wave of heat that prickled on his skin.
It wasn't just psychological. It felt physical. Like walking on blades.
And yet, for all the scrutiny, no one spoke to him.
The looks, the whispers, the rustling all around they blended together, but no one came over to say hi. Not even a nod.
That weird disconnect made the air even heavier.
"Morning!"
A bright voice cut through the tension head-on.
Kai looked up and saw Anthoine Hubert walking toward him, grinning, arms open. He pulled Kai into a big hug.
"Haha, so? Ready?"
Before Kai could answer, a sharp cold snort sliced in from the side.
You didn't need to look to know that gaze was pointed straight at him.
He turned anyway.
Two figures.
Nicholas Latifi. And beside him, Lance Stroll.
Latifi stared at Kai like a vulture eyeing a corpse. No expression on his face, but his eyes were vicious, as if he wanted to tear flesh off his bones.
At first, Latifi had just found Kai annoying. GP3 was beneath him he was in F2. He was the one closer to F1.
But now?
Kai had stepped over him. Ahead of him. Onto F1 asphalt. Into a Ferrari.
Even if it was "just FP1," it was enough to drive Latifi mad with jealousy.
If he could, he'd gladly swing a fist.
Instead, he watched Kai and saw Kai laugh.
A short, derisive chuckle. Unfiltered mockery.
Latifi's blood surged to his head. He clenched his fists and stepped forward
Only to see Kai do the same.
Kai's fists tightened. He didn't flinch. He advanced.
There was a wild, stubborn tenacity in his stance like a weed punching up through concrete. He walked straight at Latifi, daring him to make it physical.
And Latifi… stepped back.
Just a half-step. Just instinct.
But enough.
Kai smiled. Brightly.
Latifi felt like he'd taken a critical hit straight to the soul. His fists unclenched, then clenched again even tighter.
This time, Stroll reached out and grabbed his arm.
"No need to dirty your clothes here," Stroll said calmly. "Drivers fight on track. This isn't a boxing ring."
He gave Kai a quick glance. No glaring. No theatrics. In fact, he even offered a polite smile.
The kind of smile you give when you're careful not to let a stray dog brush against your shoes.
Before Kai could answer, Stroll was already pulling Latifi away.
Latifi snorted coldly and followed, not looking back.
Kai could hear his voice carried on the breeze. "Haha, wait until he shows his true self on track."
Lance Stroll. Like Latifi, Canadian. Like Latifi, a rich kid. But Stroll's father, Lawrence Stroll, was richer, more indulgent, and more obsessed with racing.
Naturally, Lance's path had been smoother.
He'd been in the Ferrari Academy. After winning the 2016 European F3 title, he left and joined Williams for 2017.
In the paddock, everyone knew the price:
Stroll had brought about 80 million dollars in sponsorship to Williams. He'd effectively bought a race seat.
Cash is king.
In the controversy and sneers, Stroll hadn't wavered. He'd set about proving himself.
In Baku, he'd finished third on the podium. The youngest podium finisher since Hamilton, and he'd done it after just eight races, at eighteen years and 235 days.
Latifi was still grinding in F2, watching Kai leapfrog him. Of course he was furious.
Stroll, though?
His eyes were already fixed farther ahead. His target was Verstappen. He didn't see Kai as a rival at all.
Everything would be decided on track.
Hubert watched them walk away, then exhaled.
"Yeah," he said. "That's what I meant earlier. Are you ready?"
"Forget them. They're just jealous. You need to focus on yourself."
Kai thought about it for a second.
"Honestly?" he said. "I kept thinking I wasn't ready. But now…"
"I think I am."
"Huh. Looks like I still don't know myself that well."
Hubert blinked, then broke into helpless laughter.
In this tiny paddock, nothing stayed secret for long. Lately, Kai's rise had made him the center of every conversation. People knew his story by heart. Rumors spread like wildfire.
Which was why the Ferrari announcement had hit like a bomb.
From street racing to GP3 to FP1 in under ten months. Compared to that, Verstappen's path looked almost… tame. Like he'd followed all the rules.
The nitpicking and skepticism couldn't be contained anymore. The storm that had started in GP3 was now ripping through F2 and climbing into F1.
