Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Chapter Text
Caitlyn Kiramman had spent years perfecting the art of control.
In the cockpit, it meant precision—every apex hit with mathematical accuracy, every braking point timed to perfection. Off the track, it meant poise—calm, measured words in front of the media, an air of undisturbed confidence that let the world know she was untouchable.
She had learned long ago that Formula 1 wasn’t just about speed. It was about survival. And survival required mastery over not just the car, but the narrative.
Today was no different.
As she settled into her seat for the pre-season press conference, she barely heard the hum of journalists preparing their questions. The cameras flashed, the room smelled of stale coffee and warm electronics, and the weight of yet another season pressed against her shoulders.
But Caitlyn was used to carrying weight.
She adjusted her Mercedes-AMG Petronas jacket, listening as the journalists went through their predictable checklist of questions.
"How does it feel going into your fifth season as defending world champion?"
"Do you think Mercedes can maintain dominance against Red Bull and Ferrari?"
"What are your thoughts on this year’s regulation changes?"
She answered with ease—controlled, polished, professional.
Then, the question she had been waiting for.
"Caitlyn, what do you think about Vi joining Red Bull?"
A pause.
She had expected it, of course. Vi was everywhere right now—Red Bull’s golden signing, the F2 champion who had shaken up the junior categories with her aggressive driving. A rookie with a street racer’s mentality, all instinct and fire.
Caitlyn tapped her fingers against the table before responding.
"She’s an exceptional driver," she said smoothly, her tone giving nothing away. "Winning a Formula 2 title in your debut season is no small feat. It takes skill, consistency, and confidence. I have no doubt she’ll bring that same level of talent into Formula 1."
The journalists leaned in, sensing the weight in her words.
"Do you think she’ll challenge you for the title?"
Caitlyn allowed the smallest of smiles. "Red Bull wouldn’t have signed her if they didn’t believe she could. From what I’ve seen, she’s fast, aggressive, and unafraid to take risks. That kind of racing always makes the sport more exciting."
That wasn’t just media-friendly talk.
Caitlyn meant it.
She had watched Vi’s races, analyzed her onboards, studied the way she handled pressure. She saw the raw talent, the fearlessness, the reckless hunger. It reminded Caitlyn of herself—only where Caitlyn had been sculpted by years of strict discipline, Vi was like a wildfire, unpredictable and untamed.
Would she be a threat?
That depended.
F1 wasn’t about raw talent alone. It was about control.
And Caitlyn Kiramman had never lost control.
Vi watched the press conference from the Red Bull garage, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Caitlyn’s voice came through the speakers, smooth as silk, so damn polished it made Vi’s skin itch.
"She’s an exceptional driver."
"Winning F2 in your debut season is no small feat."
"I have no doubt she’ll bring that same level of talent into F1."
Vi scoffed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She hated this.
Hated the way Caitlyn spoke—so cool, so perfectly measured, like she was reading from a script. Hated the way she carried herself, like everything in the world was exactly as it should be.
Hated the way Piltover types always acted like they owned the place.
Caitlyn was the face of that world—the golden child, the perfect champion, the untouchable queen of the grid. Vi had spent her whole life fighting against people like her.
So why did it bother her so much to hear Caitlyn talk about her like she was just another name on the list?
By the time the press conference ended, Vi had made up her mind.
She needed to confront her.
She found Caitlyn near the paddock, slipping past the journalists with effortless grace, looking every bit like the reigning world champion she was.
Vi didn’t hesitate.
"Hey, Kiramman!"
Caitlyn stopped.
Slowly, she turned to face Vi, her sharp blue eyes unreadable. "Vi," she greeted, voice as smooth as ever. "Something on your mind?"
Vi clenched her fists. "Yeah. You can drop the act."
Caitlyn arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You don’t have to pretend to be nice," Vi said, stepping closer. "I get it—media obligations, gotta say all the right things, act like you respect me. But let’s be real. You don’t give a damn about me."
Caitlyn blinked once, tilting her head slightly. "Is that what you think?"
Vi scoffed. "I know it. People like you? You don’t actually care about drivers like me. I’m just another rookie, another name Red Bull threw at you. So don’t stand up there and act like you respect me when you don’t."
Caitlyn studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
Then, she stepped closer.
Vi tensed, expecting some kind of rebuttal, maybe a dismissive remark—something cold and detached, like every other Piltover elite she had dealt with.
But instead, Caitlyn’s voice was softer than Vi expected.
"You think I don’t respect you?"
Vi’s jaw tightened. "I think you’re a damn good liar."
Caitlyn exhaled, a quiet, almost amused sound. "If I didn’t take you seriously," she murmured, "I wouldn’t be watching your races."
Vi’s breath caught for a second.
Caitlyn continued, her gaze steady. "I saw your overtake in Silverstone. The way you defended in Monza. The last-lap battle in Abu Dhabi." A pause. "You drive like you have something to prove. Like you’re trying to fight your way into a world that doesn’t want you."
Vi felt something twist inside her.
Because Caitlyn wasn’t wrong.
But it pissed her off that she had noticed.
"You don’t know anything about me," Vi muttered.
Caitlyn’s lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. "Maybe not." A pause. Then, quieter: "But I know what it’s like to feel like you have something to prove."
Vi hated how that made her feel.
Like Caitlyn wasn’t just some cold, distant champion.
Like maybe—just maybe—she understood.
And that was dangerous.
Vi scoffed, shaking her head. "Whatever. Just don’t expect me to play nice."
Caitlyn’s lips curved ever so slightly. "I wouldn’t dare."
Vi turned on her heel and walked away.
But even as she left, she could still feel Caitlyn’s eyes on her.
And that was the part that scared her the most.
The Kiramman estate had always been too quiet for Caitlyn’s liking.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy, suffocating kind—the kind that settled into the walls like an expectation, like a weight no one could shake off. Even as she walked through the grand halls, passing old family portraits and polished gold accents, she felt like she was stepping into a place she didn’t quite belong.
She had been away for months, traveling from country to country, circuit to circuit. The sound of roaring engines, the smell of burnt rubber on asphalt, the rush of speed—that was her world now. Not this.
And yet, here she was, sitting at the long mahogany dining table, facing the same battle she had been fighting for years.
Dinner had barely begun before her mother dropped the inevitable question.
"When are you planning to retire from this dangerous sport?"
Caitlyn took a slow breath, setting down her silverware with practiced patience. "Mother," she said, her voice steady, "we’ve had this conversation before."
"And we will continue to have it until you come to your senses," Cassandra Kiramman replied, dabbing her lips with a napkin before leveling Caitlyn with a sharp gaze. "This is not a sustainable career. You are risking your life every time you get in that car."
Caitlyn clenched her jaw. She had known this conversation was coming—it always came—but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.
"It’s not a gamble," she countered, "when you’re the best at what you do."
Her mother scoffed. "No one stays at the top forever."
A muscle in Caitlyn’s jaw twitched. "I’ll worry about that when I get there."
Across the table, Tobias Kiramman sighed quietly. Caitlyn could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he hesitated before speaking—as if he knew nothing he said would truly change the outcome of this discussion.
"Caitlyn," he said, voice softer than Cassandra’s. "Your mother is only worried about you."
Caitlyn knew that.
She understood that, deep down.
But that didn’t mean it didn’t make her feel trapped every time they had this conversation—like she was still fifteen years old, still arguing with her mother about why she didn’t want to be a politician, still being told that her life’s purpose had already been decided for her.
And now, years later, despite everything she had accomplished, despite proving over and over again that she was meant to be in Formula 1, her mother still refused to see it.
"I have been doing this for years," Caitlyn said, her voice sharper now. "I have won four world championships. I have trained, I have calculated, I have fought for every victory. Hadn’t I proved myself enough?"
Her mother’s expression was unreadable. "This isn’t about proving yourself," she said coolly. "It’s about knowing when to walk away before it’s too late."
"Nothing has happened to me," Caitlyn snapped. "And I refuse to live my life in fear of something that might happen."
For a brief moment, silence settled over the table.
Then, Cassandra set down her wine glass, folding her hands together. Her next words made Caitlyn’s stomach twist.
"You are the Kiramman heiress, Caitlyn. This is not just about you."
Caitlyn’s breath hitched.
The words felt like a chain being tightened around her throat.
Her mother continued, her voice firm. "The Kiramman name carries responsibility. Your father and I have built this family’s legacy, and we expect you to honor that. You cannot waste your life chasing something so—so temporary. You belong in Piltover, not on a race track."
Caitlyn pushed her chair back slightly, her fingers curling into fists beneath the table. "So that’s what this is about?" she said, voice dangerously quiet. "You don’t care that I could get hurt. You just care that I’m not doing what you want me to do."
Cassandra’s eyes flashed. "I care that you are throwing away everything we have built for you."
Caitlyn let out a short, bitter laugh. "Built for me? You mean decided for me."
"You have a duty to this family."
"No," Caitlyn said, standing up now, her chair scraping against the marble floor. "I have a duty to myself. And I am not giving up my career just because it doesn’t fit into the perfect little future you imagined for me."
Cassandra’s expression remained unshaken, but Tobias shifted uncomfortably. He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Caitlyn, your mother just wants you to be safe."
Caitlyn turned to him, her anger faltering for just a second.
Tobias had never been as forceful as Cassandra. He had supported Caitlyn, in his own quiet way, even when he didn’t fully understand why she loved racing.
But he had never stood up to Cassandra.
"Safe," Caitlyn repeated, shaking her head. "That’s what you think this is about?"
She exhaled harshly, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose before looking back at both of them. "I am not retiring anytime soon. You both need to accept that."
Cassandra narrowed her eyes. "You say that now, but things change, Caitlyn. You will change."
Caitlyn met her gaze, her expression cold. "If I ever retire, it will be my decision. Not yours. And certainly not because you decided I should."
A tense silence stretched between them.
Finally, Cassandra sighed and picked up her glass again, taking a slow sip of wine. "We’ll see," she murmured.
Caitlyn clenched her fists. That tone. That condescending, knowing tone—as if she was just waiting for Caitlyn to fail.
Her mother had never truly believed in her. Not when she was a child, sneaking out to the outskirts of Piltover to watch underground races. Not when she first picked up a kart, gripping the wheel like it was an escape rope out of a life she didn’t want.
Not when she had fought her way into Formula 1, becoming a champion, proving to the world—and to herself—that she was exactly where she belonged.
And after all these years, Cassandra Kiramman still thought this was a phase.
Caitlyn couldn’t stand it.
Her jaw tightened. "Thank you for dinner," she said curtly, stepping away from the table.
She turned on her heel and strode toward the door, her pulse pounding in her ears.
She had fought for everything she had.
And she would be damned if she let anyone—even her own family—take it away from her.
Qualifying Day – Bahrain Grand Prix
The Bahrain International Circuit shimmered under the floodlights, the desert heat still lingering in the air as the crowd roared in anticipation.
Caitlyn Kiramman sat in her Mercedes, fingers flexing over the steering wheel, as she listened to her race engineer’s voice through the radio.
"Alright, Cait, standard Q1 plan. Two runs, soft tires. Let's get a clean banker in."
She exhaled steadily. Another season. Another fight. Another battle for pole.
Only this time, there was a new challenger.
Q1 – Setting the Pace
The engines roared as cars filtered onto the track, the first true test of speed and performance for the 2025 season.
Caitlyn always preferred to set a banker lap early—get a solid time in before the track evolution kicked in.
Her first lap? Smooth. Controlled. P1.
Then came Vi.
Caitlyn was already coasting back into the pits when she saw the Red Bull flash across the line.
P1 – Vi | 1:28.201
P2 – Caitlyn | +0.082s
She hummed softly, watching the replay on the garage monitors. Vi’s sector times were impressive—fast through the technical sections, aggressive into the braking zones. Unpolished, maybe, but raw and fearless.
"Interesting," she murmured to herself.
She wasn’t worried. Yet.
Q1 ended. Both drivers easily made it through.
Q2 – The First Real Fight
Caitlyn pushed harder on her next run, adjusting to the track’s evolution.
Purple sector 1.
Purple sector 2.
Crossed the line. P1 – 1:27.9.
A clean, dominant lap.
Vi followed immediately after.
P2 – Vi | +0.064s
Caitlyn sat back, arms crossed, watching the timing screens.
Vi was close. Too close for a rookie.
Still, Q2 ended with Caitlyn on top.
But the real fight was coming.
Q3 – The Pole Position Battle
The tension in the air was thick as the final session began.
Caitlyn went out first, setting the benchmark: 1:27.391. A near-perfect lap.
She returned to the pits, breathing steady, waiting for the others to cross the line.
Vi came last.
She was fast in sector 1.
Faster in sector 2.
Sector 3—Vi crosses the line.
P1 – Vi | 1:27.387
By four-thousandths of a second—Vi had taken pole.
The Red Bull garage erupted into cheers.
Caitlyn blinked, processing the result.
Four-thousandths.
That was nothing.
That was the difference between a perfectly timed apex and a fraction of a second lost on exit.
That was the difference between pole and P2.
And Vi had won.
She exhaled slowly, stepping out of her car, taking in the way the cameras swarmed Vi as she jumped out of her Red Bull, fists pumping in the air.
Caitlyn had lost count of how many pole positions she had secured in her career.
But this one?
This one intrigued her.
The media pen was alive with excitement, microphones thrust forward as Caitlyn, Vi, and Ekko—P1, P2, and P3—lined up for questions.
Vi was grinning ear to ear, still riding the high of her first pole.
"Vi, first-ever F1 qualifying, and you’re starting at the front of the grid! How does it feel?"
Vi chuckled. "Feels damn good, doesn’t it? I knew we had pace, but taking pole? Beating the reigning champ? Yeah, I’ll take that."
Caitlyn listened quietly, studying the way Vi spoke. The way she carried herself.
There was no arrogance—just confidence. A fire that burned bright.
It was… fascinating.
Her turn came next.
"Caitlyn, it was an incredibly close battle for pole today—just four-thousandths of a second separating you and Vi. What do you make of her performance?"
Caitlyn didn’t hesitate.
"It was a strong lap," she said smoothly, turning slightly toward Vi. "You handled the car well. Congratulations."
Vi’s grin didn’t fade, but something in her eyes shifted.
A flicker of something sharper.
And then—
"You can drop the fake act, you know," Vi said casually.
The journalists froze.
Caitlyn’s expression remained unreadable. "Excuse me?"
Vi tilted her head, leaning slightly closer. "C’mon, we both know you’re pissed you lost pole. No need to pretend like you’re all smiles about it."
Caitlyn blinked once, slow and deliberate.
Then, she smiled.
A real smile this time. Small, amused.
"I never said I was happy," she said, voice low enough that only Vi could hear. "I said you did well."
Vi studied her for a second.
Caitlyn could see it—the gears turning in her head, trying to figure her out.
But she wouldn’t. Not yet.
Because Caitlyn was intrigued.
And Vi had no idea what that meant.
Caitlyn was just leaving the media pen when she heard footsteps behind her.
She already knew who it was before she turned.
Vi was standing there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly.
"You really expect me to believe that was genuine?"
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. "Believe what?"
"That you meant it. That you actually respect me," Vi said, eyes narrowed.
Caitlyn exhaled softly, glancing toward the Red Bull garage, where her rival’s name was being painted onto the P1 marker for the first time.
Then she looked back at Vi.
And smirked.
"I don’t say things I don’t mean."
Vi scoffed. "You’re full of shit."
Caitlyn shrugged, turning to walk away. "If that’s what you need to believe."
Vi grabbed her wrist before she could leave.
Caitlyn stopped.
Vi’s grip was firm, but there was something else in her gaze—something uncertain.
"You don’t even know me," Vi muttered. "Don’t act like you do."
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, unshaken.
"No," she said, voice softer. "But I know talent when I see it."
Vi blinked, as if the response caught her off guard.
Caitlyn gently pulled her wrist free, stepping back.
"See you on track, rookie," she murmured.
And before Vi could say anything else, she was gone.
The atmosphere was electric.
Vi had dominated qualifying, putting in a lap so aggressive, so relentless, that even Red Bull’s engineers had looked impressed.
It was her first pole position in F1.
It was supposed to be her race.
But of course—
Caitlyn Kiramman was right beside her.
The reigning four-time world champion, the driver Vi had spent her entire off-season preparing to beat.
This wasn’t just about winning.
It was about proving something.
And Vi had every intention of doing that.
The lights flashed.
Five red.
Hold.
Hold.
Lights out—go.
Vi’s launch was strong.
Not perfect, but good enough to keep her just ahead as they charged toward Turn 1.
Then—
Caitlyn appeared.
Not behind her.
Beside her.
Vi’s eyes flickered to her mirrors, heart pounding.
The Mercedes was right there, perfectly positioned, creeping up on the inside with terrifying precision.
Vi braked late, trying to hold the racing line—
But Caitlyn?
Caitlyn braked even later.
Smooth. Calculated. Perfect.
And just like that—
Vi lost the lead before the first corner.
Vi gritted her teeth.
"That was clean," her engineer said over the radio.
Vi clenched her fists. Too clean.
And she hated it.
Lap 10
Vi pushed hard.
Every turn, every exit, trying to force Caitlyn into a mistake.
But Caitlyn?
She was a machine.
Not a single missed apex.
Not a single late reaction.
Vi was faster in the straights, her Red Bull gaining ground—
But every time she got close, Caitlyn would place her car in exactly the right spot to block her.
Every. Damn. Time.
"She’s making me look like a rookie," Vi growled.
"She’s got experience," her engineer said.
Vi scowled. Experience wasn’t supposed to matter this much.
She had the faster car.
She had aggression, talent, instincts.
And yet—
Caitlyn was making her look slow.
Vi hated that.
And she hated Caitlyn for it.
Lap 30
The worst-case scenario happened.
Ekko’s Ferrari had been hunting Vi down for the past ten laps, his tires still fresh, his car in perfect balance.
Vi had been so focused on Caitlyn that she hadn’t defended properly.
And when Ekko made a move—
Vi lost second place, too.
She slammed a fist against the wheel.
This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.
She was supposed to win.
