Crust held a slight advantage over Alan Marti. Just a couple of seconds ahead, but enough to stay in front. The two of them seemed to be racing only against each other; the third driver was already a full lap behind Alan, almost an entire circuit away from catching him.
Alan Marti managed to overtake Crust for a few seconds before Crust reclaimed the lead. But only for a moment—then he was behind again.
"What are we witnessing here?" the commentator said. "Christopher Crust refuses to give in. He's putting up a tremendous fight against the Champion of Barcelona. What's this? On the penultimate lap, Alan Marti has just broken the Marbella Belderébè track record. Who would have thought it? He's beaten his own record. It's official: one of these two is going to finish this race with the fastest lap ever recorded on this circuit."
Crust listened carefully as he watched the driver ahead of him, then overtook him once again, pulling a few meters clear. The corner was coming up. Alan Marti was preparing for it, while Crust—almost as if he didn't care—was slowing down to take it. Crust exited the corner flawlessly, without the slightest trouble, before Marti had even entered it.
Suddenly, Alan began to feel nervous. He was losing a bit of stability. For a brief fraction of a second, he focused more on Crust than on his own car—and that was when he lost control. The brakes were not enough. The car spun through the air, tearing part of the bodywork apart, and slammed into one of the walls.
The red flag came out and everyone stopped. Crust, who was the closest, leaned part of his body out over the halo.
"Get back in or they'll penalize you," Sue shouted.
"I just want to know if he's okay."
"He's not responding," she added. "He seems unconscious. The paramedics will be there any second."
They pulled Alan out of the car. There was some blood coming from his head—something had struck him—but he regained consciousness almost immediately. There was no chance he could continue. He tried to protest, but he could barely get a few words out.
"All drivers to position," the broadcast continued. "Alan Marti's vital signs are stable, but he will not rejoin the race. It's unfortunate. At least his record will stand, and no new record set after the restart will replace it."
"You're not getting that record now, pretty boy," Tyler said over the private radio channel. His tone was unmistakably sarcastic. "You won't humiliate him enough."
After Alan Marti's Lynx car was completely cleared from the track—and after the long delay that took—ninety seconds later the green flag waved and the race resumed.
Crust won.
His final lap was so fast it surpassed every lap Alan Marti had set before the crash. He finished the race with twenty-six points: twenty-five for the win, plus one bonus point for the fastest lap. That bonus point, which until then had belonged to Alan—the only point the Spaniard could have earned—was taken by Crust as well.
"Do you think Alan Marti would have won if it weren't for the accident?" the press asked Crust.
"We're elite drivers," Crust replied. "There are no accidents in this sport—only mistakes, and we all make them constantly. I hope nothing serious happened to him, and if something did, I hope he recovers soon. But Alan Marti wouldn't have beaten me. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. I'm sure that if we had finished the race properly, I would be the champion in Barcelona right now, not him."
"The record still belongs to Alan Marti," Diego Valcázar said. He was second place, Marti's teammate at Lynx.
Crust noticed that Tyler, who finished third, didn't even look at him. If even Tyler thought his words were out of place, then he had clearly messed up.
"He wasn't arrogant," the headlines in Barcelona said when Crust got to his room and turned on the TV. "He simply told the truth—let's admit it. If you're afraid of corners, you shouldn't be driving a single-seater. Alan Marti is doing well; it was only a scare, but he has a dislocated shoulder. He will not participate in the Milan Grand Prix and will be replaced by Mar Soldevilla, the newly signed reserve driver. If he does not recover in time for the Lyon Grand Prix, he will be replaced again. However, Lynx insists there is no doubt he will recover fully and be ready for Lyon."
At that very moment, both of them were staring at their phones.
Crust felt guilty.
Marti felt powerless.
As Crust scrolled, he came across TikToks criticizing him—people saying he lacked empathy, that he was simply toxic competition. Others praised him openly. There were many people—far too many—reacting positively. Memes even popped up, making him laugh despite himself. Still, beneath it all, the guilt remained.
Alan, meanwhile, was scrolling through TikTok as well. He worried people would talk badly about him, or speculate about the WorldCup, but he barely saw his name mentioned at all. Everything was about Crust. Everywhere. Posts with hundreds of thousands of likes. He was almost overwhelmed by how Crust seemed to be everywhere.
He had the highest podium.
And Crust with barely sixty-five points was overshadowing him everywhere.
At the Milan Grand Prix, Crust won again. The crowd in Milan celebrated him wildly. Serena's team didn't even make it onto the podium—they won nothing. It was strange to see such enthusiasm for a driver from a non-Italian team in Italy. Social media was full of it, people recording themselves cheering for Crust.
"Do you already miss Alan Marti?" the presenter joked.
Crust hesitated, unsure whether to answer. He thought it might be best not to make another mistake—but he spoke anyway.
"Honestly, yes. I feel like I found real, healthy competition in him."
"It always happens," the presenter replied. "Every season has someone who pushes you."
"See you in Lyon," Crust said, looking straight into the camera.
There was no doubt who he was talking to.