Half the paddock was waiting for Ferrari to faceplant. The other half was waiting for Kai to embarrass himself.
Summer break was over. And they were getting a full-blown premiere on their first day back.
But was it really that simple?
Toto Wolff didn't think so.
Not because he had faith in Kai.
Because he had faith in Ferrari.
He refused to believe Ferrari had suddenly gone brain-dead especially not in a season where Mercedes and Ferrari were locked in a title fight.
If they weren't insane, then it meant they saw something in Kai.
Something worth betting on.
And Wolff had just come off a nasty lesson courtesy of Red Bull.
During the summer break, Christian Horner had played him hard.
Horner had known all along that Wolff was sniffing around Verstappen behind the scenes. Wolff thought Horner's relationship with Marko was strained enough that he'd turn a blind eye to Mercedes poaching Max and that Horner's public praise of Kai had been a signal.
But Horner had flipped the board.
He'd used Kai to apply pressure on Verstappen, not on Mercedes. Partnering with Marko, he'd spent the break pushing Max toward a new deal. They'd put a three-year contract on the table.
Jos Verstappen had been stunned by the sincerity.
F1 is chaos. Lineups change year to year. Seats are never guaranteed.
Most contracts are short. One year is common. Three is already long-term.
Originally, Verstappen had one more year on his deal. Wolff assumed he had time.
Horner had seen through him early. He hadn't let personal grudges cloud his judgment. He'd allowed Wolff to make his moves, used Kai as a "threat," then, when the moment was right, hit back hard.
Now, Jos and Max were genuinely tempted.
Even if the ink wasn't dry yet, Red Bull had seized the initiative again.
Meanwhile, Ferrari and Mercedes both had entrenched #1 drivers Hamilton and Vettel. At Red Bull, Verstappen had star billing. If he jumped ship, he'd lose that status.
Jos would do that math.
So Red Bull were back in control.
Wolff, on the other hand, was forced to reshuffle his plans.
And right then, Kai appeared in red.
On the one hand, Verstappen had become more expensive. More complicated. Wolff had to widen his options for Mercedes' future Russell was one candidate, Kai another, and there were more names in his pocket. He'd never put all his eggs in one basket.
On the other hand, if Ferrari were willing to invest heavily in Kai, then Mercedes couldn't ignore that.
They'd just finished a power struggle with Red Bull. If Ferrari were now joining the chessboard too…
Then the war for the future had already started.
On the outside, Wolff looked the same as always calm, composed, steady.
On the inside, he knew:
Spa FP1 had just become compulsory viewing. Horner, for all his hatred of Wolff, was the same type of animal. And he'd noticed the same thing.
Red Bull's cards were on the table: their bet remained Verstappen.
But Kai…
Kai needed watching.
Before the break, Horner had treated him purely as a prop a whip to keep Max sharp. But things had shifted.
For the first time, he was looking at the "baby driver" seriously.
Ferrari didn't lose their minds over nothing. Well… on track, maybe. But with driver choices?
They were usually solid.
So maybe this baby driver really did have something. Something Verstappen-level.
Horner put a small question mark next to Kai's name.
And it wasn't just the big three. It wasn't just Zak Brown at McLaren or Cyril Abiteboul at Renault.
Guenther Steiner, Haas team principal, strolled into the paddock humming.
Literally humming.
He greeted everyone on the way, light on his feet. Normally he swore like a sailor, but today he was pure sunshine. Even his walk was a series of little bouncy steps.
When Ferrari had first floated "Kai to Haas for next season," Steiner had said no.
Yes, Haas and Ferrari had a close technical partnership. But Haas was still an independent team with its own goals. Gene Haas loved racing, and that passion rolled downhill onto Steiner's shoulders.
Steiner did not want to run a kindergarten for Ferrari.
He had no interest in raising baby drivers.
But things had taken a turn.
And now it seemed that baby had some serious teeth. Ferrari clearly had no intention of dumping the development burden on Haas.
Which meant?
Haas might be able to pick up a high-upside young driver…
At a discount.
That was a sweet deal.