She wasn’t supposed to be fighting just to stay on the podium.
She barely held on.
Ekko was too far ahead now, and the cars behind her were closing in.
Vi had to fight like hell to keep her podium spot—
And when she crossed the finish line?
She wasn’t happy.
She was furious.
P1 – Caitlyn Kiramman (Mercedes)
P2 – Ekko (Ferrari)
P3 – Vi (Red Bull)
The second she pulled into parc fermé, she ripped off her gloves and helmet, her entire body tense with frustration.
She didn’t care about being on the podium.
She didn’t care about the cameras.
All she cared about was the fact that Caitlyn had beaten her.
Vi was still fuming when she turned around—
And Caitlyn was already there.
Standing calmly, her race suit still unzipped slightly, hair messy from the helmet—
But her expression unreadable.
"Nice race," Caitlyn said, extending a hand.
Vi stared at it.
Then—she laughed.
Sharp. Bitter. Mocking.
She ignored Caitlyn’s hand completely.
"Save it, Kiramman," Vi said coldly. "You don’t have to act like you respect me."
Caitlyn’s brow furrowed slightly. "Vi, I do respect you."
Vi scoffed. "Yeah?"
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, something unreadable in her gaze.
"You were fast today," Caitlyn said simply. "I had to work for that win."
Vi’s blood boiled.
She stepped closer, her voice lower now.
"You didn’t ‘work’ for anything," Vi snapped. "You just had everything handed to you from the start."
Caitlyn’s expression hardened.
Vi knew she had hit a nerve.
And she wanted to.
Because it wasn’t fair.
Vi had spent her whole life fighting to get here—
And Caitlyn?
Caitlyn had always had everything.
The best teams.
The best cars.
The best opportunities.
"You’ve never had to struggle a day in your life," Vi muttered.
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.
"And you think I don’t deserve to be here?" she asked, voice quiet but sharp.
Vi hesitated.
Because the answer wasn’t that simple.
She knew Caitlyn was good.
She knew Caitlyn was one of the best drivers F1 had ever seen.
But admitting that?
Admitting that Caitlyn had won because she was better?
Vi wasn’t ready to say that.
So instead, she scoffed.
"You had the best car," Vi muttered, stepping back. "Don’t act like it was anything more than that."
Caitlyn exhaled slowly, studying her.
Then—a small, knowing smile.
"You hate losing," Caitlyn said.
Vi’s hands clenched into fists.
"I hate you."
It came out too fast.
Too sharp.
Too real.
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change. But something in her eyes did.
For a second, Vi thought she might say something—might actually react. But instead, Caitlyn just nodded once.
"Then I’ll see you at the next race," she said, her voice steady.
Then, she turned and walked away.
Like Vi’s words hadn’t just cut deeper than any crash ever could.
And Vi? Vi stood there, fists tight, chest heavy—
Because for some reason, she wasn’t sure she had meant it.
The podium stood under the glow of the Bahrain floodlights, illuminating the top three finishers of the season opener.
Caitlyn stood in the center, the highest step, her first-place trophy gleaming in her grip.
To her right, Ekko in Ferrari red, holding his second-place trophy, a wide grin plastered across his face.
To her left, Vi on the third step, her third-place trophy held loosely, jaw tight, mind still replaying every lost moment of the race.
The national anthem began, and the world paused.
Caitlyn took a deep breath, eyes closing.
Letting the moment sink in.
She had done it. Again.
She could still hear the roar of the Mercedes fans, the energy buzzing through the crowd, but in this moment—
She didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t need to.
This was where she belonged.
This was hers.
And Vi?
Vi couldn’t stop watching her.
Her gaze flickered over the calmness on Caitlyn’s face, the way she stood completely composed, as if victory was simply another day at the office.
Like she had been born for this.
Vi hated it.
Hated how untouchable Caitlyn felt.
Hated how it made her feel like a challenger rather than an equal.
Then—
Ekko caught her staring. And the bastard winked.
Vi barely had time to register the smirk on Ekko’s face before—
Pop.
Ekko’s champagne bottle exploded open, and within seconds, a cold wave of bubbles slammed into Caitlyn’s face.
The crowd erupted in laughter.
Vi’s eyes snapped to Caitlyn immediately.
Waiting.
This was it.
This was the moment Caitlyn’s composure would finally crack.
The moment she’d drop the act. Be pissed, frustrated, humiliated.
Because no way would someone like Caitlyn Kiramman, the perfect, polished four-time world champion, just laugh this off.
Right?
But then—
Caitlyn… smiled.
Not a forced, professional smile.
A real, amused, slightly breathless smile.
Vi blinked.
What?
Caitlyn ran a hand through her soaked hair, shaking champagne droplets from her face, then slowly turned to Ekko—grinning.
"You just made a mistake," Caitlyn said smoothly.
Ekko raised his hands in mock surrender. "You looked too serious up here, Kiramman. Figured I’d fix that."
Caitlyn arched an eyebrow, picking up her own champagne bottle.
Ekko’s grin faltered.
"Oh, shi—"
She drenched him.
Ekko yelled dramatically, stumbling back as Caitlyn tilted the bottle up, sending champagne straight into his face.
The crowd loved it.
Vi?
Vi was still staring.
Because she had expected anger. Not Caitlyn playing along.
Not Caitlyn laughing, lighthearted, completely at ease. And that—that threw Vi off.
She had spent so much time hating her, building her up as the cold, untouchable queen of the grid.
But right now?
Caitlyn just looked like…
A person.
And Vi hated that even more.
Ekko wasn’t backing down.
He wiped champagne from his face, grinning mischievously, then turned to Vi.
"Oi, Rookie. You just gonna stand there?"
Vi scoffed, twisting her bottle open.
She wasn’t about to let Ekko have all the fun.
She popped her bottle, tilting it up just as Caitlyn turned—
And hit her straight in the chest with a wave of cold champagne.
Caitlyn gasped, half-laughing, half-coughing.
"You too?" she protested, blinking bubbles from her lashes.
Vi smirked. "You had that one coming, princess."
Caitlyn tilted her head, studying her.
Then—her smirk grew.
"So do you."
Vi barely had a second to react before Caitlyn tilted her bottle back and absolutely drenched her.
Vi let out a sharp curse, stepping back, shaking her head as champagne dripped from her hair.
"Oh, it’s war now."
Ekko cackled, stepping in between them, bottle raised. "Three-way battle. Let’s go!"
And suddenly—
It was chaos.
Vi and Ekko chased Caitlyn across the podium, champagne flying everywhere.
Caitlyn dodged, expertly weaving around them, her reactions too damn fast for someone who had just finished a 57-lap race.
Vi finally caught her, spraying directly at her face.
Caitlyn let out a mock gasp, laughing even as she tried to shield herself.
The cameras flashed wildly, capturing everything.
Three drivers, soaked, laughing, completely unguarded.
And Vi?
Vi wasn’t thinking about the race anymore.
Wasn’t thinking about how much she had hated losing to Caitlyn.
She was just—
Here.
In the moment.
And, annoyingly—
She didn’t hate it as much as she thought she would.
Eventually, the celebration settled.
Ekko was still grinning, shaking champagne out of his hair.
Vi leaned against the podium railing, exhaling.
And then—
Her eyes found Caitlyn again.
She was standing at the front of the podium, waving toward the Mercedes fans, her hair still damp, champagne glistening on her skin under the lights.
Vi clenched her jaw.
Because she was staring again.
And this time—
She didn’t even know why.
Maybe it was the way Caitlyn carried herself, the quiet confidence, the way she fit into this world so effortlessly.
Maybe it was how frustrating it was to see her so at ease, when Vi still felt like she was fighting to prove she belonged.
Or maybe—
Maybe it was just Caitlyn.
Vi exhaled sharply, looking away.
The celebrations had ended, but Vi’s frustration hadn’t.
She had been forced to stand on the third step, watching Caitlyn soak in yet another win, acting like it was just another day in her perfect life.
And now?
Now, Vi had to stand beside her again, this time in front of the media, forced to listen to her polished, diplomatic words.
Vi clenched her jaw, waiting for her turn, because today?
She wasn’t going to be polite.
She wasn’t going to act like this was just another race.
She was going to say what no one else had the guts to say.
"Caitlyn, congratulations! First win of the season—how does it feel?"
Caitlyn gave a small, effortless smile.
"It feels great," she said smoothly. "The team worked incredibly hard, and it was a tough race. Vi and Ekko were pushing hard, and I had to stay focused the entire time."
Vi resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"You lost the lead to Vi at the start but reclaimed it before Turn 1. What was going through your mind?"
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, thinking.
"I knew Vi would have a strong start," she admitted. "But I also knew where I needed to place the car to regain position. It was all about trusting my instincts and making the right move at the right time."
Vi gritted her teeth.
Trusting her instincts. Right. Like Caitlyn Kiramman ever had to fight for anything in her life.
And that?
That was the exact thought Vi wasn’t going to hold back.
"Vi, your first podium of the season! P3 today, but you looked frustrated out there. What are your thoughts on the race?"
Vi let out a sharp breath, crossing her arms.
"I mean, yeah, I’m frustrated," she said, her voice edged with irritation. "It’s always frustrating when some of us have to claw our way into this sport, while others just get handed everything."
The room went still.
"Can you elaborate?" a journalist asked, sensing the tension.
Vi didn’t hesitate.
"Look, I come from Zaun," she said, voice sharp. "Where we don’t get opportunities like this. We don’t get the best cars, the best sponsors, the best backing. People from Piltover? They get to just walk into this sport because of their last name, because they were born into the right family."
The journalists were eating this up now.
"Are you referring to Caitlyn Kiramman?"
Vi exhaled a humorless laugh.
"I mean, come on," she muttered. "She’s literally the perfect example. Born rich, born connected. She didn’t have to fight for this. Didn’t have to prove herself. Just had to show up, get in the right car, and suddenly she’s a four-time champion."
Caitlyn didn’t react.
Didn’t flinch. She just stood there, listening. And that pissed Vi off even more. Because she wanted a reaction.
She wanted Caitlyn to snap, to break, to prove her right.
But instead—
"Caitlyn, do you have a response to Vi’s comments?"
Caitlyn took a measured breath.
Then—
"I understand why Vi feels that way," she said, voice steady. "Zaun has always been treated unfairly. That’s not a secret. There’s a history of injustice there, and I do believe that needs to change."
Vi’s eyes narrowed.
Oh, she did not just say that.
Because Caitlyn Kiramman, the perfect Piltover golden girl, the heiress, the untouchable champion—
She didn’t get to pretend she cared about Zaun.
"So you agree Zaunites are treated unfairly?" another journalist pressed.
Caitlyn nodded. "I do. The system isn’t fair. I’ve benefited from it, and I won’t deny that. But I also believe there’s a way to make things better."
Vi nearly laughed.
Because that was such a typical Piltover response.
Act like you care, say the right words, but never actually do anything.
And Vi?
Vi was going to make sure Caitlyn knew that.
The moment they were away from the press, Vi grabbed Caitlyn’s wrist, pulling her aside.
Caitlyn stiffened, turning to face her.
"What are you doing?" Caitlyn asked, brow raised.
Vi’s eyes burned with frustration.
"Stop pretending," she said coldly.
Caitlyn frowned. "Pretending?"
Vi stepped closer, voice low and sharp.
"You don’t care about Zaun," Vi spat. "You don’t give a damn about what happens to us. So don’t stand there, in front of cameras, acting like you do."
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change.
"I said what I meant," Caitlyn replied calmly. "I do believe there’s injustice in how Zaunites are treated."
Vi let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
"Right," she muttered. "And what are you actually doing about it? Sitting in your luxury apartment in Piltover, giving empty speeches? Don’t act like you understand our struggle. You never had to live it."
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.
And finally—Vi saw something flicker in those blue eyes.
Not anger.
Not guilt.
Something else.
Something Vi couldn’t read.
"You think I don’t know struggle?" Caitlyn asked, voice softer now, but firm.
Vi scoffed. "No, I don’t. Because you don’t. You grew up safe, protected, knowing you’d always have a place in this world. People like me? We had to fight for every damn thing."
Caitlyn held her gaze for a long moment.
Then, finally, she spoke.
"You’re right," she admitted. "I don’t know what it’s like to grow up in Zaun. I never will."
Vi blinked.
That wasn’t the answer she was expecting.
Caitlyn continued.
"But I know what it’s like to have expectations forced on you. To have people assume they already know who you are, what you’ve been through—without ever really knowing you."
Vi stared at her.
Because for the first time, Caitlyn looked real.
Not the champion.
Not the Kiramman heir.
Just—Caitlyn.
Vi hated it.
Hated that she could see something real in her.
Because that made everything more complicated.
Vi clenched her jaw, stepping back.
"Whatever," she muttered. "Just stay out of things you don’t understand."
Then she turned—walked away.
Leaving Caitlyn standing there, watching her go.
And for the first time, Caitlyn wasn’t sure if Vi really hated her.
Or if Vi just hated what she thought Caitlyn represented.
Caitlyn had changed out of her race suit, now in her Mercedes team polo and dark jeans, walking through the nearly empty paddock.
She had handled the interviews well. Too well, apparently.
Because now, her words were already being twisted into headlines.
"Caitlyn Kiramman Calls for Justice for Zaun!"
"F1 Champion Acknowledges Systemic Inequality in Motorsport!"
"Is Caitlyn Kiramman the Hero Zaun Needs?"
Caitlyn sighed, rubbing her temple.
She had only said the truth.
She wasn’t trying to be a hero.
And she sure as hell wasn’t trying to win Vi’s approval.
Yet here she was, still thinking about that conversation.
About the way Vi had looked at her—furious, raw, like Caitlyn had personally insulted everything she stood for.
Like Caitlyn could never possibly understand.
And maybe she couldn’t.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t care.
Jayce walked in, tossing his phone onto the table before dropping into the chair across from her.
"You good?" he asked.
Caitlyn blinked, snapping out of her thoughts.
"What?"
"You’ve been staring at the wall like you’re trying to solve a murder," Jayce said, raising an eyebrow. "I thought this was supposed to be a good night for you."
Caitlyn sighed, leaning back. "It should be."
Jayce studied her for a moment, then smirked.
"This is about Vi, isn’t it?"
Caitlyn rolled her eyes. "Not everything is about Vi."
Jayce tilted his head. "Except this time, it kinda is."
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
Jayce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I don’t get it," he said. "I mean, yeah, she’s pissed she lost. But she’s been acting like she has some personal vendetta against you. What’s her deal?"
Caitlyn let out a slow breath.
"She’s from Zaun," she said simply.
Jayce frowned. "So?"
Caitlyn gave him a look.
"You know how people from Zaun feel about Piltover," she said. "And I’m not just from Piltover. I’m a Kiramman. My mother is a councilor. Of course she hates me. She thinks I’m just like the rest of them."
Jayce exhaled, sitting back. "You think that’s really it?"
Caitlyn arched an eyebrow. "Isn’t it?"
Jayce thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"Nah," he said. "I think she just doesn’t know what to do with you."
Caitlyn blinked. "What?"
Jayce smirked. "You don’t fit into the little box she put you in. She wants you to be some arrogant, entitled Piltover princess, but you’re not. And that pisses her off."
Caitlyn frowned. "I don’t think she spends that much time analyzing me."
Jayce laughed. "Oh, she does. Believe me."
Caitlyn glanced away.
Because if she was being honest—she had noticed it too.
The way Vi was always watching her.
Always pushing, testing, waiting for her to slip.
But Caitlyn had spent her entire life being composed.
She didn’t slip.
And maybe that was what frustrated Vi the most
The week between Bahrain and Jeddah was supposed to be a time to reset, recover, and train lightly.
For Caitlyn, that meant keeping active without over-exerting herself—which was why she had agreed to a casual padel match with Jayce, Mel, and Viktor.
For Vi?
Vi had come to the courts with Ekko, just looking for a way to get out of her own head.
She hadn’t expected to find Caitlyn already here.
And she sure as hell hadn’t expected Jayce to rope them into playing together.
Now?
Now it wasn’t just a casual game.
Now, it was a fight.
Jayce had made the call.
Vi and Ekko vs. Caitlyn and Mel.
Vi had huffed in irritation, glancing at Caitlyn—who was already watching her with that unreadable expression.
Mel smiled knowingly. "This should be fun."
Caitlyn gave a small, amused nod. "Let's see what you've got, Vi."
Vi gritted her teeth.
Because of course Caitlyn was good at this too.
She should’ve known.
But Vi?
Vi wasn’t about to let her win easily.
The game started fast.
Vi and Ekko played with aggression, speed, power.
Vi’s serves were fast and ruthless, her returns designed to force Caitlyn and Mel off balance.
But Caitlyn?
Caitlyn was frustratingly controlled.
She didn’t hit the ball with raw strength—she used placement, angles, precision.
Every shot was calculated, perfect, infuriating.
She countered Vi’s power with patience, waiting for mistakes, striking only when necessary.
Vi was getting angrier by the second.
Every time she thought she had the upper hand, Caitlyn would find a way to shut her down.
And it was pissing her off.
By the time the score was 4-4, the match had turned into something far more intense than anyone had planned.
Ekko and Mel?
They were still playing, but this was a Vi vs. Caitlyn fight now.
Neither of them was holding back.
The ball slammed back and forth, the sound of shoes skidding on the court, sharp exhales, the occasional frustrated grunt.
Vi lunged for a shot, barely reaching it, returning with a brutal smash.
Caitlyn reacted instantly.
A clean, effortless volley, the ball hitting the perfect angle—too fast for Vi to catch.
Point.
Vi growled under her breath.
Caitlyn just smirked slightly, wiping sweat from her forehead.
"You're predictable," Caitlyn murmured.
Vi snapped her gaze to her.
"Excuse me?"
Caitlyn took a slow sip of water. "You play emotionally. You react. I read you too easily."
Vi’s blood boiled.
She gripped her racket tighter.
"Let’s see if you can read this."
And with that—the game only got worse.
The last few points were brutal.
Vi played harder, faster—desperate to get ahead.
But Caitlyn?
Caitlyn never broke.
Every time Vi tried to overpower her, Caitlyn redirected the energy.
