The engine roared in waves that rattled through the bones. Every vibration crawled into the bloodstream, crashing against the eardrums. Wind pressed against the cockpit in fast, heavy bursts, and the sensation of speed tingled over the skin like static.
Every bump in the surface, every shift in elevation, every change in camber traveled through the steering wheel and pedals. Kai felt the circuit beneath him as if he were running across it barefoot, using instinct to trace every contour and every curve. His heartbeat matched the rhythm of the track, and his senses sharpened until man and machine fused completely.
Speed climbed. Adrenaline surged. For a moment, it felt as though he could tear free from gravity itself, as if the limits of physics were slipping off layer by layer.
Until a blue and white Williams appeared ahead.
Car 18. Lance Stroll.
Stroll glanced into his mirrors. Through the last few corners, he had watched the Ferrari No. 7 creeping closer, gaining pace with unsettling intent. He had to bite back the urge to roll his eyes.
This was not qualifying. Not a race. This was barely the start of Free Practice 1. Drivers should be building rhythm, learning the track, syncing with their engineers.
Yet that rookie in the Ferrari had decided to push already. A child who had never driven Spa before was trying to set pace like an idiot.
Stroll settled into his line with petty satisfaction. No space. No favors. If the baby wanted speed, he could go find it somewhere else.
From straight to corner to straight again, Stroll closed every door. The Williams lacked Ferrari's raw pace, but experience at Spa was enough to hold the line and stall No. 7's momentum.
He chuckled under his breath, enjoying himself.
Two laps into FP1, the rest of the field was either warming tires or gathering baseline data. The broadcast simply showed cars circulating calmly. Then, suddenly, the cameras picked up a scrap between No. 18 and No. 7, confusing even the commentators.
Before they could react, No. 7 stuck close through the final corner. A perfect angle, a clean throttle application, and Ferrari's exit speed snapped onto the Williams like a hook.
Stroll braced to break the tow, but the rookie struck first.
A sharp move. Full throttle. No hesitation.
A streak of red shot past him.
Stroll stared in disbelief. Being overtaken was not the issue. The Ferrari was simply faster. What stunned him was the rookie's sheer insanity, pushing like it was the race start of his life.
One mistake at Spa and the wall would be waiting.
But the red car was already gone.
Kai paid Stroll no mind. The Williams was irrelevant. Even the Ferrari pit wall was pushed out of his thoughts. Everything centered on the next sector.
Eau Rouge and Raidillon.
Spa's legendary sequence of corners.
The left turn at Eau Rouge, the right flick climbing uphill, the blind crest at Raidillon. Together, they formed the most iconic challenge on the circuit. Carrying speed through here determined the pace onto the Kemmel Straight, where speeds could exceed 320 kilometers per hour.
If one wanted to chase the limits of speed, this was the place to dance with the devil.
Kai accelerated downhill, the forty-meter drop helping the Ferrari build momentum. Gravity and engine power fused into a single force as he dove into Eau Rouge.
Left. Right. Left.
The car flowed through the S-shaped arc without lift. No unnecessary steering input, no wasted movement. Just clean, precise adjustments. The car skimmed the inside line like a blade tracing a perfect curve.
At the crest, the Ferrari snapped forward. Kai pushed the throttle fully open, flinging No. 7 onto the Kemmel Straight like an arrow loosed from a bowstring.
The world blurred.
The forest split apart under the rush of speed, a streak of red tearing through the green. Sound collapsed into a single booming note. Everything narrowed into a tunnel of velocity that swallowed thought whole.
Three hundred kilometers per hour.
Three hundred ten.
Three hundred twenty.
At three hundred twenty-eight kilometers per hour, the world seemed to stop. No sound. No heartbeat. Only a streak of red burning across the straight.
His nerves ignited. Every pore opened. His scalp tingled. It felt like fireworks exploding behind his eyes or auroras crashing across the sky. A breathtaking, indescribable thrill.