Steiner practically skipped past the Ferrari garage, about to stick his head in, when he locked eyes with Vettel.
The look he got back was glacial. A cold sharpness that felt like a knife pressed between his shoulder blades.
Steiner whistled under his breath, gave Vettel a polite smile, and kept walking.
Sometimes, retreat really was the better part of valor.
Vettel's face was expressionless. Cold.
In the humid, suffocating garage, he managed to summon a chill.
Sylvia Hof-Frankipeni walked into this scene.
She and Steiner exchanged a nod from a distance, but there was no time for chitchat. She focused in on Vettel's posture, braced herself, and stepped forward.
She didn't want this job. But it was hers.
If they wanted to fight for the title, they couldn't afford fractures inside the team.
Arrivabene was furious.
If he didn't care about appearances, he would've exploded already screaming in the paddock, overturning tables, giving the media a feast.
He hated the FP1 decision. He saw it as internal interference borderline betrayal.
The language he'd used in private was not suitable for public consumption. Sylvia, as a professional, had already erased those words from her memory.
She didn't understand why anyone would get this worked up over a single FP1.
But she could see the split between Arrivabene and Marchionne. Two iron-fisted men heading for a collision.
She and the rest were ants on the battlefield. One stray step and they'd be crushed.
What she feared wasn't an outright break. She feared those cracks costing them a championship.
So she needed to keep a lid on it.
She'd just come from Arrivabene's office. Now, without pause, she headed for the pit box.
Räikkönen's FP1 seat would be taken by Kai, so Kimi could arrive late and just study the data.
Vettel didn't have that luxury. He still had to run FP1. He'd been in the paddock since early morning.
Now Sylvia needed to cool him down and refocus him. No distractions. No spirals. Just the weekend's work.
Summer break was over. Mercedes were charging hard. The silver-red title fight was only going to intensify.
There would be no forgiveness for mistakes.
Sylvia had her own particular brand of influence part fire, part honey. She didn't need speeches or emotional manipulation. A few light lines and a half-joke later, the mood in the garage loosened. Vettel's tense jaw unclenched.
He smiled again. Then, before Sylvia could relax, his smile vanished.
His face went neutral. No expression at all.
Sylvia's heart sank. She followed his line of sight.
A tall, lean teenager in red walked toward them, full of that particular energy only youth has. The Ferrari race suit made his tan skin and black hair stand out even more. His eyes were dark, clear, and bright.
The kind of lively, radiant presence you couldn't help but look at.
Even Sylvia found herself glancing twice.
Then she caught herself and looked quickly at Vettel.
The whine of tools and engines filled the air as the young man's voice cut through, clear and earnest.
"Good morning," he said. "I'm Kai Zhizhou. I'll be driving car #7 in FP1 today. I look forward to working with you."
Not arrogant. Not grovelling.
Polite. Sincere. Excited but controlled.
He made a strong first impression. No cocky swagger, no "I've arrived" ego. Just pure focus and happiness at getting to drive an F1 car.
Dream shining in his eyes. Who could really resent that?
Sylvia glanced anxiously at Vettel.
If he exploded now, all her work would go up in smoke.
But Vettel didn't flare up. He gave a small nod. "Morning," he said. Not warm. But not hostile. Just professional courtesy. Then nothing more.
Vettel looked away, walked back to his own engineers, and went right back into his routine.
Sylvia blinked, then turned a bright smile on Kai.
"Nervous?" she asked. "Don't worry. No need to be. It's only the entire paddock watching you. Oh, and Norris. He gets to share maybe ten percent of the attention. The rest is all yours."
"Relax. It's just Ferrari, after all."
Her teasing lit up the garage. Laughter rolled through, and Kai's own smile widened.
Sylvia gave him a pat on the shoulder, a quick look of encouragement, and then trotted after Vettel, eyes hopeful.
He chuckled.
"Sylvia, relax," he said. "I'm not a kid anymore."
Sylvia opened her eyes wide. "Excuse me, I'm still young. Sebastian, are you implying I'm old?"
He laughed and declined to answer, glancing once more toward Kai.
"I've no reason to pick on a kid," he said. "Look at that face. Still a baby. Probably just weaned."
