Prologue

It was raining that day.

Spa-Francorchamps Circuit, Belgium. The 2027 Belgian Grand Prix — seven laps remaining.

Beyond the visor, the world was nothing but gray.

The spray kicked up by the car ahead loomed like a great wall, and he bored into that wall at three hundred kilometers per hour.

…Visibility is shot.

Only one thing was visible: the red taillight of the car ahead, blinking through the watery murk. Trusting that single point of light, he buried the throttle.

The engineer's voice echoed inside his helmet.

P11. One place outside the points. One more place, and it was a point — a single point. But for Kim Yihyeon right now, that one point was everything.

Two years earlier, Kim Yihyeon ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had been sitting in the silver race car of Mercedes — one of the four teams that ruled Formula 1. He was eighteen at the time, and more than that: he was the first Korean driver in F1 history.

The headlines from those days still burned behind his eyes.

And then, exactly one year later.

And so the car he sat in now belonged to a team buried at the very bottom of the grid. Tenth in the Constructors' Championship. One point for the entire season — and not even his point; his teammate had scored it.

For a moment, the team principal's words drifted through his ears.

"Points, results — whatever it is, you have to show me something, Kim. That's the only way I can guarantee your seat."

It was happening again. It had happened before. It was always like this.

It had all begun with the announcement that the seven-time world champion was leaving the team for Ferrari. As F1 reeled from the news, an empty seat appeared in that silver Mercedes — and around it, the name of a seventeen-year-old Korean fresh off his F2 debut began to make the rounds.

Kim Yihyeon proved himself. A win in his very first F2 season. Victory after victory in the races that followed. In Mercedes' test sessions, he delivered laps that lived up to everything the team's engineers had hoped for. On the Italian Grand Prix weekend at Monza, he stood in for Lewis Hamilton in FP1 and — briefly, but undeniably — went Sector All-Purple, proving himself all over again. Of course, moments later, understeer bit at the Parabolica and he crashed…

But that winter, he landed the contract.

His mother cried for the longest time on the other end of the phone. His father, he was told, silently drained a bottle of soju.

Everything looked perfect. But that was exactly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠where perfection ended.

F1 was a different animal. The car was twice as delicate as an F2 machine, and the expectations stacked on his shoulders were ten times heavier. While his teammate in the identical car climbed onto podiums, Kim Yihyeon sat buried in the gravel.

Mistakes invited mistakes. Spins. Contact. Crashes. Knocked out in qualifying. Every time he came back into the team's garage, the light in the crew's eyes dimmed a little more.

Race after race, the reporters asked the same question.

"Hasn't it been too soon for you to be in F1?"

And the day after the final race of the season, the meeting with the team didn't even last ten minutes. The conclusion was one line: no new contract. After barely a year, the Mercedes seat belonged to someone else. Not even an offer to stay on as reserve driver ever came.

He'd thought it was over, just like that — until, somehow, an offer arrived from the team dead last on the grid. Which was why, right now, even a single point mattered desperately if he was going to keep this seat.

Then his race engineer's voice cut into his ear over the radio.

"…They're fine."

It was a lie. The intermediates — the rain tires — had been on for a full fifteen laps and were already dying.

Sure enough, every time the car launched up Eau Rouge, Spa-Francorchamps' trademark, the rear wobbled ever so slightly. An ominous vibration climbed through the seat. The car was screaming.

"We can't."

"If I pit now, it's over. I'll lose the position, and then there are no points."

And no seat, either, probably.

"Negative."

Silence flowed across the radio. One second. Two. The longer it stretched, the more vividly he could picture his race engineer up on the pit wall, wrestling with the call.

Don't overdo it. A hollow laugh spilled out of him.

If I'd never pushed past the limit, I'd never have made it this far in the first place.

Meanwhile, the car roared onto the Kemmel Straight. Beyond the wall of spray, the taillight of the P10 car drew closer.

"Copy."

0.7. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠0.5. 0.3.

He felt the car being sucked into the slipstream of the car ahead — and just before the entry to Turn 5, Les Combes, they finally punched through the spray and his vision opened up. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠He drew level with the other car, wheel to wheel.

Brake as late as I possibly can.

With tires worn down to rags, late braking was the only way past.

Gritting his teeth, Kim Yihyeon stamped the brake half a beat late. Half a beat, on a soaked track. That wasn't courage — it was hubris, a gamble. And sure enough, he felt the tires shriek. Just before the front wheels seized in a wheel lock-up, he eased the brake pedal off by the barest hair. In a flash, the locked front tires spun free and grip returned — and in the very next breath, the car dove into the inside of the corner as though pulled on a wire.

With the broadcast, a roar erupted from one corner of the grandstands. A few small Taegeukgi — Korean flags — waved in the rain, held by fans who had flown in from his homeland.

For the first time, the engineer's voice trembled with excitement.

"…Yes."

A short answer. His heart felt ready to burst. The boy who had once dreamed of being champion — at some point, he had started pounding this hard over a single point.

Holding the position and nursing the tires for all he was worth, he made it to the final lap.

The rain was thickening by the minute. By any measure, the situation could not have been worse. The car he had overtaken was clinging to his tail in desperation now, and intermediates driven past the end of their life were barely different from running on ice.

The gap to the car behind: 0.4 seconds.

Just one more lap.

Survive one more lap, and he would keep the seat along with that single point — he would stay an F1 driver.

He ran, and ran, and at last, on that final lap, he swept out of Turn 10, Pouhon. Straight on through Stavelot, and then Blanchimont — the fastest stretch of Spa in all of Belgium. On any ordinary day, a left-hander swallowed at full throttle.

And today was no different — even with a downpour hammering from the sky, even with his tires one breath from bursting, because the instant he lifted even slightly, the car behind would be past him.

But.

"…Ah."

The moment he turned the steering left, the tires let go of the tarmac. They were floating — on the water.

Aquaplaning.

The car began to rotate — slowly, so very slowly. Everything slowed. The gray sky. The gray spray. And the tire barrier rushing straight at him.

Counter-steer. Nothing. Brake. Nothing.

…Ah.

In the instant before impact, faces flickered through his mind.

His father, making do with a single cup of ramyeon for lunch at the karting track. His mother, bragging to the whole neighborhood — "Our son's going to Germany next week!" — when he stepped up to F4. And behind them, the view of his parents' backs at the kitchen table, tapping away at a calculator and sighing.

His younger sister, who never once let it show that she had dreams of her own, with every scrap of the family's support flowing to her older brother.

"You go and achieve your dream, oppa. I'm fine."

As if she could possibly have been fine.

Oscar, his parents' friend, who had looked after him in Europe in their place and lent him a hand at every turn. And Oscar's daughter — Louise — his one and only friend, the pillar who had held him up.

Then, in a flash, he remembered the text she had sent him right before the race.

He hadn't been able to reply. …No — he hadn't replied. He'd told himself the race came first.

It was always like that. Always, the race came first.

But.

If I'd known it would end like this… I would at least have listened to what she wanted to say.

The next moment, a massive impact — and everything before his eyes turned white.

—————————……………!!!!!!!

The commentary box fell silent.

Mechanics in the garages tore off their headsets and crowded toward the monitors. Someone clapped a hand over their mouth. Someone sank to the floor. The grandstands froze over. Far in the distance, the fans who had flown in from Korea waving their Taegeukgi slumped down one by one, strength gone.

In that hushed silence, the only sound left was the rain.

That day, the driver who had come out of Korea — the first Korean F1 driver in history — died at the circuit.