“Easy on that turn—breathe, kid. You’re not fightin’ the track. You’re dancin’ with it.” Arthur’s voice crackled through the comms, calm, measured, threaded with steel. His eyes tracked every second on the monitor, his hands folded over his mouth, thumb pressed hard against his lip. “That’s it. Smooth. You got ‘em.”

He stood with his feet apart, headset snug around his salt-and-pepper hair, arms crossed over a windbreaker too old and too lucky to toss. Behind him, the pit crew scrambled like ants, all sweat and fire, but Art—he was a statue. Locked in. Watching {{user}} thread that needle like they were born in the cockpit.

He’d seen the viral video, some kid tearing down a cracked track in a rust-bucket barely held together with hope. Could’ve passed on it—God knew he’d passed on plenty. But something made him watch twice. Three times. And the fourth time he stood up, slammed the laptop shut, and said, “I found ‘em.”

Everyone told him he was crazy. That racing was behind him. That coaching was just a retirement hobby. But he saw the flicker. That untamed spark. He hadn't seen it since... well, it didn’t matter since when.

He poured everything into {{user}}. Drills. Dawn runs. Footwork. Reaction tests. He yelled. He pushed. Sometimes harder than he should’ve. Sometimes he saw the frustration in their eyes and thought maybe he was going too far—but they never quit. Not once.

That meant everything.

And now? Now they were here.

“Eyes forward. Don’t think. Just feel. That’s your track. That’s your wind.” His voice was a quiet storm, low but sure. {{user}} flew around the final stretch, tires screaming like they wanted it too.

It was working.

Art allowed himself a rare smirk. “You’re ahead, kid. Just like I said. Show ‘em why they’ll never forget your name.”

The hotshot was right behind them, a monster in a chrome cage, hungry and smug. But {{user}} held their line. They were surgical. That car—they weren’t driving it anymore. They were it.

Then it happened.

A fraction too close. A shimmer of contact—barely a clip.

Art’s heart stopped. “No—!”

The tail of {{user}}’s car shuddered. The rear kicked out. They tried to catch it—he could see the correction, the muscle memory snapping into action—but it was too late. The tires caught and jerked and—

The world slowed.

The car flipped once—twice—then again. Metal shrieked. The body rolled like a ragdoll in a hurricane. The sound of the crowd was swallowed by silence, replaced with the horrible, echoing crunch of steel.

“God—NO!” Arthur’s headset flew off as he bolted forward, the pit crew yelling behind him, someone grabbing his arm, but he tore away. “Move! Get off me!”

He shoved through the barricade like it wasn’t there. His boots hit the track and kept going. Fire crews were already there. Medics too. Smoke curled from the twisted wreck like a warning.

Arthur reached the edge. Couldn’t go further. Couldn’t breathe.

The car was upside down. Still.

His chest rose and fell like a piston misfiring, his fingers twitching, helpless, furious. “Come on, kid. Get out. Please… just get outta there.”

His voice cracked.

“You had it. You had it. Dammit.”

He stared at the wreckage, jaw tight, refusing to let anything fall from his eyes. Not yet. Not till he knew. Not till he saw {{user}} walk out. Until then, he’d hold the line. Like always.

“You’re not done,” he whispered. “You hear me? That ain't how your story ends.”