"And besides, I trust Kimi. We should have some faith in him, don't you think?"
This was Vettel's tenth year in F1. He'd seen storms come and go. A rookie in FP1 wasn't going to knock him off balance.
He didn't like the situation. That was one thing. But losing his head over it? That was another. He also knew driver changes weren't simple.
Kimi was calm, unbothered. If Räikkönen wasn't panicking, why should he?
Let the track do the talking. And the politics. Vettel turned away, voice light. "Let's see what happens in practice first."
It was just one FP1. It couldn't change everything overnight. And even with the opportunity given, whether Kai could seize it was another matter entirely.
Sylvia exhaled slowly. The pit's atmosphere had settled. Everyone had returned to business, to procedure, to their roles.
That was all she needed for now.
She didn't care about knife fights in the shadows. She cared about championships.
And she needed everyone on the same page.
Her eyes slid back to Kai.
Even she hadn't noticed when a faint note of anticipation crept in.
Clearly, she wasn't alone.
On the other side of the world, in Shanghai, in a tiny flat inside a regular neighborhood, a group of people crowded around a TV.
"Mom!" Song Bo yelled. "Hurry up! He's about to come out!"
From the adjoining room, Zhang Qiaomu came in carrying a tray of watermelon. "Coming, coming! Didn't you say there was still time? Kai's on already?"
The little apartment was packed full. People squeezed shoulder to shoulder, all eyes locked on the small TV like ten years ago, when televisions weren't common and whole stairwells crammed in to watch the Olympics.
Jiang Mo was nervous.
This was her first live broadcast. It wasn't a replay, not a delayed highlight package. This was now. Out there, in faraway Belgium, Kai was getting ready to hit the track.
And no one knew what would happen next.
Her heart was squeezed tight. Excitement tangled helplessly with dread and refused to let go.
She knew she shouldn't be ruled by fear. She knew she should be objective, calm.
But for once, she couldn't manage it.
She worried about crashes. About accidents. About the word no parent wanted to say out loud.
This was F1, not GP3. Three hundred kilometers an hour. A human inside a missile, dancing on the edge of the mechanical limit.
And that human was her child.
She had a sudden urge to get up and leave to walk away from the TV, to go somewhere she couldn't see any of it. If she didn't watch, she couldn't imagine the worst.
"…No, it's not the same," someone was saying.
"GP3 only has one practice session, forty-five minutes. F1 has three. The first two are ninety minutes, the third is sixty."
The room buzzed. Not just the Lu and Song families two more households had joined the crush. The space felt like a New Year's Eve reunion.
For once, the "problem child" Song Bo had his moment. Face flushed, arms waving, he lectured like a professor.
Zhang Qiaomu peeked in, listened for a second, and snorted.
"So complicated? Isn't it just getting used to the track? Why act like it's three rounds of mock exams?"
Song Bo threw his hands up.
"Mom, you don't get it!"
"Each FP session has its own focus. They're completely different!"
"FP1 is for track familiarization, baseline setup, tyre and aero data gathering, that kind of thing."
"FP2 is where you optimize setup based on conditions, simulate qualifying and race runs, get precise long-run data."
"FP3 is final tweaks and fine-tuning before quali."
"It all links together. One step at a time "
From the side, Song Yan chimed in. "So… Kai is just a lab rat out there?"
Song Bo glared. "What do you mean, 'lab rat' "
He launched into another impassioned defence, but Zhang Qiaomu didn't stay to listen. She edged through the crowd and slipped to Jiang Mo's side.
Jiang's hand, resting on her knee, was ice cold.
Not a hint of warmth.
Qiaomu wasn't surprised. She patted it gently and smiled.
"He'll be fine," she said.
"He's always known exactly what he's doing."
"Remember when he was five? When you were in the hospital?"
At once, Jiang froze. Qiaomu had never told this story.
"Lu Cheng was with you in the hospital, completely swamped. So Kai stayed with us."
"He was so well-behaved. Ate on his own, woke up on his own, made his own bed. Never caused trouble. You didn't have to worry about him at all."
"Until one night, I was passing the bathroom and heard crying under the shower."