By the time the match ended—7-5 in Caitlyn and Mel’s favor—Vi was fuming.
She didn’t even care about the score.
She cared that Caitlyn hadn’t cracked.
Hadn’t faltered.
Had beaten her without ever losing control.
The padel match was over, but Vi was still breathing hard, muscles burning from how much she had pushed herself.
Caitlyn, on the other hand?
Composed. Unshaken. Perfect.
As always.
Vi was about to storm off when Caitlyn suddenly stepped toward her, holding out a cold water bottle.
Vi blinked. What the hell?
"You looked like you needed it," Caitlyn said smoothly.
Vi hesitated, staring at her in suspicion.
But the bottle was ice-cold in her palm, condensation dripping over her fingers, and her throat was dry as hell.
So she grabbed it, twisting the cap open and taking a long sip.
"Didn’t think you cared," Vi muttered.
Caitlyn smirked slightly, arms crossing. "I don’t. Just don’t want you passing out before Jeddah."
Vi huffed a small laugh, shaking her head.
For a moment, the tension between them eased.
Then—
Caitlyn’s phone buzzed.
And Vi immediately knew something was wrong.
Caitlyn pulled out her phone, glanced at the screen—
And froze.
It was so fast, so subtle, but Vi caught it.
The way Caitlyn’s fingers tightened around the phone.
The way her expression went blank, too controlled, too careful.
Then—without a word—she turned and took a few steps away.
Vi watched as Caitlyn answered the call, voice low and even.
She couldn’t hear the words.
But she didn’t need to.
She saw the way Caitlyn’s jaw clenched.
Saw the way her free hand curled into a fist at her side.
Saw the way her breathing slowed, like she was forcing herself to stay composed.
It wasn’t just frustration.
It was something deeper. Sharper. Personal.
Vi didn’t know what was being said on the other end.
But she could see the moment Caitlyn’s expression darkened slightly.
See the way her shoulders locked into place.
See the moment it got worse.
Then—
Caitlyn ended the call.
Paused for one breath.
Two.
And when she turned back toward Vi—
Her expression was perfectly neutral.
Like nothing had happened.
Like Vi hadn’t just seen the cracks form.
And that?
That pissed Vi off more than anything.
Caitlyn grabbed her bag, acting like she was about to leave.
Vi stepped in front of her.
"You’re not fine."
Caitlyn blinked, raising an eyebrow. "I’m perfectly fine."
Vi scoffed. "Bullshit."
Caitlyn sighed sharply. "Vi, I don’t know what you think you saw—"
"I saw you shut down the second you picked up that phone," Vi interrupted, stepping closer. "Saw the way your face changed. The way your whole body locked up."
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change.
But Vi wasn’t backing down.
"Who was it?" Vi pressed.
Caitlyn hesitated.
Then—flatly.
"My mother."
Vi frowned.
Caitlyn adjusted the strap of her bag, voice carefully neutral.
"She saw the articles," she continued. "And the councilors aren’t happy that a councilor’s daughter is ‘meddling in things she shouldn’t be involved in.’"
Vi’s jaw clenched.
Of course.
Of course the rich bastards in Piltover didn’t want to hear about Zaun.
Of course they wanted to pretend it didn’t exist.
"You should listen to them," Vi muttered.
Caitlyn’s brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"
Vi stepped closer.
"You don’t need to care about Zaun," Vi said, voice sharp. "It’s not your fight. Stick to Piltover, where you belong."
Caitlyn stilled.
Vi expected her to argue.
Expected her to snap back with some calculated, polished response.
But Caitlyn just… exhaled.
And when she spoke, her voice was quiet. Steady. But heavy.
"There shouldn’t be sides, Vi."
Vi’s chest tightened.
Because the way Caitlyn said it—not like a rehearsed speech, not like some Piltover politician trying to sound sympathetic—
She meant it.
And that?
That made Vi’s fists curl.
"That’s easy for you to say," Vi muttered. "You grew up safe. Rich. Privileged. You don’t know what it’s like to fight for something because you had to. Not because it makes a good headline."
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened slightly.
"You think I said what I did for attention?" she asked, voice sharper now.
Vi scoffed. "I think words are easy. Action is harder."
Caitlyn was silent for a long moment.
Then—softer now.
"I know," she admitted.
Vi’s breath caught.
Because she hadn’t expected that.
Hadn’t expected Caitlyn to agree.
Hadn’t expected Caitlyn to just take it.
Vi narrowed her eyes. "Then why say anything at all?"
Caitlyn met her gaze.
"Because it was the truth."
Vi clenched her jaw.
Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
Caitlyn was supposed to be fake, a politician’s daughter, someone who didn’t actually care.
But the woman standing in front of her—the woman looking her dead in the eyes, unshaken, certain—
Wasn’t lying.
And Vi hated it.
Because that made it harder to hate her.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
"You really don’t know when to stop, do you?" Vi muttered.
Caitlyn gave her a small, tired smirk.
"You should know that by now."
Vi sighed, rubbing her temples.
"You really are full of surprises, huh?"
Caitlyn gave her a small, unreadable smile.
"You have no idea."
And Vi?
For the first time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight Caitlyn anymore.
Because maybe—just maybe—Caitlyn wasn’t the person Vi had built up in her head.
And that?
That was more dangerous than anything.
Chapter Text
Jeddah Grand Prix
The paddock was alive with energy—team engineers rushing, tires rolling, last-minute adjustments being made.
But Vi?
She barely heard any of it.
She sat on a low concrete wall near the Red Bull garage, hands clasped together, fingers drumming anxiously against her knuckles. Her gaze was distant, staring past the track, past the floodlights, past everything.
Because today wasn’t just another race weekend.
Today was Jinx’s birthday.
Another year.
Another reminder that Jinx had disappeared from her life without a trace.
Another year of searching. Of hoping, of waiting, of finding nothing but silence.
Vi exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the wall.
She had tried everything—calls that went unanswered, messages that were never read, old friends who shook their heads and said they hadn’t seen her.
Jinx was gone.
Not dead—Vi refused to believe that.
But gone.
Living somewhere far away, somewhere she didn’t want to be found.
Somewhere Vi couldn’t reach her.
"Vi?"
A voice pulled her out of her thoughts.
She blinked, turning to see Ekko watching her carefully.
His expression was unreadable, but Vi had known him long enough to know when he was worried.
"You’ve been quiet all morning," Ekko said, sitting beside her. "What’s wrong?"
Vi hesitated, fingers tightening in her lap.
Then, softly.
"It’s Jinx’s birthday."
Ekko’s face shifted—understanding, sadness.
He nodded slowly.
"You been looking for her again?"
Vi let out a slow, tired laugh.
"Like I ever stopped."
Ekko sighed, running a hand over his head. "Vi…"
"I know," she muttered before he could say anything. "She doesn’t want to be found."
Ekko didn’t argue.
Because they both knew it was true.
Instead, he bumped his shoulder lightly against hers.
"She’d want you to focus on your race," he said. "Even if she’d never admit it."
Vi exhaled sharply, rubbing her face.
"Yeah," she muttered. "Guess I better get to it then."
Ekko gave her a small, reassuring nod.
And for a second—just a second—the weight in her chest felt a little lighter.
The press was everywhere—cameras flashing, microphones shoved toward her, the familiar buzz of voices asking question after question.
Vi adjusted her earpiece as the interviewer turned toward her.
"Vi, you’ve been aggressive this season, constantly fighting at the front. Do you think you can take the win this weekend?"
Vi forced a smirk.
"I’m more than determined."
The reporter smiled, scribbling notes.
"You had an intense battle with Caitlyn Kiramman last week" they continued. "What’s your take on her as a competitor?"
Vi’s smirk faded.
Her grip tightened around the mic.
Of course they were going to bring up Caitlyn.
They always did.
Every damn interview.
Vi could already feel the frustration bubbling under her skin—why did everything have to be about Caitlyn?
She was about to answer.
Then she stopped.
No.
She wasn’t doing this.
She wasn’t giving them a quote.
She wasn’t wasting her breath talking about Caitlyn Kiramman.
So instead, she just tilted her head slightly, smirked, and stayed silent.
The interviewer waited.
Vi didn’t answer.
And after a long, awkward pause, they moved on.
Vi turned, stepping away from the cameras, her blood still running hot.
This race wasn’t about Caitlyn.
It wasn’t about rivalry.
It was about winning.
And Vi was ready.
The lights of the Jeddah Corniche Circuit were blinding, casting a harsh white glow over the track. The air hummed with the sound of roaring engines, the sharp screech of tires, the frantic voices over the team radios.
But Vi barely heard any of it.
Her thoughts were somewhere else.
Jinx.
It was her birthday today.
Another year. Another reminder that Jinx had walked away, cut ties, vanished into thin air—leaving Vi with nothing but questions and empty space.
It didn’t matter how many times she tried.
Jinx never answered. Never showed up. Never gave her a damn sign that she even existed anymore.
Vi had been left with nothing but her own guilt and a hollow, aching space where family was supposed to be.
Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.
She wasn’t thinking about racing anymore.
She was thinking about escape.
About pushing forward. About going faster.
Because if she went fast enough—maybe she wouldn’t feel the weight in her chest.
Maybe she wouldn’t hear Jinx’s voice in the back of her mind, reminding her of everything she lost.
Maybe she could just win and forget.
Final laps.
Vi’s Red Bull tore down the straight, the engine roaring as she closed in on the car ahead.
Caitlyn.
The four-time world champion was ahead, taking each turn with perfect precision, like she always did.
Vi clenched her jaw.
Not tonight.
She wasn’t going to let Caitlyn win this.
Vi slammed her foot down, forcing herself closer, the slipstream pulling her forward.
Caitlyn flicked her car through the corners like it was effortless—but Vi didn’t care about clean driving right now.
She was going to take pole position.
No matter what.
She dived for the inside line—too fast, too reckless.
Caitlyn’s mirrors filled with the Red Bull’s front wing.
"What the hell is she doing?" Caitlyn muttered into the radio.
For a split second—their wheels nearly touched.
Caitlyn reacted instinctively, adjusting just in time to avoid the collision.
But Vi—Vi wasn’t adjusting.
Vi was forcing the overtake no matter the risk.
She wasn’t thinking about consequences.
She was thinking about winning.
And then—
Everything went wrong.
Vi pushed too hard, took too much speed into the corner—
And her rear tires lost grip.
For a split second, she felt the car wobble beneath her—a slight twitch, a warning—
But by the time she reacted, it was too late.
The back end stepped out violently.
The car spun sideways.
Vi’s stomach dropped.
She barely had time to process it before she slammed into the barrier.
The impact rattled through her entire body—the sickening crunch of carbon fiber shattering, sparks flying, the violent jolt knocking the breath from her lungs.
Everything stopped.
The Red Bull sat motionless, one side of it crumpled against the wall.
Her radio crackled to life, but she barely registered it.
"Vi, are you okay?!"
Her ears were ringing.
Her hands trembled on the wheel.
She breathed—shallow, slow—trying to get her bearings.
She was fine.
Bruised, shaken, but fine.
Then—she heard screeching tires.
Another car had stopped.
And before she could process what was happening—
Caitlyn was there.
"Caitlyn, what the hell are you doing?!"
The voice in Caitlyn’s earpiece was furious, but she didn’t care.
She had seen Vi’s car slam into the wall, seen the smoke, the broken front wing, the lack of response on the radio.
Her body had moved before her mind could even catch up.
She had hit the brakes, parked her car off-track, and run.
Now she was standing at Vi’s car, gripping the cockpit.
"Vi!" she called, voice sharper than she intended.
For a second—no response.
Then—a groan.
The cockpit shifted slightly.
Vi’s helmeted head lifted.
Caitlyn exhaled, relieved.
She leaned in, scanning Vi for any obvious injuries.
"Vi, can you hear me?"
Vi groaned again, rubbing her forehead.
Caitlyn felt the tension in her chest ease just slightly.
Then Vi turned to look at her—confused, still catching her breath.
And the first thing out of her mouth was:
"You stopped your lap?"
Caitlyn blinked.
"Are you serious right now?"
Vi slowly unstrapped her belts, pulling herself out of the car.
"You abandoned your run for pole just to check on me?" Vi asked, disbelief in her voice.
Caitlyn frowned.
"You crashed, Vi. What was I supposed to do?"
Vi scoffed. "Uh, I don’t know—finish the damn session?"
Caitlyn’s frustration boiled over.
"You’ve been reckless the entire night," she snapped.
Vi rolled her eyes. "Yeah, so what? That’s how I drive, Kiramman."
Caitlyn shook her head.
"No," she said, voice firmer. "This was different. This wasn’t just your usual aggression—you were out of control."
Vi stiffened.
Caitlyn stepped closer.
"You almost took me out twice," Caitlyn continued, voice sharper now. "You weren’t thinking. You were just throwing yourself into every gap like you didn’t care if you crashed."
Vi’s jaw tightened.
She felt the words sting.
Because Caitlyn was right.
She hadn’t been thinking.
She had just been pushing. Running. Escaping.
Vi’s lips parted, like she was about to say something.
Then—she didn’t.
Instead, she said something cold.
Something she didn’t even fully mean.
"Why do you even care?"
Caitlyn’s face went blank.
The hurt flashed so quickly that Vi barely caught it.
A flicker in her blue eyes—real, unguarded, raw.
Then—just as fast—
Caitlyn shut down.
Expression blank. Composed.
Like Vi’s words hadn’t cut deeper than they should have.
Before either of them could say anything else, the marshals arrived.
And just like that, it was over.
Caitlyn stepped back.
Didn’t say another word.
She turned and walked away, her shoulders tense, her steps sharp.
Vi watched her go.
And for the first time, she regretted what she had said.
But she wasn’t sure if she could take it back.
Caitlyn sat rigid in her chair inside the Mercedes garage.
The air was thick with tension, the overhead lights casting harsh shadows against the walls.
Her race suit was still damp with sweat, the adrenaline of the last hour refusing to fade.
But that wasn’t why she felt like she couldn’t breathe.
It was the silence.
The heavy, unforgiving silence of an entire team staring at her like she had just made the biggest mistake of her career.
Because maybe—she had.
She looked at the board.
Q3 Results:
P9 – Caitlyn Kiramman (Mercedes)
P10 – Vi (Red Bull)
She had been on pole pace.
Until she stopped.
Until she ran to Vi.
And now, instead of starting at the front, she was buried in the midfield.
A deep voice broke the silence.
"You had the pace to take pole."
Caitlyn turned her head slowly.
Ambessa Medarda—Mercedes’ team principal—stood with her arms crossed, her gaze sharp and unreadable.
She was not an easy woman to impress.
She was even harder to please.
Caitlyn held her ground, lifting her chin.
"A car crashed," she said. "Someone could’ve been hurt."
Ambessa tilted her head slightly.
"And instead of trusting the marshals to do their job, you chose to abandon your own?"
Caitlyn felt a flicker of irritation but forced herself to remain calm.
"You think I could’ve just ignored that?" she asked.
A quiet scoff came from one of the engineers.
"Do you want to lose this championship?"
Caitlyn’s jaw clenched.
"Of course not."
"Then start acting like it," Ambessa said flatly.
Caitlyn stayed silent.
Because she knew the rules.
She knew that stopping mid-session wasn’t just reckless from a competitive standpoint—it was practically unheard of.
F1 was ruthless.
You didn’t stop unless you had to.
Unless you were forced to.
But she had stopped.
For Vi.
Ambessa stepped closer, voice lower, sharper.
"You need to understand something, Caitlyn," she said. "This? This won’t win you races. It won’t win you titles."
Caitlyn’s hands curled into fists.
"You think I should’ve just left her there?" she asked, voice quiet, but dangerous.
Ambessa watched her carefully.
Then—shrugged.
"I think you need to learn how to make hard decisions," she said.
Caitlyn said nothing.
Because she knew.
She knew Ambessa was right.
And yet—she didn’t regret what she did.
Not one bit.
Post-Qualifying Interviews
The media room was hot, buzzing with tension.
Caitlyn adjusted her headset, her fingers tight against the table.
She wasn’t in the mood for this.
She could still hear Vi’s words playing over and over in her head.
"Why do you even care?"
She shouldn’t care.
She should be thinking about the race, about recovery, about strategy.
But instead, her thoughts kept dragging her back to Vi.
To the way she had crashed.
To the way her voice had sounded when she snapped at her.
To the way Vi had looked at her like Caitlyn stopping was the most unbelievable thing in the world.
"You abandoned your lap. For what?"
Caitlyn exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus.
The first journalist started.
"Caitlyn, you were on pace for pole, but you stopped your lap after Vi’s crash. Can you explain your decision?"
Caitlyn met their gaze, voice even, but firm.
"I saw a car crash," she said. "Someone could have been seriously hurt. I made a choice."
The journalist nodded, but there was a hint of judgment in their eyes.
"You’ve been in F1 for years. You know that stopping in Q3 is almost unheard of—"
"So is abandoning someone when they could be injured," Caitlyn cut in.
The room went still for half a second.
The journalist shifted slightly.
"I’m not saying it was wrong," they clarified. "But do you think this decision could cost you in the championship battle?"
Caitlyn clenched her jaw.
"It’s a long season," she said simply.
Another journalist jumped in.
"But would you do it again? If the same thing happened tomorrow, would you stop?"
Caitlyn exhaled sharply.
Her gaze hardened.
"Yes."
A murmur spread through the room.
She could feel the weight of her words.
The implication that she wasn’t just here to win at any cost.
That there was something more important than trophies.
The next question came in, sharper.
"Do you think Vi’s aggression tonight was responsible for her crash?"
Caitlyn’s stomach twisted.
Vi had been reckless.
Vi had been desperate.
Vi had nearly taken them both out.
But Caitlyn also knew the truth.
Something was wrong with her tonight.
Something beyond racing.
And Caitlyn wanted to know why.
So she didn’t answer directly.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly.
"I think Vi is one of the most talented drivers on this grid," she said. "But tonight—" She paused, just for a second. "Tonight, she wasn’t herself."
More murmurs.
The journalists picked up on it immediately.
