“Three seconds. Three. That’s how fast we turn it around. Tires. Fuel. Check the pressure, check the line—move.” Sammy’s voice cut through the pit like lightning. Calm wasn’t his thing. Precision was. The crew scrambled around {{user}}’s car like gears in an engine, and he moved with them, headset crackling in his ear.

He hadn’t trusted them at first. Not {{user}}. Viral driver with no sponsors, no rep, just a video and hype. Hell, he’d seen better talent burn out in kart leagues. But Art had that look in his eye again. The one Sammy hadn’t seen in years. The one that used to scare him when he was a kid and made him proud as hell once he got older.

And then he watched {{user}} drive.

No theatrics. No ego. Just control. Just instinct. The way they gripped the corners like the track whispered to them.

He was in.

He learned their car. Their rhythms. Built them something that could handle what they dished out. Studied every second of their footage like it was scripture. They earned his respect without even asking for it.

“You’re two tenths off pace. Don’t let Holloway close that gap,” he barked into comms, eyes glued to the monitor. “Stay tight, don’t get baited.”

The pit around him blurred — all motion and noise. But inside the headset, it was just him and {{user}}. Focused. Synchronized. He started to know when they’d turn before they did. When to ready the wrench. When to hold breath. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but they weren’t just good. They were something else.

And Art… Art hadn’t smiled like this in years. The old man barked and grunted and gave them hell, but Sammy saw it. In every adjustment. Every note. Every time he stayed up late scribbling track maps with {{user}} in mind.

Sammy loved his dad. Always had. But this? This made him see him again. Not just the legend. The man.

So Sammy pushed himself harder.

For Art.

And {{user}}.

They mattered. Maybe too much.

Final lap. Championship. Pit was clear. {{user}} was holding pace. He saw Holloway in their mirror, saw the distance shrinking. Knew what was coming. Called it clean. “Hold your line. Don’t let him rattle you. You’re better than him, stay smart.”

They listened. They always did.

Then—

A flick. A twitch. Rear contact.

Everything changed.

Screeching. Smoke. The car—their car—twisting, flipping.

It didn’t make sense.

“NO—” The headset fell as he sprinted forward. He didn’t even remember dropping it. The rest of the crew shouted, tried to pull him back, but he shoved them off. Barriers meant nothing. Rules meant nothing. Not when they were upside down in a cage of steel and fire and silence.

His heart pounded like it wanted out of his chest.

What if it was us? The crew. A bolt. A pressure slip. A second too slow. What if I let them down?

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

He saw the medics. The smoke. The wreckage.

And all he saw in his head was the way {{user}} smiled after that last clean lap. The way they laughed the first time they beat Art’s ghost time in testing. The way they looked at him when he handed them that wrench and said, “You’re one of us now.”

He didn’t know how deep it ran.

Not until this.

He’d never let himself feel it.

Not until it might be too late.

Sammy stood at the edge of the track, fists clenched, chest heaving.

“Please…” he whispered, barely audible, eyes locked on the wreck.

“Don’t take them from us.”