"I stood outside and my heart just… broke. I didn't know what to do. Eventually I couldn't help it, so I asked him, really gently, what was wrong."
"He said he was worried about you. But he didn't dare let you know, because then you'd worry about him. And you needed all your strength to get better."
The memory still stung. Even now, Qiaomu's nose prickled.
She squeezed Jiang's hand.
"Trust him," she said. "He knows what he's doing."
Jiang's emotions surged bitter, sour, proud, afraid all at once. Before she could sort any of them out
The room erupted.
She missed a beat. Her heart jumped into her throat.
Instinctively, she looked at the TV.
On screen, filling the frame, was Kai's face behind his visor. The Chinese broadcaster on CCTV-5 sounded like he'd just had five cups of coffee.
"…And this is him Kai Zhizhou, the Chinese driver who will represent Ferrari in FP1 at Spa. We are witnessing history."
"For only the second time ever, a Chinese driver is taking part in an official F1 session, after Ma Qinghua's debut years ago."
"Right now he's racing in GP3 with ART. He's undefeated in Feature Races this season, and apart from a P4 in Hungary's Sprint Race, he's been on the podium in every Sprint as well. He leads the standings by a huge margin…"
The commentary rattled on like a machine gun, every word soaked in excitement.
CCTV-5 almost never treated FP1 like this. But today, they were giving it full race-level coverage.
Jiang stared at the screen.
Kai's visor was still up. His eyes were visible.
Bright, but calm. Focused, steady. The fighting spirit that blazed so hot in battle now sank deeper, turning into something quieter and more powerful.
His eyes were like stars reflected on still water.
A quiet, unshakable confidence seeped through the screen, across oceans and continents, straight into her chest.
Before she knew it, Jiang clenched her fist.
Her nerves didn't vanish. But they were no longer in control.
Inside the cockpit, Kai was doing his best to calm down.
He couldn't be too tense, but he couldn't be too hyped either. He needed to land in that narrow band called focus.
Not easy.
When Nicolas Todt had first called to tell him he would be driving Ferrari in FP1, he'd had a brief spike of wild excitement.
Then he'd cooled. Back to training. Back to routine. The meaning of it all was huge but distant, somehow.
It felt like a story written about someone else.
"It's just F1," he'd told himself. "You've already raced GP3. You know the F1 simulator. You've tested next year's Ferrari. It's just an FP1. No need to freak out."
And that had worked.
Until now.
Until he was here. In the Spa paddock. In the red car.
In this seat.
With this engine idling behind him.
His heart had gone berserk. Even he couldn't quite believe it.
Ten months ago, he'd been tearing up streets illegally. Now he was sitting in a Ferrari, in F1, at Spa.
Unreal and yet, the vibration in his bones was all too real.
The engine's roar pressed on his ears like a storm. The screeching reality of it all slid down his throat like a lump of ice and dropped into his stomach.
Heavy. So heavy it felt like gravity had doubled.
Thump. Thump.
His heartbeat hammered in his chest. The rumble of the engine merged with it until it drowned out every other sound.
He didn't fight it.
He relaxed into it. Let himself feel everything: the nerves, the thrill, the weight. He wanted to remember this moment, to carve it into his bones.
He sank deeper, like a diver descending into the ocean, reaching for the pulse of the Earth.
The car vibrated around him.
He could feel it, trembling faintly through his fingers, his feet, his spine. The car became an extension of his nerves, his senses stretching out through carbon fibre and metal.
This was what he'd been chasing.
"The light is green," the commentator shouted. "FP1 at Spa for the 2017 Belgian Grand Prix is underway. And we are witnessing history only the second time a Chinese driver has taken part in an official F1 session. Seventeen-year-old Kai Zhizhou is about to take world champion Kimi Räikkönen's #7 Ferrari onto the track!"
All the noise dissolved. All the pressure melted into the background. There was only him and the Ferrari.
"Kai, if you're ready, you can leave the pit lane now."
A voice crackled in his ear through the radio, pulling him back up to the surface.
He breathed out. "Copy," he replied.
He dipped the clutch and gently squeezed the throttle.
~~----------------------
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