"Are you saying there was another reason behind her driving tonight?"
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.
She wasn’t going to air Vi’s struggles to the media.
So she just said, "You’ll have to ask her that."
The interview ended shortly after.
Caitlyn stood up, the tension still coiled in her chest.
She needed to focus on tomorrow’s race.
But her thoughts kept drifting back to Vi.
To what had pushed her that far.
And to the way Caitlyn had felt when she saw that Red Bull slam into the barrier.
The way her heart had stopped.
The way she had forgotten about everything else.
And to one simple, undeniable truth.
Caitlyn had never stopped for anyone before.
Not like this.
Not until Vi.
The lights were blinding.
The cameras stared her down, unflinching.
The room was hot, thick with the scent of tension and sweat.
Vi sat rigid, arms crossed, fingers curling into the sleeves of her race suit.
Her breathing was steady, but her pulse—her pulse was a goddamn war drum in her chest.
She wasn’t ready for this.
She wasn’t in the mood.
She wasn’t even sure she could form a full sentence without snapping.
Because no matter how much she tried to block it out, it was still there.
The crash.
The smoke.
The second of suffocating silence before she moved.
And then—
Caitlyn.
Caitlyn, who had stopped.
Who had thrown away everything for her.
The interviewer spoke, and the sound of his voice made Vi’s skin crawl.
"Vi, can you take us through what happened during qualifying?"
Vi barely blinked.
Her response came sharp, clipped, void of anything but irritation.
"Lost the car. Hit the wall."
Short. Dismissive.
She wasn’t playing their game.
Not today.
The journalist didn’t let up.
"You were locked in a tight battle with Caitlyn before the incident. Do you think her presence on track played a role in what happened?"
Vi clenched her jaw.
Her presence?
Like Caitlyn was the problem?
Like she hadn’t been pushing too hard for reasons that had nothing to do with Caitlyn?
Like she hadn’t been driving like someone who didn’t care if she crashed?
She could already hear the headlines.
"Vi blames Caitlyn for her crash."
"Red Bull rookie struggles against Mercedes ace."
Vi wasn’t giving them that.
So she leaned back in her chair, eyes sharp, unforgiving.
"Racing is racing."
Simple. Cold.
The journalist tilted his head, studying her.
"Would you say you were overdriving?"
Vi’s fingers twitched.
She wanted to laugh.
Overdriving?
No.
She had been running.
Running from the way her chest felt too tight all day.
Running from the fact that today was Jinx’s birthday and she still didn’t know where the hell her sister was.
Running from everything she didn’t want to feel.
She forced her smirk back, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
"Next question."
The journalist hesitated.
Then—the words that made her stomach turn.
"Caitlyn was asked about your crash in her interview," the journalist said, his voice almost too casual. "She said—and I quote—Vi is one of the most talented drivers on this grid. But tonight, she wasn’t herself."
The moment the words hit her, Vi’s entire body went still.
Her breath hitched.
Her fingers curled into fists.
"She wasn’t herself."
Her lungs squeezed tight.
Her ears rang.
Because Caitlyn had seen it.
Had noticed.
Had known something was wrong.
Had been paying attention.
And Vi hated it.
Hated how easily Caitlyn could read her.
Hated how she had said it out loud, like it was fact.
The journalist was watching her closely now, waiting for a reaction.
Vi forced herself to relax her shoulders, to mask the fact that Caitlyn’s words had landed like a goddamn gut punch.
She let out a short, bitter laugh.
"She said that?"
The journalist nodded.
"So do you agree?"
Vi scoffed, shaking her head.
"I think Caitlyn should focus on her own race."
The words came out sharp, cutting.
But the journalist wasn’t done.
"And what about her decision to stop her lap for you?"
Vi felt it again.
That ugly, twisting feeling in her chest.
The part of her that couldn’t understand why Caitlyn had done it.
Why she had thrown away pole position.
Why she had run to Vi like she—
Like she mattered.
Her throat felt tight.
She needed this conversation to end.
Now.
She met the journalist’s gaze, eyes cold, distant.
"That was her mistake," she muttered. "Not mine."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The journalist waited for more.
Vi gave him nothing.
And finally—finally—he moved on.
But Vi?
Vi was still stuck on Caitlyn.
Still stuck on the fact that she had stopped.
Still stuck on the way she had looked at her after the crash.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Vi wasn’t sure if she was mad at Caitlyn.
Or if she was mad at herself.
Notes:
What did you think of this chapter?
I’d love to hear your thoughts! Drop a comment below — once I get 4 comments, I’ll post the next chapter. Can’t wait to hear from you all!
Chapter Text
The Jeddah Corniche Circuit blazed under the floodlights, a ribbon of speed wound along the Red Sea. The roar of engines filled the night air. Spotlights gleamed off the halo of Vi’s Red Bull as she sat in P10, tense, fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel.
Just ahead in P9, Caitlyn sat still, composed in her Mercedes. Jaw tight. Eyes forward.
The lights on the gantry lit up.
Red.
Red.
Red.
Lights out.
Vi launched like a bullet—aggressive, frantic. Her tires screamed as she rocketed off the line, instantly diving down the inside of Turn 1. Metal crowded around her, carbon fiber wings dangerously close. She elbowed into P8, then dropped back. Controlled chaos.
But Caitlyn?
She was ice.
She leapt forward with precision—taking advantage of two drivers tangling up at Turn 3. She slid past into P7, then P6 before Lap 2 was out. By Lap 4, she was in P4—clinical, relentless.
Vi tried to follow.
But she wasn’t clinical.
She was furious.
The rage from qualifying still clung to her—rage at herself, at the world, at Caitlyn, even though she didn’t know why. She forced a move into Turn 11, locked her rears, skidded wide, and nearly clipped the wall.
She caught it.
Barely.
Back in the pits, her engineer’s voice crackled in her ear: “Vi, you have to calm down.”
But Vi wasn’t hearing anything.
She was driving like the track owed her something.
And meanwhile—Caitlyn flew.
She hunted the frontrunners like a machine. Lap by lap, she reeled them in—clean overtakes, no contact, no wasted motion. She was all calculation and elegance.
Lap 17: P3.
Lap 21: P2.
Lap 26: a brilliant switchback on the back straight—P1.
And from there, she controlled the race.
Mercedes pit wall watched in silent awe. Caitlyn’s lap times were metronomic. Tire management perfect. Radio calm.
Vi, on the other hand, was a storm.
Every corner was a gamble.
On Lap 29, she lunged again on Norris for P9, ran wide, lost it again, dropped to P11. Her tires were cooked. Her rear stepped out violently on Lap 33—nearly another wall.
“Box, box,” her team finally called.
She pit.
Fresh tires helped. She clawed her way back to P10 by Lap 42.
But it wasn’t driving—it was fighting.
It wasn’t racing—it was running.
Up front, Caitlyn never looked back.
The final ten laps were hers. Absolute control. Cool under pressure. Dominating.
Lap 50: The checkered flag waved.
Caitlyn Kiramman—P1. From P9. A masterclass.
The crowd exploded.
Her engineer screamed in her ear.
“You did it! You freaking did it!”
Caitlyn didn’t scream.
She just closed her eyes, hand trembling around the wheel, and let herself breathe.
Vi crossed the line in P10.
She didn’t even speak. She didn’t respond to her engineer. She just sat there, the engine ticking, the world roaring for someone else.
The champagne sprayed. The Saudi night sparkled with confetti and cheers.
Caitlyn stood atop the podium.
P1.
She wore no wide grin—just a calm, glowing confidence. Her fist rose once to the crowd, then lowered. She didn’t need the celebration.
She had won the race on merit. On heart. On steel.
Reporters swarmed her on the way down.
“Caitlyn, you started in ninth and won the race! Walk us through it.”
She gave a quiet nod. “It was about execution. We knew the car had pace. The team was perfect. I just did what I had to.”
“After what happened in qualifying—do you feel like this vindicates your decision to stop?”
She hesitated. Just for a second.
Then: “I don’t regret what I did yesterday. But tonight was about racing. And I’m proud of how we fought.”
---
Post-Race: Vi
Vi sat at the far end of the press room.
Arms crossed. Jaw locked.
The reporters came, as they always did.
But she wasn’t smiling.
Her fire had burned through everything. All that was left was ash.
“Vi, tough race. P10. Do you think the emotional weight of qualifying affected your performance?”
Vi didn’t even blink.
“Wasn’t good enough. That’s all there is.”
“Caitlyn stopped her lap in qualifying to check on you after the crash—and tonight, she wins from P9. Any comment on her performance?”
Vi’s eyes darkened.
Her voice, when it came, was cold. Flat.
“She did her job. I’m not here to talk about her.”
“But she helped you. People are calling it one of the most selfless moments of the season—”
Vi cut in.
“I said I’m not here to talk about Caitlyn.”
The room went still.
She let the silence settle.
Then added, sharper:
“I need to focus on my own race. And tonight? Mine was terrible.”
No warmth. No reflection.
Just a steel wall.
The wind in Jeddah was different at night.
Gone was the dry, searing desert heat that clung to your skin during the day. Instead, the evening brought something gentler—a breeze off the water, cooler, quieter, brushing through the palm trees that lined the luxury hotel’s courtyard.
Vi stepped into it like someone surfacing from deep water.
She hadn’t changed out of her hoodie, though her race suit was long gone. A Red Bull logo lay creased on her shoulder, barely visible beneath the shadows. Her joggers dragged slightly at the ankles, her sneakers scuffed from too many pit lane sprints. Her hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail, damp from a shower that had done nothing to rinse away the pressure in her chest.
The race was over.
The interviews were over.
The world had moved on, drunk on headlines and podium photos.
But Vi?
Vi couldn’t sleep.
She needed air.
Real air. Not the filtered, overly perfumed kind in hotel rooms or press suites. She needed space to move. To stop pretending.
To feel something she hadn’t let herself feel in days.
She stepped into the hotel garden with her hands in her hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched, steps slow. White string lights coiled through the trees above, dimmed now, casting just enough light to blur the edges of the path. A low stone wall ringed a square fountain at the center, its water trickling in soft, steady rhythm.
She paused there.
Closed her eyes.
Listened.
Until—
Footsteps.
Approaching from behind.
Measured. Light. Familiar.
Vi turned slowly.
And there she was.
Caitlyn.
Fresh from a run, it seemed. Her hoodie—plain navy—was damp with sweat at the collar. Her running tights clung to her legs, and her hair was tied into a neat ponytail that had loosened slightly around her temple. She was catching her breath, earbuds around her neck, her skin flushed and glowing in the low light.
She stopped when she saw Vi, brows lifting slightly in surprise.
Vi froze too. Then—before either of them could look away—she found her voice.
“…Hey.”
Caitlyn tilted her head. “Hey.”
A pause.
Vi swallowed.
“I was hoping I’d see you.”
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply.
Vi took one hesitant step closer, then another, until she was standing near the fountain’s edge. Her hands remained deep in her pockets.
“I owe you something,” she said, her voice quiet. Uncertain.
Caitlyn didn’t move. Just waited.
Vi shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
And then—she looked her in the eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
The words came out rough, like she had to drag them up from somewhere deep. Her shoulders didn’t drop, her fists didn’t unclench—but the words were real.
“I was out of line. In qualifying. After the crash. After the interviews.” Her voice cracked. “You didn’t deserve that. And I treated you like—like a stranger. Or worse.”
Caitlyn still didn’t speak. She watched Vi carefully, her expression unreadable.
Vi continued.
“You didn’t have to stop that lap. You didn’t have to come running. You didn’t have to check on me.” Her jaw tensed. “But you did. You risked your race for me. And I never even said thank you.”
Silence.
“Thank you,” Vi whispered.
And there it was.
All of it.
Offered like a hand she wasn’t sure would be taken.
Caitlyn’s gaze finally softened.
And she stepped forward.
“You meant that,” she said quietly.
Vi nodded.
“Yeah.”
Caitlyn breathed out slowly, her chest rising, then falling.
“Okay.”
Another pause.
And then—surprisingly—
“Walk with me.”
The garden path curled around the back of the hotel, weaving between trimmed hedges and low lanterns that cast pools of golden light. Crickets chirped from somewhere in the grass. A slow, lazy wind stirred the trees overhead.
They walked in silence at first.
Side by side.
Not close enough to touch, but not far enough to feel distant.
Vi felt the air around Caitlyn—cool, charged. The kind of quiet strength that didn’t demand attention but didn’t yield it either. Beside her, Caitlyn walked tall, calm as ever, arms loosely folded across her chest.
“I can’t stop thinking about the race,” Vi said eventually. “The moment I spun out. How I pushed too far. Again.”
Caitlyn glanced sideways. “You pushed because something was off. Even before you lost it.”
Vi hesitated.
Then gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
“You always drive on the edge,” Caitlyn added. “But this weekend.You were over it.”
Vi didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
Caitlyn kept walking. Her voice was even. Careful.
“Whatever you’re dealing with… it’s bleeding into the car.”
Vi’s voice was low. “I know.”
“I’m not judging.”
Vi looked at her. “Then what are you doing?”
Caitlyn stopped.
She turned, her eyes searching Vi’s face.
“I’m trying to understand.”
And just like that—Vi looked away.
Because understanding was more terrifying than judgment.
“I’m not good at this,” Vi muttered.
“At what?”
“This. Talking. Feeling.” She let out a quiet laugh, bitter at the edges. “I’m better at punching problems in the face.”
Caitlyn smiled softly. “I noticed.”
Vi smirked. “You’re still here, though.”
Caitlyn shrugged. “You apologized. That’s more than most drivers would do.”
“Didn’t mean I expected forgiveness.”
“I didn’t say you had it.”
Vi blinked, glancing over.
Caitlyn was smirking now.
Vi snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are.”
They kept walking.
This time, closer.
They reached the far end of the garden path, where a narrow stone bench sat under a flowering tree. Caitlyn sat first. Vi paced a few steps before sitting beside her, elbows on her knees.
The breeze tugged softly at the leaves overhead.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
Then Vi broke the silence.
“It was Jinx’s birthday,” she said, voice so quiet it was nearly lost to the wind.
Caitlyn turned to her.
Vi didn’t look back.
“My sister,” she added. “She’s… gone.”
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change.
But something in her posture did.
She didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t press.
Just listened.
Vi exhaled slowly. “I thought I could bury it. Just focus on the race. But it caught up with me.”
“I know how that feels,” Caitlyn said gently.
Vi glanced at her.
Caitlyn looked ahead, her voice calm but heavy. “Grief doesn’t disappear. It just waits.”
Vi looked down at her hands.
Fidgeted with the sleeve of her hoodie.
“I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
Caitlyn gave a quiet nod. “I know.”
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.
It was something else.
Understanding. Shared weight.
Then Caitlyn tilted her head. “You going to try and take me out again in Australia?”
Vi smirked. “Only if you’re too slow.”
Caitlyn laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Vi leaned back, stretching out her legs.
“I meant it,” she said. “Next race, I’ll be better.”
Caitlyn turned to her. “You mean safer?”
“I mean stronger,” Vi said, eyes steady. “Not just for the team. For myself.”
Caitlyn’s smile returned.
“I’m holding you to that."
They walked back in silence.
This time, they matched pace easily. Their shoulders brushed once. Neither of them stepped away.
At the hotel entrance, Caitlyn paused with her hand on the door.
Vi lingered beside her.
“Thanks for not walking away,” she said.
Caitlyn looked at her, expression unreadable—but softer.
“I almost did,” she admitted. “Back in qualifying.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Caitlyn held her gaze.
“Because you matter more than pole position.”
Vi swallowed hard.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Caitlyn stepped inside, disappearing into the light.
Vi stood there alone, watching the stars blink in the dark sky above the Red Sea.
And for the first time in a long time—
She didn’t feel quite so alone.
The Australian sun was already high by the time the paddock began to hum to life, casting crisp golden lines between the transporter trucks and glinting off the chrome Mercedes star and Red Bull insignia.
Media swarmed at the gates.
Fans pressed eagerly against the fencing—some waving signs, others holding sharpies, phones, and homemade “ViKiramman” merch, their excitement buzzing like a live wire.
Race weekend had arrived in Melbourne.
And all eyes were watching.
The first to step out of the car was Vi.
Red Bull hoodie tossed casually over her shoulders, black aviators on, chewing gum like she didn’t have a care in the world.
But there was a swagger to her walk now—not cocky, but confident, more grounded than she'd been since Jeddah. Her headphones hung around her neck, music still thumping softly. She wore her race boots laced loose, as if she’d been ready for the track since yesterday.
The fans screamed.
“Vi! Vi, over here!”
She glanced over—then smirked.
“You guys really show up at 8am for this?” she said, lifting her sunglasses and squinting into the crowd.
A teenager held up a sign that read “Crashed Hearts Club” with Vi’s number drawn in bold red.
She barked a laugh. “That’s dark. I like it.”
Vi jogged over, signed it, then turned her cap backward and gave two quick thumbs-up before heading toward the paddock gate. Cameras snapped as she went—cool, detached, not exactly a people-person, but no longer as raw and unreachable as before.
Moments later, another car pulled up.
And Caitlyn stepped out.
Mercedes polo crisp, sunglasses immaculate, long stride purposeful as ever. Where Vi looked like she might’ve just rolled out of bed and into the garage, Caitlyn looked like she’d rehearsed the walk in a mirror.
But her eyes were soft. Her smile wasn’t just for the cameras—it was for the fans.
“Caitlyn! You’re a queen!”
“Give us the wink!”
She paused—took her time.
Signed hats. Took selfies. Even bent down to scribble her name across a girl’s cast—“Don’t race until you’re healed,” she wrote, along with a tiny drawing of a steering wheel.
Vi, watching from a distance by the Red Bull entrance, muttered, “I swear she’s running for office.”
One of her mechanics chuckled. “She’s winning fans like it’s a campaign.”
“Yeah, well,” Vi shrugged, “I’d vote for her.”
The media center at Albert Park wasn’t loud—but it buzzed with something expectant.
Not tension. Not quite.
Just attention.
Three drivers were seated behind a clean black table with understated team branding behind them.
Three microphones, three name cards.
