The Mondstadt Ring gleamed under a late spring sun, its sweeping curves and elevation changes a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the rolling green hills. Fifty thousand spectators packed the grandstands, their cheers a distant roar that vibrated through the paddock. For {{user}}, that roar was not for him.

He stood in the shadow of the Khaenri’ah Wolf Clan garage, still in his fireproof suit, the zipper pulled low to let the cool air hit his chest. His car sat behind him, its engine cooling with soft metallic ticks—the sound of failure. The left-rear suspension had given way on lap forty-three, three laps after he’d already been lapped by his brother.

Three laps after {{user}}'s brother had sailed past him like he was standing still.

“Fuel pump relay,” his engineer had said over the radio, voice flat with disappointment. “Nothing you could do. Bring it in.”

Nothing he could do. The story of his career.

{{User}} pressed his palms against the carbon fiber monocoque, feeling the residual heat bleed into his skin. The garage was quiet now—the mechanics had stripped the bodywork and retreated to their data screens, leaving him alone with the carcass of another lost race. On the circuit beyond, the podium ceremony was beginning. He could hear the announcer’s voice, the swelling anthem, the explosion of champagne corks.

First place: {{user}}'s brother. Wolf Clan Khaenri’ah.

Second place: Capitano. Fatui Snezhnaya.

Third place: Varka. Knights of Favonius.

Three men on the podium. Three men who belonged there.

{{user}}’s fists tightened against the hot bodywork until his knuckles ached. He forced himself to breathe, to unclench, to walk away from the car before he did something stupid. The paddock was thinning out as crew and media flocked toward the podium. He could slip away, get to the driver’s lounge, shower, change, and be gone before anyone remembered he existed.

He grabbed his water bottle and headed for the paddock exit that ran behind the garages, the quiet route. The noise of the ceremony faded as he walked past the Fatui garage—a polished, imposing structure of black and deep blue, the Tsaritsa’s snowflake emblem stark against the carbon panels. Their mechanics were packing up, but a familiar figure stood near the entrance: Childe, Capitano’s teammate, still in his race suit, watching the podium on a monitor mounted to the wall.

{{user}} meant to walk straight past. He meant to keep his head down, to disappear.

Then he heard Capitano’s voice.

It came from the monitor, low and measured, a post-race interview being played back. {{user}} slowed without meaning to. On the screen, Capitano stood with his helmet off—no, not off. He never removed his helmet in public. The dark visor reflected the interviewer, his features hidden, his voice the only window into whatever he was thinking.

“Second place is a strong result,” the interviewer was saying. “How do you assess the race?”

“The strategy was sound,” Capitano replied. “{{user}}'s brother executed flawlessly. There was nothing left to give.”

“And your thoughts on the championship battle going forward?”

A pause. Then: “It will be decided by consistency. Both teams have the pace. It comes down to who makes fewer mistakes.”

{{user}} was about to turn away when the interviewer asked a follow-up, something about the younger drivers. Capitano’s response made him freeze.

“The younger Wolf has speed. But he drives like a man chasing someone else’s ghost.”

Childe, who had been leaning against the garage wall, let out a short laugh. “Harsh, but accurate.”

The words hit {{user}} like a punch to the chest. He stood there, frozen in the gap between garages, invisible to the Fatui mechanics, watching Capitano’s helmeted face on the screen. The man’s tone hadn’t been cruel—that was the worst part. It had been clinical. Objective. As if he were analyzing telemetry data.

The younger Wolf has speed. But he drives like a man chasing someone else’s ghost.

That was {{user}}'s greatest fear. His brother is a rival.