And then he tore himself out of it.
One heartbeat. One breath. Gravity slammed back down. The G forces crushed him into the seat, squeezing the air out of his lungs.
He braked hard, threw the car into Les Combes, and carved cleanly through the next set of corners before finally easing off.
And he laughed.
A bright, unrestrained laugh that burst out of him like a shout of freedom.
Yes. He had done it on purpose.
He had wanted to feel the true essence of Spa. The raw speed. The danger. The soul of the circuit. It was reckless. It was foolish. But it was pure.
Back at the Ferrari pit wall, race engineer David Greenwood stared at the monitors in absolute confusion. Was the rookie trying to set a lap? Was he just playing? Why attack the most dangerous corners on his first attempt, only to abandon the lap halfway through?
Was he insane?
Greenwood could already imagine the headlines. Ferrari had let a child loose at Spa. If the kid hit the wall, their entire weekend would be ruined. Greenwood felt physically ill just thinking about it.
And yet he said nothing. Not out of patience, but habit. Years with Kimi Raikkonen had conditioned him to speak only when necessary, never to interrupt unless something was on fire. He held his tongue and let the rookie tire himself out.
But then the radio crackled.
"David, Räikkönen's rear wing angle is too low for Eau Rouge. The rear steps out at entry. We may need two more degrees of downforce. But we cannot lose too much top speed on Kemmel."
Greenwood froze.
His reflex kicked in. He checked the data.
The rookie was right.
"Copy."
Another message arrived almost immediately.
"Sector two grip feels good, but the braking point into the Bus Stop is soft. Brake bias needs adjustment."
Greenwood stared at the radio in disbelief.
This kid had been flat-out through Eau Rouge, laughing like a maniac, and still managed to collect detailed feedback?
He barely had time to process this before the technical engineers contacted him.
"David, the rookie's feedback matches the metrics. We will adjust the aero and suspension. If everything works, we can port the settings to Sebastian. His feedback has been vague all morning. This saves us thirty minutes."
Greenwood could only mumble, "Copy."
His world was collapsing.
He called Kai in for new tires. The Ferrari rolled into the pit box smoothly, the rookie climbing out to speak with the engineers with perfect clarity.
Front tires overheating at Pouhon. Rear stability imbalances between sector two and the Bus Stop. Brake distribution misaligned. Everything was clean, efficient, and dead-on.
Technical staff from Vettel's side drifted over to ask questions. Kai responded as if he had been doing this for years.
Within minutes, the pit lane around car No. 7 became a miniature workshop of focused, rapid adjustments. The atmosphere shifted from tense curiosity to energetic efficiency.
Someone joked about soft tires melting like cotton candy. Laughter rippled across the Ferrari garage.
Kai put his helmet back on with a small smile.
Time to go again.
Across the pit lane, Toto Wolff and the Mercedes staff exchanged baffled looks as the Ferrari garage erupted in another round of laughter.
Whatever that kid was doing, it clearly was not normal.
Kai drove back out on soft tires, the Ferrari slicing into the track once more.
For casual viewers, FP1 was dull. Cars went around and around with no clear purpose. Zhang Qiaomu and Jiang Mo watched the screen without understanding the data sheets, the setups, or the strategy. They perked up only when the camera found the red car.
But inside the cockpit, Kai was rediscovering the beauty of racing. This was the first time he was truly experiencing what made Formula One a different universe.
Downforce. Brake modulation. Tire management. Aero balance. Stint plans.
And the tires. Especially the tires.
Soft, supersoft, ultrasoft. Grip versus degradation. Surface temperature versus carcass temperature. The real chess match of motorsport.
This was far beyond the simplicity of GP3.
And yet, the more Kai learned, the more he felt alive.
But elsewhere on the track, a roar went through the grandstands.
"Verstappen is pushing."
"Fantastic. First into the 1:47s."
The crowd erupted. A shockwave of excitement burst across social media.
And the session was only beginning.
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