Caitlyn Kiramman – Mercedes
Vi – Red Bull
Viktor – Aston Martin
The session hadn’t even started, and already the photographers were snapping stills—just in case.
Vi sat reclined slightly, fingers idly tapping on her water bottle. Her Red Bull polo was half-zipped, hair pulled back in a way that said I got ready in 10 minutes, but she looked comfortable. More focused than frantic.
Caitlyn, in the center, was her usual composed self. Mercedes polo pressed, sleeves neat, back straight. But there was a faint softness in her posture today—a calm that didn’t read as cold.
Viktor looked exactly the same as he always did: borderline unreadable, hands folded, gaze straight ahead like he was already three corners into Turn 1.
The moderator kept things brief.
“Good morning, everyone. We’re joined today by Caitlyn, Vi, and Viktor. Let’s get started.”
The first question was routine.
“How’s the mindset heading into the weekend?”
Caitlyn answered smoothly. “Focused. The track evolves quickly here, so FP1 is about getting ahead of that curve.”
Vi, glancing sideways, added, “That, and not binning it into a wall. Which is currently my personal record to beat.”
Caitlyn didn’t turn—but the faintest smile tugged at her mouth.
Viktor deadpanned, “A noble benchmark.”
A journalist cleared his throat.
“Let’s address the elephant in the paddock—Jeddah qualifying. Caitlyn, you stopped your lap. Vi, you crashed. You both said your piece afterward. Is it behind you now?”
Caitlyn nodded politely. “We’ve moved on.”
Vi gave a short, slightly crooked smile. “She stopped a flying lap to check on me. I was an ass about it. I’ve since returned to being a human being.”
That got a few chuckles from the room—and even from Viktor.
Caitlyn’s response was calm. “She apologized. I accepted. That’s the end of the story.”
“Mutual professionalism?” the journalist offered.
Vi shrugged. “More or less. She’s not yelling at me. I’m not crashing in front of her. It’s progress.”
Caitlyn leaned slightly toward the mic. “Let’s just say I appreciate clean racing more than dramatic exits.”
Vi muttered, “Noted.”
“How do you both approach racing each other now?”
Caitlyn was quick to answer.
“Same as I approach everyone. Leave space, race hard, trust the driver beside me to do the same.”
Vi paused. “I drive hard. Always have. But I know where the line is now.”
“Glad to hear it,” Caitlyn said dryly.
Another wave of laughter rippled through the press.
Viktor Chimes In
“You’ve been between them in races before,” someone asked Viktor. “What’s that like?”
Viktor blinked slowly.
“Efficient chaos. They fight clean, but not quietly.”
Vi grinned. “We’re a spectacle.”
“You’re loud,” Viktor corrected.
“Final one,” the moderator said. “One sentence on what you want from FP1.”
Caitlyn answered immediately. “Data, balance, consistency.”
Vi thought a second. “No yellow flags with my name on them.”
Viktor simply said, “Stay out of their way.”
Even Caitlyn chuckled at that one.
Social Media Reaction
@T1Recap
Caitlyn: calm.
Vi: self-deprecating.
Viktor: tired of them both.
This panel was GOLD.
---
@F1mirror
Vi low-key owning her Jeddah mess + Caitlyn letting it slide = the adult growth arc I didn’t know I needed.
---
@KirammanMedia
Vi: “She stopped a flying lap to check on me. I was an ass.”
That’s the apology. That’s it. No PR. Just respect.
---
@gridsidebanter
Viktor saying “efficient chaos” was the best quote of the day and somehow 100% accurate.
---
@f1meta
The Vi–Caitlyn rivalry has quietly become a masterclass in tension, restraint, and respect. Less Netflix drama, more character development.
The sun had settled into its late-morning glow, painting warm streaks of gold across the asphalt and carbon fiber. The paddock, now past the storm of Free Practice 1, buzzed in its own muted rhythm—footsteps echoing across the concrete walkways, the distant whir of tire guns packing down for the next run, engines gone quiet but still carrying their heat.
It had been a good session.
Clean. Efficient.
Caitlyn had topped the timing sheets early and stayed in the fight the entire hour. The Mercedes looked exactly like what it was: a machine dialed in by someone who knew how to extract every inch of its precision.
Vi wasn’t far off. P3, smooth lines, no lockups, no radio complaints. Just pace. Finally.
The paddock reflected that peace.
There was no chaos. No crushed carbon. No tension boiling under skin or steel.
Just focus.
And for once, Vi wasn’t walking like she had to dodge the weight of her own frustration.
She stepped out from the Red Bull garage with her race suit hanging from her hips and a bottle of water loose in one hand. Her boots scuffed gently against the pavement as she crossed into the side path near the hospitality units. The sun caught her hair, wind brushing the sweat-damp strands away from her brow. Her headphones were looped around her neck, though she wasn’t listening to anything. For the first time in weeks, her mind was quiet.
And then—
A flicker of motion caught her eye.
Up ahead, standing against the silver rail lining the team suites, was Caitlyn.
Mercedes fire suit still zipped. Helmet cradled casually under one arm. The same flawless posture Vi had always known, like she was trained to be unshakable.
But her eyes weren’t fixed on a data screen.
They were watching the sky.
The moment Vi approached, Caitlyn turned her head—slightly, slowly—and looked right at her.
And then, for the first time Vi could remember…
She smiled.
Not a sharp smirk. Not one of those diplomatic “I'm fine, ask your next question” smiles from the podium.
Just—
A real one.
Small. Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Vi blinked.
And then let the corner of her mouth lift in return.
She slowed her steps but didn’t stop until they were side by side, separated by a meter of space and a long, quiet history of rivalry, fire, and something too new to name.
Caitlyn spoke first.
“Good run.”
Her voice, as always, was smooth. Controlled. But gentler around the edges now.
Vi leaned back against the railing beside her, glancing out toward the blur of sponsor flags flapping lazily above the garage rooftops.
“Didn’t crash,” she said. “We’re calling that a win.”
Caitlyn’s lips curved again.
Tiny, but unmistakable.
“You did more than not crash.”
Vi rolled the water bottle between her palms.
“Didn’t think you watched my laps that closely.”
“I always do,” Caitlyn said, eyes forward.
There was no tension in the silence that followed. No discomfort.
Just space. Shared and quiet.
“You’re smoother in sector two,” Caitlyn added after a moment. “You’ve changed your entry line at Turn 6.”
Vi gave a low chuckle. “Took me long enough. My engineer’s been hinting at it for two weeks.”
“Subtle hints?”
“More like daily reminders and judgmental stares.”
Caitlyn actually laughed—a soft sound, but real.
Vi turned to look at her, expression easy now.
“I was… surprised,” she said quietly.
“By?”
“You. Letting me talk the other night. After everything.”
Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t move. “You needed to talk.”
“And you listened,” Vi said.
That hung between them for a second.
Caitlyn exhaled slowly, then finally turned toward her.
“I don’t think you’ve ever been more yourself than you were in that moment,” she said. “I respected that.”
Vi looked down, brushing a thumb over the cap of her water bottle.
She didn’t know what to say to that.
So she didn’t say anything.
And that, too, was fine.
They stood like that—unmoving, but not still.
Two racers. Two people. Not at war. Not retreating. Just existing next to each other with the kind of ease you can’t fake.
After a while, Caitlyn nodded toward the garages.
“Briefing soon.”
“Yeah,” Vi said. “Me too.”
She pushed off the rail and turned to go.
But before she could take a full step—
Caitlyn spoke again, quietly.
“Vi.”
She stopped.
Turned.
Caitlyn was still standing there, calm as ever, but her voice was softer than before.
“I’m glad you’re driving like this again.”
Vi studied her for a beat.
And then—
She smiled.
Not forced. Not sarcastic.
Real.
“Me too.”
And with that, she walked back toward the Red Bull garage, sunlight catching the curve of her shoulder as she turned the corner.
Caitlyn watched her go.
Just for a moment.
Then she picked up her helmet.
And followed her own path.
The lights above pit lane blinked green.
Q3 had begun.
Tension hung in the air like static, thick and humming. The kind that didn’t shout, didn’t panic—just pressed into every breath, every second, every millimeter of throttle.
The circuit glowed under the soft, burnished sun. Shadows stretched long behind the walls. And above the garages, pit boards flashed and team radios crackled to life.
Caitlyn sat still in the cockpit of her W15.
Helmet on. Visor down. Hands firm on the wheel.
Her breathing was slow, calculated. Inhale for four. Hold. Exhale through the tension.
Her engineer’s voice cut in. Calm. Controlled.
“Track evolution looking strong. Two runs. You’ll have clean air on the second. Push when ready.”
She didn’t respond.
She didn’t need to.
She rolled out onto the circuit.
Two garages down, Vi’s Red Bull came alive.
She pulled down her visor and fired the car forward like it was already chasing something.
Her heart beat steady, but fast.
This wasn’t the same Vi who clipped a wall two weeks ago.
This wasn’t the Vi who lost control chasing ghosts in Jeddah.
This was the version that didn’t need to prove anything.
Only to win.
The first flying laps came fast.
Caitlyn’s Mercedes traced every apex like it was etched there for her. She was all flow and discipline—no wasted movement, no drama.
Vi, by contrast, was looser. More expressive. Sliding through the rear a fraction out of Turn 6. A millisecond late on throttle in 11. But her Red Bull responded like it trusted her again.
When the times flashed up on the tower—
Caitlyn: P2. Vi: P5.
Caitlyn came in early.
Softs still had one more perfect lap in them.
Vi rolled through the pit lane, visor cracked, sweat running down her jawline beneath the helmet.
“How’s the time?”
Her engineer replied, “P5. Two tenths to third. Still in it.”
She nodded once and pulled into the box.
Back on track with four minutes remaining.
Everything now rode on one lap.
Caitlyn was the first to cross the line.
The W15 launched forward with precision, burning through Turn 1 with a front-end bite that looked almost effortless. Turn 3 — no slide. Turn 6 — millimetre-perfect.
Purple sectors. No hesitation.
She didn’t blink.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Vi was two cars behind. Her out-lap was calm, methodical. Brake temps. Tire temps. Engine mode 3.
But her mind was already in the next 90 seconds.
She shifted once. Twice. Felt the car lean into her grip like it trusted her this time.
At the last corner, she downshifted and squared the car straight.
Then—flat.
She flew down the main straight, engine screaming.
“You’re free. No traffic. Give it everything.”
She did.
Turn 1 — late braking, aggressive inside line.
Turn 5 — too close to the curb, but she corrected mid-corner, hands dancing.
Her second sector was yellow.
Not purple.
She kept pushing.
Turn 9 — her last trouble spot all weekend — she exhaled and leaned into it. The tires held. The car rotated.
“Final chicane—tight, clean.”
She nailed the first turn. The second clipped just slightly wide.
It was enough.
Across the line.
Time flashed.
Caitlyn: P1.
Vi: P5.
A strong lap. A cleaner one.
But not enough.
“Good job, Vi,” her engineer said. “That’s a big step forward.”
Vi didn’t respond right away. Just coasted through Turn 1 again, letting the tension bleed off.
Inside the Mercedes garage, Caitlyn was already climbing out of the car, visor lifted, face unreadable but composed.
Her engineer gave her a small nod. “Pole. By 0.096.”
She removed her gloves, unzipped her suit partway, and stepped off the sidepod.
From across the pit lane, Vi climbed from her Red Bull.
Helmet under one arm, she exhaled slowly.
P5 wasn’t a failure.
But it wasn’t what she’d wanted either.
Not yet.
Later, in the post-quali holding area before the top-three interviews, Caitlyn stood beneath the overhead fan, sipping from her water bottle.
Vi walked past—still suited, sweat-damp, but relaxed.
They caught eyes.
Vi gave a nod. “Pole suits you.”
Caitlyn, expression neutral, replied, “P5 doesn’t look bad on you either.”
Vi grinned. “I’ll trade it tomorrow.”
Caitlyn held her gaze.
And then—just barely—smiled.
“Try me.”
Then she turned toward the media wall, as the first round of interviews began.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! What did you think of Vi and Caitlyn’s dynamic this chapter — getting sharper or softening? Let me know what you'd like to see next: more on-track battles, quiet personal moments, or something entirely different. 🏁
Chapter Text
The circuit felt different at night.
Not just quieter—emptier. It was as if the track had shed its armor for the evening, and all that remained was asphalt, curve, and memory.
The high floodlights along the Australian GP layout hummed faintly overhead, casting silver-white halos across the corners. No mechanics shouting. No engine echoes. Just the gentle brush of wind through the spectator fences and the occasional distant pop of something being packed away.
Caitlyn liked this time.
After the meetings were done, after the media calls wrapped, after the engineers had stopped reciting fuel loads and brake temps.
Now, it was just her, the circuit, and the soft click-click-click of her pedals rotating forward.
She’d taken to cycling the track at night before race day. She said it helped her visualize. Truth was—it helped her breathe.
Helmet strapped, sleeves pushed to her forearms, Caitlyn guided the matte-black road bike into the long sweeping stretch of Turn 2. Her muscles moved on memory. Her mind flicked through strategy like a slide deck. Every bend, every braking zone, every kerb height she knew by touch now.
But as she rolled into Turn 3, a familiar voice cut through the silence behind her.
"Didn’t peg you for a night rider, Kiramman."
Caitlyn didn’t need to turn around.
The voice had a grin folded into it.
Vi.
Of course.
She coasted to the inside line as the sound of tires approached. Vi pulled up beside her on a slightly battered red-and-navy Cannondale, her helmet slanted just a bit, wind-blown hair sticking out beneath it.
"Didn’t peg you for a stalker," Caitlyn replied smoothly.
Vi laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I saw the bike rack was down. Figured you were out here trying to find some inner peace.”
"Trying," Caitlyn said dryly.
“Mind if I join?”
Caitlyn hesitated.
Then: “It’s a public circuit.”
“Not really, but sure,” Vi grinned, falling into cadence beside her.
---
They pedaled in silence for a few corners. The rhythmic whir of their tires filled the space between street lamps and guard rails.
It wasn’t tense.
Just… quiet.
Like the track was listening too.
"You're different when you're not being watched," Vi said eventually.
Caitlyn arched an eyebrow without looking at her. “You mean when I’m not being cornered in a media pen or asked about tire deg?”
Vi gave a low laugh. “Something like that.”
They turned down the back straight, their bikes picking up speed.
Caitlyn kept her posture easy but efficient—shoulders relaxed, elbows soft, perfect technique.
Vi, on the other hand, leaned forward like she was daring the bike to go faster than physics allowed.
“You really love this part,” Caitlyn said as they banked through the soft bend at Turn 8.
Vi glanced over. “The track?”
“No. The quiet.”
Vi didn’t answer immediately.
Then: “Yeah. The track doesn’t care if you’re having a good day or a breakdown. It’s just there. Waiting.”
Caitlyn nodded once. “Unbiased.”
“Predictable,” Vi added.
“And you like that?”
Vi shrugged. “Helps when everything else isn’t.”
---
They reached Turn 10 and slowed again, bikes coasting.
Caitlyn stood slightly on her pedals, stretching her back.
Vi caught the movement. “You okay?”
“Just tension,” Caitlyn said. “Race day shoulder.”
Vi nodded slowly. Then: “You ever not hold it all together?”
That pulled a glance from Caitlyn. Measured. Careful.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—” Vi circled her handlebars as she coasted. “I’ve never seen you flustered. Or angry. Or hell, even loud. You’re always just… composed.”
Caitlyn gave a half-smile. “Someone has to be.”
Vi eyed her. “You ever let anyone see you off-script?”
Caitlyn looked ahead again. The lights of the main straight shimmered like distant stars.
“Rarely,” she said. “And usually not on purpose.”
Vi exhaled through her nose, not quite a laugh. “You make it hard to know when you’re human.”
Caitlyn slowed a little more, legs coasting the pedals.
“Maybe I don’t always want to be,” she said quietly.
Vi’s smile faded a little. Not in hurt—but in recognition.
That feeling, she understood too well.
---
They came to a full stop near Turn 12, the soft downhill slope facing the skyline of Melbourne.
The city lights were distant, blurred behind a halo of the grandstands. Above them, the sky stretched wide—deep navy, brushed with clouds and silver stars.
They rested there.
Side by side.
Neither of them spoke.
Caitlyn pulled out her phone, unlocking it with a quiet flick of her thumb. She took a photo of the corner curving ahead—the floodlights, the soft tire marks left over from FP3, the emptiness of it.
She didn’t add text.
Just the image.
Then she posted it to her Story.
Vi watched her out of the corner of her eye.
“Alright,” she said, pulling her own phone out. “If you’re going to go poetic on main, I’m not letting you have the aesthetic edge.”
She raised her phone, angled it upward—not at the track, but at the sky.
One star in particular shone brighter than the rest, just above the final corner.
Click.
She added no caption either.
Just a star.
Posted.
---
Ten minutes later, both stories went live.
And the internet exploded.
---
Social Media Reaction
@F1AfterDark
Caitlyn cycling the track under the floodlights? Vi posting the sky at the same time? I’m not saying anything but 👀👀👀
---
@KirammanUpdates
Vi’s story: a star.
Caitlyn’s story: the track.
Neither said anything. And yet… EVERYTHING IS SAID.
---
@GridPulse
They’re not even posting selfies. They’re posting the same silence. This is better than any podium moment.
---
@Turn12Truthers
This soft lighting, the mood, the energy, the silence, the symbolism
Back on the track, the riders were still there.
Vi leaned on her handlebars, letting the wind pass over her face.
“You ever wonder if it’s always going to be like this?” she asked. “Us. Competing. Balancing. Never fully… letting go?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away.
Then she said, “If it is, it could be worse.”
Vi looked over.
“Yeah?”
Caitlyn’s smile was almost too soft to see.
“But I think it might get better.”
The parade truck rumbled slowly through the serpentine edges of the Albert Park circuit, humming beneath the sun-streaked morning sky.
The streets were alive with cheers. Thousands of voices melded into a rising tide of noise, flags waving like painted wind, kids hoisted onto shoulders, camera flashes bouncing off the chrome-plated trim of the vehicle.
Caitlyn stood near the front railing of the truck bed, one hand resting against the bar, the other tucked neatly into the pocket of her Mercedes jacket. She wore her usual pre-race calm like armor — shoulders back, posture clean, the faintest curl of a smile offered to fans as the truck rolled past.
Vi leaned near the back, sunglasses on, Red Bull hoodie unzipped halfway. Her elbows rested on the edge of the truck rail, fingers laced loosely. Her body said relaxed. Her eyes didn’t.
Viktor stood between them, unreadable as ever. Ekko chatted beside him, occasionally pointing at signs in the crowd — one of them said KIRAMMAN = ICE QUEEN. Another had Vi’s car hand-drawn in bright markers with a single caption: SEND IT, VI.
Vi smirked faintly at that one.
Then she saw her.
Maddie.
New to the grid.
She stood on the same parade truck, but had waited until they rounded the corner toward Turn 9 before weaving through the other drivers, slowly making her way forward.
Vi watched her go.
Watched her pause. Reassess. Then continue.
The crowd didn’t notice. Not yet. But Vi did.
And she knew where Maddie was headed long before she arrived.
Caitlyn turned slightly as the younger driver approached.
“Hi,” Maddie said, breathless but beaming. “Sorry—I just wanted to say this before the race.”
Caitlyn arched an eyebrow, shifting her weight slightly to face her. “Go ahead.”
Maddie smiled, nervous energy pouring off her in quiet waves. “You’re the reason I’m even here. You were always so—disciplined. Clean. No wasted effort. It felt like… like watching a machine that could feel things.”
Caitlyn blinked.
That was not the usual kind of compliment.
Vi noticed the way Caitlyn’s posture softened — just slightly. Not in a visible slouch, but in the way her grip on the railing loosened, in the way her chin tilted down to meet Maddie’s height a little better.
“That’s a unique description,” Caitlyn replied. “But thank you.”
Maddie flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Caitlyn said gently. “I appreciate it.”
Vi couldn’t hear every word — the wind and the crowd made sure of that. But she didn’t need to. She’d been around long enough to read a moment before it finished happening.
Maddie was glowing.
Her eyes sparkled when she looked up at Caitlyn, hands half-tucked into the sleeves of her Williams fire suit. She looked like someone seeing a star up close — terrified to get burned, but too awestruck to look away.
Vi’s jaw twitched.
Her fingers curled tighter against the metal bar at the back of the truck.
Something about the way Maddie leaned in — respectful, but eager — set her nerves on edge. Not because she didn’t like the rookie. Maddie was quick, enthusiastic, and dangerously underestimated by most of the grid.
No — it wasn’t about Maddie.
It was the way Caitlyn was listening.
Actually listening.
The way her gaze didn’t drift, the way her expression softened in a way that wasn't strictly professional. It wasn’t flirtatious. Not exactly. But it wasn’t distant either.
Vi wasn’t used to seeing Caitlyn give people space like that.
Especially not on a parade truck, minutes before being swarmed by media.
Then Maddie said something — Vi caught the tail end of it.
“I just hope I get the chance to race you clean. You’re who I want to be out there.”
Caitlyn’s reply was calm, but firm. “You’re not here to be anyone else. You’re here to drive like you.”
Maddie nodded quickly, smile returning. “Still… I’ll remember this.”
Caitlyn reached up and adjusted the brim of her cap, ever so slightly.
“I’m sure I’ll see you in my mirrors.”
Maddie laughed — just a burst of it — then stepped back with a quiet “good luck,” letting the moment settle into her shoulders like sunlight.
Vi looked away.
---
When the truck rolled to a stop, the drivers began stepping down one by one, heading toward the pre-grid holding zone. The media was already pressing forward, microphones out, questions ready.
Vi adjusted her earpiece. Her fingers buzzed with the familiar weight of race day nerves — that simmer just beneath the skin, the kind that didn’t burn, but ached.
As she rounded the back of the truck, Caitlyn met her at the step-down point.
“Good luck,” Caitlyn said simply, voice low enough that only Vi could hear.
Vi looked at her. Really looked.
Caitlyn’s eyes were steady. Not cold. Just… unreadable.
Vi hesitated.
Then nodded.
“You too.”
They didn’t smile.
Didn’t shake hands.
Just passed each other like opposing forces caught in the same orbit — destined to circle, never crash.
Not yet.
---
“Vi!” a journalist called. “What’s the plan today? P5 start — aiming for podium?”
Vi didn’t hesitate.
“I’m aiming for my first win,” she said, voice firm.
Another camera turned toward Caitlyn.
“And you? Pole sitter again. Confident?”
Caitlyn nodded once. “We’ve prepared. The work is done. Now it’s just about execution.”
Short. Efficient.
But Vi heard the edge in her voice.
The one that said: Try me.
The lights were red.
The world held its breath.
Twenty cars sat lined up on the grid like arrows notched in a bow, heat shimmering off the asphalt, tension coiling so tight the track itself felt like it might snap.
Vi's heart thumped behind her ribcage, perfectly in time with the ticking lights above her. P5 wasn’t where she wanted to be — but it was close enough to reach out and grab everything that mattered.
Two rows ahead, she could see the sleek silver of Caitlyn’s Mercedes. Pole sitter. Ice in her veins. Precision in her bones.
Not for long, Vi thought, jaw tight beneath her helmet. She had something to prove today. And she wasn’t going home without it.
The lights blinked out.
And the storm began.
Tires spun. Clutches dropped. Engines roared so loud the world seemed to tear open around them.
Vi launched well — clean, controlled aggression. Her Red Bull surged forward with venom, the rear tires catching just enough to snap her ahead of the Ferrari beside her. Into Turn 1, she dove late on the brakes, threading the needle between the white line and a nose cone, committing with the kind of trust only a lunatic or a champion had.
She came out the other side clean.
Alive.
Faster.
Ahead.
But up the road, something shifted.
Caitlyn’s launch had been smooth — as always — but her car looked… hesitant.
Not wrong, not broken. Just off.
Her lines were still clean, but she was two car lengths off her normal pace by Turn 3. The Mercedes didn't dance through the corners. It held back. It twitched — not the tires, not the rear — but the body.
Something in the way the Mercedes moved told Vi what no radio ever could.
Caitlyn wasn’t comfortable.
By Turn 5, Vi had seen enough.
She didn’t wait.
She dove around the outside of the silver car at Turn 6, tires skimming the edge of the track, committing to a line she barely believed would hold.
It held.
She passed.
Clean.
Decisive.
For the first time all season, she’d overtaken Caitlyn on raw pace.
The crowd roared like a wave.
And Caitlyn?
She gritted her teeth so hard it hurt.
The pain had started in Turn 2.
A fast, downhill left that compressed the car hard onto the kerb. She’d hit that line a thousand times in practice. But this time, the load hit differently. She’d been too stiff, too braced. Her hands were over-tight on the wheel as the front-left lifted slightly then slammed back down across the sausage kerb.
And that was all it took.
A sharp, biting snap along her lower ribcage.
Not external.
Internal.
She felt it immediately — a tearing heat that bloomed along the left side of her torso, wrapping around under her ribs like a blade of fire. Her breath caught. She flinched without flinching. And she knew.
Muscle strain.
No — a tear. Minor. But deep.
Intercostal, most likely.
She’d had one before, years ago — junior karting. A rib protector that hadn’t fit right. But this was different. Stronger. More insidious.
She tried to inhale.
Her breath clipped halfway up her chest. A tight pain bloomed beneath the surface, like her lungs were being compressed from within.
No time to diagnose.
Only to react.
“Radio check,” came her engineer's voice through the headset. “Everything okay? You’ve dropped six.”
She wanted to say something. Wanted to scream.
But pain takes priority over speech.
She forced herself to thumb the comm button, voice steady — somehow.
“Fine,” she said. “Car feels neutral.”
"Copy. We see pace recovery. Let us know if you need to box."
No, she thought. Absolutely not.
She had just watched Vi pass her.
Watched her take that outside line like she owned it.
And Caitlyn was bleeding seconds on corners she usually carved like sculpture.
She would not retire.
Not unless her bones were broken.
Not unless they pulled her from the car.
By Lap 4, she’d stopped breathing normally.
She was taking short, shallow inhales. Just enough to feed her brain. Her ribs ached. Each correction at the wheel sent a flare of heat through her side.
She could feel the muscle every time she turned right — every time she twisted into a braking zone.
And still, she drove.
Still, she clawed back time.
Lap 6. Lap 7. She began to recover — position after position, patient and surgical.
By Lap 13, she was staring down the rear wing of Vi’s Red Bull again.
Vi’s engineer was the first to say it.
“Caitlyn’s closing. One lap fresher tires.”
Vi squinted into her mirror, watching the silver car creep back into frame like a ghost returned to haunt her.
But something about it was off.
Still too neat. Still too restrained.
She’s not pushing, Vi realized. She’s surviving.
Inside the Mercedes, Caitlyn shifted up through Turn 10 and bit down on her lip as the jolt rocked through her again. Sweat dripped along her spine, saturating her race suit. Her left hand was starting to tremble faintly during long corners.
She told herself it was adrenaline.
It wasn’t.
Lap 15.
DRS zone.
Caitlyn was within range.
Vi braced.
Turn 9 — Caitlyn went inside.
Vi defended.
Turn 10 — Vi swept wide.
Still nothing.
Then Lap 17 — Turn 11.
Caitlyn faked left. Vi twitched.
That was the gap.
Caitlyn slotted the nose of her car in like a scalpel under skin, slicing through the opening like she’d planned it for days.
Vi exhaled — hard. “Alright, Kiramman.”
She leaned into the wheel. Heat built in her arms. Blood pumped fire through her veins.
Now it was on.
What followed was thirty laps of pain, brilliance, and war.
They traded positions three times. Twice on the track. Once in the pit lane.
Every pass was intimate. Violent. Calculated.
Vi was heat and instinct — attacking where no attack should work, threatening in corners meant for single lines.
Caitlyn was ice and angles — defending with precise cuts, using every inch of her depleted body to stay in front.
Her ribs were screaming now.
Not figuratively.
Every breath was pain.
Every shift in the cockpit — pain.
And still, she said nothing.
Her engineer tried to get updates.
“Caitlyn, we’re seeing drop in heart rate variance. Do you need to box?”
No answer.
Then finally, after Lap 30, a single word.
“Still here.”
Flat. Cold.
That was all she would give.
Vi was starting to lose patience.
Caitlyn was defending like her life depended on it — and doing so flawlessly.
But Vi could see it now.
She could see how Caitlyn was bracing more with her right.
She’s hurt, Vi realized.
Not car damage. Body.
That changed things.
And it didn’t.
Because Vi wasn’t going to pity her.
But she wasn’t going to stop pushing, either.
Final five laps.
Fuel tight.
Tyres finished.
Pain — unbearable.
But Caitlyn kept going.
She felt her core muscles failing to engage fully — her left obliques numb with effort. Every corner twisted her into the edge of nausea. Her vision was starting to blur at the exits.
She refused to lift.
Turn after turn, she matched Vi — barely.
Not on instinct.
On grit.
Lap 56.
Vi attacked into Turn 3 — side by side again.
Caitlyn defended so late her car locked slightly — just for a second — but she held it.
Lap 57.
Vi tried Turn 9.
Caitlyn blocked again.
Vi was shouting into her helmet now. “God, just let go!”
But Caitlyn didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Final lap.
DRS open.
Vi launched.
Caitlyn covered.
Turn 11.
They touched — sidewalls scraping rubber, just for a breath.
Vi lost a half-second of grip.
Caitlyn held.
Turn 12 — no space.
Vi backed off.
Caitlyn powered through.
Her side screamed.
Her lungs were collapsing.
But the final straight stretched ahead, and the checkered flag waved like a promise.
She didn’t lift.
She didn’t blink.
She crossed the line.
P1.
By 0.2 seconds.
Caitlyn coasted down the straight, breath hitching, hands trembling.
The adrenaline was the only thing keeping her from blacking out.
Behind her, Vi pulled up alongside.
Visor cracked.
No words.
Just a look.
Just a nod.
And Caitlyn gave her one back.
Because what they’d done today wasn’t racing.
It was survival.
The checkered flag had fallen.
Engines began to wind down across the circuit, their screams softening into mechanical sighs. The track, which just moments ago had been alive with speed and violence, was now beginning to still.
The race was over.
But Caitlyn hadn't moved.
Her Mercedes sat parked in front of the No. 1 marker. Perfect. Immaculate. Victorious.
Inside, Caitlyn sat frozen in the cockpit. Not from disbelief. Not from emotion.
From pain.
Every part of her body was urging her to stay still. The moment she unclipped, the moment she moved to climb out — her ribs would catch. Her breathing would tighten. And the illusion of control might just collapse.
She took slow, careful breaths. Short inhales. Counted them. Three. Four. Five.
On the radio, her engineer's voice crackled through.
> "You okay in there, Caitlyn? Take your time."
She didn’t answer immediately.
Then: “Copy.”
Her voice was level, but low. Each word a deliberate choice. Nothing more than what was needed.
In her mirrors, she could see Vi already out of her Red Bull. Helmet tucked under one arm. Hair damp from sweat. Sunglasses on.
She wasn’t talking yet. Just standing. Watching.
Watching her.
Waiting.
---
Vi stood a few feet behind the car, close enough to hear the low purr of the still-cooling engine.
She should have been annoyed. She should have been angry about losing by two tenths of a second.
She wasn’t.
Instead, all she could focus on was the stillness of the silver car in front of her. The way Caitlyn hadn’t moved since the flag. The way the crew hadn’t rushed forward yet.
The way everything felt… off.
The crowd was cheering wildly. The pit crews were slapping backs, hugging. Media personnel were pushing through the barriers for a better angle.
But Vi kept her eyes on Caitlyn.
The second Caitlyn moved — unclipping belts, shifting forward — Vi noticed it.
A subtle wince.
A beat too slow in reaching for the wheel.
When Caitlyn finally climbed out, it was smooth. Controlled.
Too controlled.
Vi had seen that posture before — the kind that masked something just beneath the surface.
Then Caitlyn pulled off her helmet.
And Vi saw her face.
Her cheeks were flushed, far redder than usual. Her hairline was soaked with sweat, even more than Vi’s, and she was breathing through her nose in shallow, careful pulls.
The crowd roared louder when they saw her. The champion. The ice queen.
She gave them a small nod, raised a hand in thanks.
Vi stepped forward.
“Congrats,” she said, voice low so only Caitlyn would hear.
Caitlyn turned her head just enough to look at her.
"Thank you," she said.
Brief.
Sharp.
She was holding herself upright like a tower under strain — no lean, no slouch, spine perfectly aligned. But her left arm stayed a little tighter to her side.
Vi didn’t comment.
Didn’t ask.
But she knew.
Something wasn’t right.
---
The media zone was its usual frenzy — bright lights, microphones, and voices overlapping in five different languages.
Vi was first.
She pulled her sunglasses down, wiped sweat from her brow, and leaned into the mic.
“Vi, that was a hell of a drive,” one reporter started. “You were right there to the end. Did you think today was the day?”
Vi smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I did. I mean… I really thought I had it. The car felt great. The pace was there. But Caitlyn?”
She paused.
“Caitlyn was lethal today.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the group.
“She made no mistakes. Not one. She didn’t give me anything to work with, even when I threw the kitchen sink.”
The next reporter leaned in.
“Were you surprised by her recovery? She dropped several places at the start.”
Vi’s jaw tightened, just briefly.
“Honestly… yeah. But you can’t count her out. Ever.”
---
Caitlyn was next.
She stepped into the press pen with that same perfect posture — shoulders squared, chin up. But up close, the fatigue in her eyes was clearer.
And the sweat.
Her race suit was clinging to her in patches. Her lips looked dry.
“Caitlyn,” a journalist began, “another win, and under pressure from Vi the entire race. Congratulations. But we have to ask — what happened at the start? You lost five positions almost immediately.”
Caitlyn didn’t blink.
“Launch wasn’t ideal. Got caught on the inside. The pack compressed more than expected into Turn 2. Had to lift.”
“But then you charged back. Was there an issue with the car?”
“Just needed time to reset,” she replied. “The car was fine. So was I.”
Another hand shot up.
“Your radio traffic was minimal. At one point, we didn’t hear from you for ten laps. Was that intentional?”
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change.
“I was focused on the race. My engineer had what she needed. I didn’t need to speak.”
“Everything okay physically? You seemed slower than usual getting out of the car.”
Caitlyn offered the barest smile.
“I’m fine. Just hot out there.”
And that was it.
---
The cooldown room was cool and silent — a stark contrast to the madness outside.
Vi entered first, followed by Ekko, and finally Caitlyn.
She came in slowly. Not dramatically. Just… carefully.
Vi noticed it instantly.
The way Caitlyn’s steps were even, but measured.
The way she sat down on the edge of the padded bench, using only her right arm to lower herself. The left arm hovered close to her side.
And then the cap.
Caitlyn reached for it. Grimaced. Subtle, but Vi caught it.
She adjusted the angle with her right hand only.
Vi didn’t speak.
But her eyes didn’t leave her.
The race replay was running on the screen in front of them. The moment they went side-by-side at Turn 11 played on loop. Tire smoke. Sparks. Inches.
Neither of them looked away.
Ekko cracked a water bottle and passed one to each of them.
“Nice racing,” he muttered.
Vi accepted it, eyes still locked on Caitlyn.
Caitlyn twisted the cap off slowly. Carefully. The motion tugged something under her suit — Vi saw it in the flinch.
“You good?” Ekko whispered near Vi’s ear.
Vi didn’t answer.
She just kept watching.
---
The podium was blinding under the overhead lights.
Caitlyn stood on the top step.
Perfect.
Still.
Unyielding.
Vi to her right, Ekko to her left. The crowd below was roaring — thousands of fans waving, cheering, chanting their names.
Caitlyn smiled.
Small. Composed.
She waved, slowly, deliberately.
But when the anthem ended, and the champagne bottles were handed out — Vi saw it.
The way Caitlyn adjusted the bottle using only her right hand.
The way she sprayed the fans once — a half-hearted arc of mist — and stopped.
She couldn’t twist her torso. Not without it hurting.
Vi sprayed her own bottle into the air, laughing. Ekko joined in.
Caitlyn tilted her bottle, aimed it out toward the far side of the crowd.
Didn’t move again.
Vi turned slightly, eyes narrowed.
Ekko leaned in, voice low, words hidden beneath the noise.
“You think something’s wrong with her?”
Vi didn’t answer right away.
" I don't know."
Ekko glanced up.
Caitlyn’s smile was back in place.
But it didn’t touch her eyes.
The sound of the crowd was still echoing through the paddock, but Caitlyn heard none of it.
She moved through the narrow service hallway behind the Mercedes hospitality suite with her jaw clenched and her left arm drawn slightly inward, fingers brushing just above the edge of her ribcage.
Every step was a decision. Every breath, a calculation.
The pain wasn’t unbearable — not in the sharp, traumatic way. It was more insidious. A persistent tearing sensation, low and tight along her left side, flaring whenever she twisted or breathed too deep.
She had driven through worse.
But never for this long.
She didn’t take the main entrance. Instead, she pushed quietly through the sliding panel near the team corridor, avoiding cameras, eyes, and noise.
The doors closed behind her with a hiss.
Cool air swept against her flushed skin, carrying the antiseptic, metallic scent of electronics, freshly unpacked carbon fiber, and race sweat.
Inside, the team monitors still played race highlights. Half of her crew were finishing up post-race debriefs. The others were clapping and hugging, their joy suspended in midair.
But Rhea wasn’t smiling.
Her race engineer stood waiting in the corner of the lounge, headset still slung around her neck, her gaze pinned like a sniper’s scope.
As Caitlyn stepped in, that gaze didn’t blink.
“Bathroom?” Rhea asked quietly.
Caitlyn shook her head.
“Private room.”
Rhea nodded once.
And followed.
---
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the hum of celebration.
Caitlyn moved slowly, not out of show — but necessity.
She lowered herself onto the edge of the padded bench in the corner, favoring her right side. Her fire suit clung to her back, still damp from the race. The compression underlayer had long since stopped doing its job.
She pressed her hand against her side. Just gently.
Even that made her stomach turn.
Rhea crossed her arms.
“You gonna tell me what the hell happened out there, or do I need to guess?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away.
Rhea took a step forward.
“Start of Lap 1, you lost five places before Turn 4. Not like you. And then nothing on the radio. For ten laps. No breath, no update. You didn’t even respond to the pit delta.”
Caitlyn inhaled carefully — as much as her ribs would allow.
“I hit the Turn 2 kerb harder than expected. Braced too soon. Left side pulled under the compression. It’s an intercostal.”
Rhea’s mouth dropped open slightly. “You’re telling me now?”
“It didn’t matter during the race.”
“It mattered the second it happened!”
Caitlyn winced — not from Rhea’s voice, but from the pain of adjusting her posture.
“I wasn’t going to stop,” she said softly.
“That’s not your call to make,” Rhea snapped, then lowered her voice. “Damn it, Caitlyn. We rely on each other. I can't protect you if you lie to me.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You didn’t tell me the truth.”
There was a beat of silence.
Rhea sat down across from her.
Her voice shifted — from sharp to exhausted.
“You were wheezing over the radio, do you know that? You held your DRS window with one arm for three laps. I thought something was wrong with your steering. Turns out, it was you.”
Caitlyn let her head drop.
Her hair was damp at the base of her neck, strands clinging to her cheek.
“I didn’t know how bad it was until Lap 5,” she admitted.
“And then?”
“I committed.”
---
Dr. Elara Kwan arrived ten minutes later.
By then, Caitlyn had peeled her fire suit down to her waist, wincing each time her shoulder flexed. Her sports bra was soaked. Her skin — especially over her ribs — was flushed red from the strain and compression.
“Let’s have a look,” Elara said, voice gentle but efficient.
She worked with precision — palpating the left intercostals, checking for swelling, pressing along the ribs in gentle but deliberate motions. Caitlyn didn’t make a sound, but her flinch spoke volumes.
“Sharp on inhale?”
“Yes.”
“Dull pain at rest?”
“Mostly. Sharp during twisting and downforce load.”
“Radiating to the back?”
“Just behind the scapula.”
Rhea stood in the corner, silent.
After fifteen minutes, Elara gave her assessment.
“Grade II intercostal strain. Fibers torn, but not detached. Likely caused by high-tension twist combined with direct core load. It’s not surgical — but it’s serious.”
Caitlyn nodded once.
“I’ve had one before.”
“This is worse.”
Elara retrieved an ice wrap and a gentle elastic binder. She worked with clean precision, wrapping it around Caitlyn’s ribcage.
“You drove the entire race with this?”
Caitlyn exhaled — a shallow, slow breath. “Yes.”
Elara didn’t shake her head. She’d worked with elite athletes before.
But she didn’t hide her frown, either.
“You need at least five days of complete core rest. No gym. No sim. No running.”
“I have a Grand Prix next weekend.”
“You’re not doing Free Practice.”
Rhea stepped forward. “Agreed.”
Caitlyn blinked. “That’s not your call.”
Elara didn’t waver. “It is if you want clearance for Qualifying.”
Caitlyn looked down at her hands.
Elara softened, just slightly.
“We’ll issue a restricted schedule for Japan. No FP1, FP2, or FP3. You’ll go straight into Q1. That gives you six days of reduced movement. You push this further, Caitlyn, and it’ll become a full tear. I won’t sign off if that happens.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes briefly.
Then nodded.
“Understood.”
---
When Elara left to file the report, Rhea stayed behind.
The room was quiet again.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rhea asked again, voice lower now.
Caitlyn didn’t answer immediately.
Then: “I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t do it.”
“You’ve won four world titles.”
“I still have to prove I’m worth every one.”
“That’s not how it works, Cait.”
Caitlyn smiled faintly — a tired, worn thing.
“Isn’t it?”
---
Later that evening, as the paddock lights dimmed and the last camera crews cleared out, Caitlyn stood quietly in front of the mirror inside the driver lounge.
She turned slowly, observing the edge of the binder under her shirt.
It wasn’t visible under her jacket.
Good.
She picked up her phone, stared at the screen.
A notification buzzed — a tagged photo from the podium.
Vi, champagne-soaked and grinning.
Caitlyn, precise as ever — one hand on the bottle, the other resting against the podium rail.
Frozen in strength.
Frozen in silence.
She tapped it open.
And for a moment — just one — she allowed herself to wince.
The paddock shimmered beneath the last blush of sunset, its shadows long and golden against the tarmac. Race crews shuffled about with purposeful exhaustion — crates sealed, tires marked, fuel purged from tanks that just hours ago had held fire.
From the outside, everything looked finished.
But Vi wasn’t finished.
Not yet.
Her steps were quiet as she passed through the lower lanes between hospitality suites, her Red Bull jacket unzipped halfway, her boots soft against the concrete. Her cap sat low over her brow, damp hair curling at her collar.
She wasn’t walking to her own team’s zone.
She was headed for Mercedes.
It was almost eerie now — how quiet it had become.
And how much she still couldn’t stop thinking about Caitlyn.
---
Caitlyn had been perfect on the outside.
She always was.
Even when she’d hoisted the trophy an hour ago, standing tall on the podium under the glare of white-hot lights and a hundred thousand cheering voices.
But Vi had been watching.
And Caitlyn hadn’t lifted her bottle as high.
Hadn’t turned her body with the same fluid elegance she always did.
There had been a slowness to her movement. A stiffness in her shoulders. And when Vi glanced at her during the anthem, she saw it clear as day:
Tension.
Pain.
Suppressed behind steel and silence.
Vi couldn’t explain it — but she couldn’t shake it either.
---
The Mercedes hospitality entrance was half-lit, its black panels casting cold reflections under the canopy. A single staffer sat at the front desk, scrolling on a tablet.
When Vi approached, the woman looked up in surprise.
“I’m here to see Caitlyn,” Vi said simply.
“She’s... resting.”
“I know.”
The woman hesitated. “Her engineer asked—”
“She won’t mind.”
Vi’s voice wasn’t pushy. But it wasn’t unsure, either.
A pause.
Then the staffer stood and gestured. “Second room down. Door’s cracked.”
Vi nodded her thanks and moved inside.
---
The air in the Mercedes suite was different — colder, stiller. Not sterile, exactly. Just... quiet. The kind of quiet that follows pressure, not peace. As if the whole building was exhaling after holding its breath for three straight hours.
Vi found the door.
She knocked once — gently — and pushed it open.
What she saw stopped her heart for just a second.
Caitlyn was lying across a narrow gray couch, one arm over her face to shield her eyes, the other curled against an ice pack wrapped at her ribs. Her fire suit had been shed, replaced by a fitted black top and dark joggers. Her feet were bare. Her hair was slightly tousled, longer strands clinging to her cheek.
She looked small.
Not weak.
But... not like Caitlyn.
She didn’t move as Vi stepped closer.
“You always this dramatic post-win?” Vi said softly.
Caitlyn shifted, lifting her arm slightly — just enough to glance toward the doorway.
She didn’t startle. She didn’t sit up.
She just let out a quiet sigh. “I thought Red Bull wasn’t big on sympathy cards.”
Vi smirked, stepping further in. “I’m here for research. For next time.”
Caitlyn’s lips curled faintly. “Come to take notes?”
“Something like that.”
Vi sat on the arm of the chair opposite, watching her. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, quietly: “You don’t look great.”
“Thanks.”
Vi shrugged. “Just saying. For a winner, you look like you got tackled by a cement truck.”
Caitlyn chuckled once — then winced sharply, hand reflexively pressing her side.
Vi’s face changed instantly. “Okay. That wasn’t nothing.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re icing your ribs.”
“I am.”
“You tried to sit up on the podium and nearly crumpled.”
Caitlyn exhaled slowly. “I didn’t crumple.”
“You almost did.”
Vi leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
“So what happened?”
---
Caitlyn hesitated.
Then: “Turn 2. Lap 1. Took the kerb too hard. Twisted too early. Something tore.”
Vi frowned. “How bad?”
“Intercostal. Moderate strain. No fracture.”
Vi blinked. “You raced fifty-seven laps like that?”
Caitlyn nodded.
Vi stared.
“Are you out of your mind?”
Caitlyn cracked a small grin. “Possibly.”
“That’s not smart.”
“It got the job done.”
Vi shook her head slowly. “You should’ve told someone.”
“I didn’t want to get pulled.”
“You should’ve wanted to heal.”
“I will.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t collapse out there.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
---
They fell quiet again.
Caitlyn adjusted the ice pack with one hand — slow, deliberate. Every motion cost her something, and Vi could see her hiding it with a precision that must’ve taken years to master.
“She pulling you from next race?” Vi asked.
Caitlyn nodded. “No Free Practice. Straight into Quali.”
“Seriously?”
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Damn.”
“Not ideal.”
“You gonna be alright?”
Caitlyn looked at her.
“I’ll manage.”
Vi held her gaze.
Then softened. “You always do.”
Caitlyn smirked. “You’d miss me otherwise.”
Vi snorted. “I’d enjoy the silence.”
---
For the first time since the race ended, Caitlyn laughed without wincing.
It wasn’t loud.
But it was real.
And Vi smiled.
It felt good — not just to see Caitlyn okay, but to see her let the mask fall, even just a little.
She wasn’t steel. She wasn’t unbreakable.
She was just human.
And Vi liked her better that way.
---
Social Media Speculation — 9:43 PM AEST
@f1pulseAU
🚨 Seen post-race: Mercedes team doctors entering hospitality with urgency 👀 No official word on injuries. Caitlyn Kiramman seen leaving podium slower than usual. #AUSGP #F1
@teamteablr
Okay but like... why did Vi just walk straight into the Mercedes suite ten minutes after that??? 🤨 Something’s going on.
@tifosweetie
Did anyone else notice Caitlyn wasn’t moving much on the podium? She looked STIFF.
@gridlockdrama:
Mercedes: “She’s fine.”
Also Mercedes: medical team rushing inside.
Also Vi: showing up right after.
Me: 😳👀
@viis4violence:
I don’t care what anyone says, Vi saw something during the race. You don’t pull up post-podium like that just to borrow sugar.
@kirammanburner:
She looked pale. And she didn’t even celebrate properly. Something happened. Calling it now.
@softchicane:
Vi going in there was not rivalry. That was personal.
@pr1meracernews:
UPDATE: No statement from Mercedes yet. Kiramman not expected to speak to press again tonight. No confirmation of injury — rumors only.
@helmetcamclips:
Vi glanced at Caitlyn no fewer than 9 times during the cooldown room. I counted. 👁️
Notes:
What did you think of this chapter? 👀
Pleaae leave a comment — I’ll post the next chapter after I get 4 comments. Can’t wait to hear your thoughts and theories! 💙🏁
Chapter Text
The hum of the jet smoothed the world into silence.
Caitlyn was asleep.
Not pretending. Not resting with eyes open and back straight, like she usually did. Not curled tensely beneath a blanket, wired on post-race adrenaline and half-drained espresso.
Actually asleep.
Her head was tilted gently toward the window, dark hair tucked behind one ear, a fine compression blanket pulled up to her midsection. The overhead lights were dimmed to twilight, casting soft shadows over her closed eyes and the sharp lines of her cheekbones. She breathed slowly — shallow, but steady. Her left arm remained pinned slightly against her ribcage beneath the blanket, a precaution more than a choice. She didn’t move.
Across the aisle, Rhea watched.
Not as an engineer. Not even as a friend, in this moment. She simply observed — the way a medic watches for signs of distress when a patient won’t say the word out loud. Every few minutes, she checked the rhythm of Caitlyn’s breaths. Still even. Still tight.
That was good. It meant the pain hadn’t worsened.
Jayce sat two seats back, half-turned toward them with one ankle resting on his opposite knee. His blazer hung from the back of his chair. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He hadn’t opened his tablet. He hadn’t touched the champagne flute the flight crew had politely placed near his tray.
For once, Jayce wasn’t talking.
He just watched Caitlyn, silent as the altitude.
“She finally passed out,” he said eventually.
Rhea nodded once. “She held out longer than she needed to.”
“She always does.”
“She had a binder and a pain protocol two hours ago. She could’ve slept after the podium.”
“She wouldn’t. Not until she debriefed.”
“She’s Caitlyn.”
Jayce smiled without warmth. “Yeah.”
Another few seconds passed.
Rhea leaned back in her seat and finally let herself blink slow. “I didn’t think she’d make it through the cooldown room without collapsing.”
“She almost didn’t.”
Jayce shifted, resting his forearms on his knees.
“She flinched when she uncapped her water,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d notice.”
“I did.”
“She adjusted the bottle with one hand.”
“Of course.”
Jayce looked over. “She hasn’t slept since Friday night.”
Rhea’s brow rose, but she didn’t look surprised.
“She did FP3, quali, media, strategy, the whole race, and the podium… all on four hours of rest and torn intercostals.”
“She doesn’t stop.”
“No,” Jayce murmured. “She calculates.”
He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m starting to think she doesn’t know how to stop unless we make her.”
Rhea’s voice was soft, but solid.
“She’s not built to rest.”
“No,” Jayce said. “But she’s not indestructible either.”
They both looked at her.
Caitlyn shifted slightly in her sleep, a small motion of discomfort, then stilled again. Her lips parted for a slow, shallow breath. Her fingers flexed once, then relaxed.
Rhea leaned forward. “You want to read the statement?”
Jayce unlocked his phone, his thumb hovering over the comms thread. Then he scrolled to the most recent message.
> MERCEDES-AMG PETRONAS F1 TEAM
02:44 AEST
“Following today’s race, Caitlyn Kiramman experienced discomfort related to a minor physical strain.
Under medical guidance, she will not participate in Free Practice sessions in Japan and will proceed directly to Qualifying.
The team has adjusted her program accordingly.
Thank you for your continued support.”
He read it out loud.
“Vague enough?”
Rhea nodded. “Perfect.”
“She’ll hate not running FP1.”
“She’ll say she doesn’t need it.”
“She’ll say it gives her an advantage — no data means no expectations.”
“She’ll say a lot of things,” Rhea said. “And then she’ll find a way to drive through it anyway.”
Jayce didn’t argue.
Instead, he sighed, lowered the brightness on his phone, and said, “Her mother’s called. Three times.”
“Cassandra?”
Jayce nodded. “Voicemails. One email.”
Rhea waited.
“She’s not angry,” he added. “She’s worried.”
“She always is.”
“She said Caitlyn looked… off. On the podium.”
“She wasn’t wrong.”
Jayce closed his eyes and leaned back. “She asked if we were flying straight to Tokyo. I said yes. She asked if Caitlyn was in pain. I said she was resting.”
“Not a lie.”
“No.”
He looked over at Caitlyn again.
“She wanted her to quit the moment she joined Formula 2. Said it wasn’t befitting a Kiramman to risk her life for sport.”
Rhea exhaled. “That’s not cruelty. That’s heritage.”
Jayce nodded. “She doesn’t understand why Caitlyn doesn’t want to be safe.”
“She doesn’t understand that Caitlyn’s version of safe means control.”
“Exactly.”
They both stared at her again.
This woman they followed into every fire.
This woman who could memorize weather patterns like poetry and recall brake bias like bedtime stories. Who didn’t flinch when the media cornered her, but did flinch when someone asked how she felt. Who would drive through muscle tears without blinking but would spend half an hour reviewing sector deltas because the car “felt a little soft mid-exit.”
Jayce tapped his phone again.
“Social’s going nuts,” he said, half-smiling.
Rhea raised a brow. “Show me.”
He read:
> @GridPulse
“Kiramman out for FP1, 2, 3 — straight into Quali. That’s not just trust in the car. That’s grit.”
> @F1AfterDark
“No details. No denial. Just the words ‘recovering’ and ‘support.’ Which means: yes, something happened. And no, you don’t get to know what.”
> @viandvelocity
“Vi walking into Mercedes ten minutes post-podium, looking like she saw something no one else did? That wasn’t rivalry. That was concern.”
> @helmetcamclips
“Her hands shook when she unclipped the wheel. But her steering input? Still cleaner than anyone on track. I swear to god she’s forged from ice.”
> @softchicane
“Caitlyn didn’t need to say a word. The silence was the statement. Mercedes just confirmed it.”
Jayce looked up. “The fans aren’t stupid.”
“No,” Rhea said. “They’re just... loud.”
Jayce smiled. “They know something’s up.”
“They just don’t know how deep it goes.”
They lapsed into quiet again.
Caitlyn stirred — once. Her hand twitched slightly, and her left shoulder rolled inward as if instinctively guarding her ribcage. But she didn’t wake.
Jayce adjusted the angle of the small reading light above her seat.
“Let her sleep,” he said, unnecessarily.
Rhea nodded. “She deserves this hour.”
“She deserves a hundred.”
“She’d waste ninety-nine of them watching telemetry.”
“She would.”
Another pause.
Jayce whispered, “Is she going to be okay for Quali?”
Rhea didn’t answer immediately.
Then: “She’ll be in pain. She’ll hide it. And she’ll still outdrive half the field.”
Jayce watched her for a long time. “She shouldn’t have to.”
“I know,” Rhea said quietly.
“But she will.”
“I know.”
The wheels touched down on the tarmac at Narita International with barely a bump. The private jet taxied with the kind of grace Caitlyn had come to appreciate—unobtrusive, calculated, unshowy. Just like she preferred.
She was already awake before the cabin lights shifted to indicate arrival. She sat still, eyes open, her breathing calm and controlled. Her ribs ached faintly—not sharp pain, just a tightness that pulled like an old stitch every time she inhaled too deep. It was manageable. It would stay manageable.
Jayce and Rhea gathered their things quietly. They didn’t hover. They didn’t ask how she felt. They didn’t need to.
At the terminal, the staff moved efficiently—minimal words, no delays. The air outside was crisp and damp with Tokyo morning. Caitlyn adjusted the strap of her travel bag across her shoulder with her right hand. Her left rested casually near her side, a subtle guard against overstretching her ribs. No one noticed.
Of course they didn’t. She was very good at not being noticed when she chose to be.
By the time she stepped into her hotel suite, the room was already prepared: mats rolled out, breathing monitor set near the bedside, a small black case with her physiotherapy tools placed beside a kettle and a bottle of imported electrolytes.
Caitlyn didn’t change into loungewear. She moved straight into her routine.
Light movement first—thoracic rotations, low twists, breath timing. She controlled each inhale carefully, expanding only within safe limits. There was discomfort, yes. But it obeyed her.
After twenty minutes, her body had settled. The tightness had softened. The binder under her shirt was firm, not suffocating. It did its job. So did she.
By the time Rhea knocked and entered with her tablet, Caitlyn had already transitioned to her second set of exercises.
“Three out of ten?” Rhea asked, watching her posture.
Caitlyn didn’t stop stretching. “Three. Maybe two-point-eight.”
Rhea gave her a look. “Precision, I see.”
Caitlyn finally offered a small smile. “Always.”
Later, when the hotel was quiet and the skyline faded into overcast greys, Caitlyn sat near the window and placed the call.
Her mother answered on the first ring.
“Caitlyn.”
“I landed safely.”
“I was told,” Cassandra replied. “But I would’ve preferred to hear it before the media speculated you collapsed on the podium.”
Caitlyn took a sip of tea. “I didn’t collapse.”
“You looked close,” Cassandra said bluntly.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were pale. Your posture was guarded. Your voice was forced. I’ve watched you hold a firing stance with a bullet wound and still look better than you did yesterday.”
Caitlyn didn’t respond.
“I won’t pretend anymore,” her mother continued. “I hate this. This sport. This risk. The constant threat of injury. Of loss. Of death.”
“I know.”
“I raised you to lead,” Cassandra said. “To inherit the Kiramman name. Not to gamble it every weekend on tracks where machines tear themselves apart.”
Caitlyn’s voice remained calm. “I don’t see it as gambling.”
“You don’t have to,” Cassandra snapped. “Because I do it for you.”
There was a pause. Then quieter, “Every time you race, I have to prepare for a call I pray never comes.”
Caitlyn looked out at the skyline. “That’s not new, Mother. You felt the same when I was on patrol.”
“And I hated that too.”
“But I was good at it.”
“You’re good at everything,” Cassandra said, voice rising. “That’s not the point. You have power. You have pedigree. You have a future that doesn’t involve dodging wreckage and hiding injuries from your own engineer.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Mercedes released a vague statement,” Cassandra snapped. “You’re skipping three sessions. The internet is dissecting your every breath. I am your mother, Caitlyn. I shouldn’t have to read between press lines to know my daughter is hurt.”
Caitlyn exhaled through her nose. “It’s not serious.”
“It’s not nothing,” Cassandra said. “And if this isn’t serious, the next one might be. Or the one after that.”
Her tone hardened, cool and patrician.
“You are the only Kiramman heir. You belong on council. You belong in policy, not in pit lanes. I will not stop saying it.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop,” Caitlyn said quietly.
“I want you safe,” Cassandra continued. “Not buried under a championship banner. Not broken in a car designed to fold under pressure.”
“I’m careful.”
“You’re mortal.”
A long silence passed between them.
Caitlyn let the words settle. She didn’t argue. She didn’t deflect.
But she didn’t yield either.
“I know you hate this,” she said at last. “I know it frightens you. I know what you want for me.”
“And?”
“I’m still choosing this.”
Cassandra’s breath caught. Not quite a sigh. Not quite surrender.
“You’re so much like your father sometimes,” she said. “He loved danger too.”
Caitlyn’s voice softened, just for a moment. “He understood why I chose it.”
“I understand too,” Cassandra whispered. “I just don’t accept it.”
Another silence. Quieter now.
“You’ll call after Qualifying?” her mother asked.
“I will.”
“Be smart.”
“I always am.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
The suite was silent, save for the soft tap of Caitlyn’s fingers against her tablet.
Data streamed in front of her — last year’s Suzuka sector breakdowns, tire degradation models, qualifying delta charts. She wasn’t studying it intensely. Not yet. Just absorbing. Letting her mind settle around the familiar edges of the circuit.
Outside, Tokyo flickered in low light. The sky was just beginning to shift from gold to blue.
She barely registered the knock at the door.
Two short taps. A pause. Then one more.
She knew it immediately.
“Come in,” she said without looking up.
Vi stepped inside, hoodie slung over one shoulder, black joggers, bottle of water in hand. Her hair was slightly damp — maybe from a workout, maybe from a walk.
She leaned against the inside wall and gave Caitlyn a look that hovered between smug and sincere.
“You’re not even surprised I’m here,” Vi said.
Caitlyn set the tablet down on the armrest beside her. “You knock the same way every time.”
Vi blinked. “Do I?”
“You do.”
Vi raised the water bottle slightly. “Didn’t bring coffee this time.”
“Shame,” Caitlyn replied lightly. “You’ll have to settle for conversation.”
Vi gave a faux dramatic sigh and crossed the room, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch — not too close, not formal either. Just casual. Natural.
“Figured you were probably tired of people hovering,” she said.
“They mean well.”
“Still hover.”
Caitlyn didn’t argue. She just adjusted her posture slightly, arms folding as she leaned into the corner of the couch. She moved slowly — not out of pain, but awareness. Still careful.
Vi noticed, of course. She didn’t mention it.
“You slept?” Vi asked.
“Some.”
“Rhea breathing down your neck yet?”
“She’s pacing herself.”
Vi smirked. “You sure she’s not out in the hallway with a stethoscope against the wall?”
“Unlikely.”
“But not impossible.”
Caitlyn gave a small shrug. “Wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve experienced this week.”
Vi let the silence settle for a bit. Not heavy — just comfortable.
Then she nudged, “So… are you okay?”
Caitlyn looked at her. Not sharply. Just directly.
“I’m not fragile.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I’m not broken.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
A pause.
“Then yes,” Caitlyn said finally. “I’m okay.”
Vi leaned her head back against the couch. “Didn’t look like it on the podium.”
“I was managing it.”
“I know,” Vi said. “You always do.”
There was something unspoken in her tone. Not admiration. Not pity.
Recognition.
Caitlyn studied her for a moment. “Is this your version of checking in?”
“I mean, I brought water.”
“That’s very thoughtful.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Caitlyn allowed herself the faintest smirk. “Of course not.”
Vi looked out the window then, into the skyline. “You think the circuit will feel different this weekend?”
Caitlyn followed her gaze. “They always do, after something changes.”
“Like when someone wins?”
“Or loses.”
Vi nodded, then smiled faintly. “Or crashes.”
“Or shows up at a rival’s hotel two days early,” Caitlyn added, arching an eyebrow.
Vi grinned. “That’s just strategy.”
“Is that what this is?”
Vi looked at her then, not teasing. Just steady.
“Maybe.”
Caitlyn didn’t break eye contact.
Then she said, “Well. You’re very good at it.”
Vi stood then, stretching a little. “I’ll let you rest. You’ve got two more days of pretending you’re not hurt before the cameras roll.”
Caitlyn tilted her head. “And you’ve got two more days of pretending you don’t care.”
Vi winked. “You say that like I’ve ever been good at pretending.”
And then, just like that, she was gone.
The Suzuka paddock buzzed like a storm before ignition — fans lined the barriers in camera-heavy clusters, banners waved over the fences, and media teams circled like orbiting satellites, eyes and lenses tracking every movement.
It was Thursday.
Media day.
And the two names on every reporter’s card weren’t hard to guess.
Kiramman. Vi.
Pole and challenger. Precision and fire. Ice and instinct.
There were twenty drivers on the grid.
But this week, the world only wanted two.
Vi didn’t mind the attention. Not this week.
She leaned back in her chair under the Red Bull media tent, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, hoodie half-zipped, posture loose and grinning.
The cameras were already focused on her before she even started talking.
That was fine.
She knew what they wanted — a quote. A headline. Something easy to edit into a promo clip.
So she gave them one.
“Yeah,” she said, arms crossing as the mics clustered. “I feel good. The car feels good. Honestly? I think this is the weekend.”
A dozen recorders lit up.
“Are you saying you’re going for the win?”
Vi laughed. “Aren’t we all?”
“But are you confident you can beat Caitlyn this time?”
The way the question was asked made her smile tighten, just slightly.
“I’ve always been confident,” she said. “But yeah — I’ve got pace. We’ve done our homework. If I see that checkered flag before she does, I won’t be surprised.”
A younger journalist leaned forward. “Do you think she’s fully recovered?”
Vi paused.
That one, she didn’t answer right away.
“Look,” she said carefully, “Caitlyn’s one of the toughest people on the grid. If she’s racing, it means she thinks she can win. That’s all that matters.”
“And do you think she’s beatable?”
Vi’s eyes flickered — the briefest grin curling at the edge of her mouth.
“Everyone’s beatable,” she said.
Three tents down, under the silver-and-black halo of Mercedes' press area, Caitlyn sat upright in her chair, hands neatly folded in her lap.
Her race suit was zipped halfway, black undershirt clean and crisp beneath. She wore no expression of fatigue. No giveaway. Only clean poise and surgical responses.
She hadn’t so much as adjusted her seat in ten minutes.
The cameras clicked with every blink.
“Caitlyn, Mercedes announced you’re skipping Free Practice again. Can you clarify why?”
“We’re optimizing recovery time and conserving energy for qualifying,” she said. “The team and I are aligned on the decision.”
“But you were visibly slower on the podium in Australia. Fans are speculating about an injury—”
“I’m focused on Japan.”
“But are you fit to race?”
She gave the faintest smile. “You’ll see me on the grid.”
Another reporter leaned in. “So you’re confirming you’re not at 100%?”
“I’m confirming that I’ll be driving.”
“But should fans be worried—?”
Caitlyn cut in, still calm. “The fans should be focused on what happens this weekend. So am I.”
The questions kept coming — about health, about pressure, about Vi.
“Do you feel targeted by Vi’s confidence going into this race?”
Caitlyn blinked once. “Targeted?”
“She said she expects to win.”
“She always does.”
“So you don’t see her as a threat?”
Caitlyn smiled again, soft and cold.
“I see her as competition.”
---
Later – Outside the Tent
Vi caught up with her just outside the Mercedes paddock. The chaos behind them faded into background noise — camera shutters, murmurs, the low thrum of drones overhead.
Caitlyn stood near a service truck, one hand on her hip, the other relaxed by her side. Perfectly still. Perfectly Caitlyn.
“Press circus treating you well?” Vi asked, pulling off her sunglasses.
“They tried,” Caitlyn said.
Vi leaned a little closer, voice dropping. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t need to.”
Vi smirked. “You never give them anything. It’s like watching a statue get cross-examined.”
Caitlyn arched an eyebrow. “You seemed comfortable giving them a monologue.”
“They asked me if I could beat you.”
“And you said yes.”
Vi grinned. “I said I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Caitlyn looked at her then — not coldly, not competitively. Just… measured.
“Then don’t be.”
Vi let out a quiet laugh.
“You really think you’re gonna hold me off this time?” she teased.
Caitlyn tilted her head. “I don’t plan to hold anyone off. I plan to lead.”
Vi stepped back with both hands raised in surrender. “Okay, damn. You’re already racing and the lights haven’t even gone out.”
Caitlyn gave her a small nod — a subtle one. Approval? Warning? Hard to tell.
“See you on track,” she said.
Vi watched her walk away, every movement still deliberate, still clean.
Whatever was hurting?
It wasn’t slowing her.
And that made things interesting.
The Mercedes garage was a hive of activity. Mechanics moved like clockwork. Data streamed across the pit wall monitors in brilliant detail — delta sectors, tire degradation graphs, fuel flow curves.
And Caitlyn Kiramman sat in the center of it.
Not behind the wheel.
Not on the pit wall.
But in a seat just behind her engineer, black headset over her ears, wearing a matte black team shirt with the silver star pressed tight against her collarbone.
No fire suit.
No helmet.
But still present.
Still commanding.
Her arms were crossed. Her posture didn’t slouch. Her legs were still, boots planted flat. The only movement was her gaze — flicking across the telemetry on the screen in front of her.
The reserve driver — Seb — was running her car today. A decent stand-in. Technically consistent. Conservative where she was normally ruthless.
Caitlyn said nothing aloud, but she noted every corner late-braked by a tenth, every apex missed by a whisper. She didn’t blame Seb. The car wasn’t designed for anyone else.
But still.
Turn 13. Too much throttle out. Rear twitch.
Sector 1 pace drop — three tenths. Grip balance not optimized.
She leaned slightly toward Rhea, her voice low under the headset mic.
“Shift cam is lagging on exit. Rear diff map needs adjustment for Q3 sims.”
Rhea nodded without looking. “Already flagged it. You good?”
“Fine.”
“Pain?”
“Background noise.”
Rhea didn’t press.
Caitlyn returned to the screen.
---
Outside the garage, cameras were waiting.
One photographer — F1Wire’s media affiliate — caught the moment: Caitlyn, clean lines, headset on, black T-shirt hugging her shoulders, eyes locked on the screen.
They posted it within five minutes.
> 🖤🖤 Kiramman. Watching. Not absent. #Mercedes #F1Japan #SilentSharp
And that’s when the flood began.
---
🌐 Fan Reactions (Twitter/X)
@GridHalo7
> Caitlyn in all black, headset on, not talking. It’s giving assassin energy.
@KirammansLens
> She’s not even driving and still looks like she’s controlling the whole damn grid.
@racerxpress
> The way Caitlyn watches Free Practice is more intense than most drivers during qualifying.
@f1burnernews
> So just to recap: she’s skipping FP but still in the garage, watching every lap like a hawk. Is she coaching or planning revenge?
@softchicane
> The black shirt. The silence. The headset. She’s observing. Calculating. Caitlyn Kiramman is a chess move waiting to happen.
@sector7stans
> This is not a woman who’s injured. This is a woman who’s storing data in her bones. I’m scared.
@undercutqueen
> Mercedes should’ve just photoshopped a sword into her hands and called it a promo poster.
Inside the garage, Caitlyn didn’t react to the noise outside. She never did.
Her screen showed brake temps rising across laps 11–115.Seb was pushing the car more now. Still not fully committed.
Caitlyn spoke into the mic again. “Tell him to be more aggressive in Sector 2 or we lose qualifying data.”
“Copy,” Rhea replied.
No emotion.
Just precision.
As the practice session wound down, Caitlyn stood, rolling her shoulder once. A small ache pulsed along her left side — not enough to limit her, just enough to remind her what was coming tomorrow.
She was out of the car today.
But not out of the fight.
The dinner invite came casually.
> Sushi? Off-grid. No photographers. Bring your appetite, not your media face.
Vi stared at it for a moment.
She read it again, this time slower.
Caitlyn didn’t send casual texts. Not often. Not unless they had a purpose.
Vi grinned.
> Sounds dangerous. I’m in.
📍 Tokyo – 8:31 PM
The restaurant wasn’t flashy. Tucked behind a row of vending machines and closed bookstores, its only signage was a thin paper lantern and the scent of soy-marinated rice.
Inside, it was minimalist — cedar counters, hand-folded napkins, soft light overhead. No music. No clatter.
And Caitlyn.
She sat in the far corner, hair loose, her sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms. Her shirt was navy and unbranded. Her lips had just the faintest color to them — not makeup. Just life.
She looked up as Vi entered.
“You’re late,” Caitlyn said, but not annoyed.
Vi shrugged off her hoodie. “You said eight-thirty. It’s thirty-one.”
Caitlyn raised a brow. “I said off-grid. Not off-schedule.”
Vi chuckled, sliding into the seat beside her. “So this is what dinner with a Kiramman heiress looks like. Thought there’d be more silverware.”
Caitlyn’s smile was dry. “Only if you're dining with my mother. I prefer knives I know how to use.”
Vi blinked. “Are you flirting with me or threatening me?”
“Would it make a difference?”
Vi grinned, missing the way Caitlyn’s gaze lingered on her lips for half a second too long.
The first round was sea bream, sliced so thin it barely held shape.
Vi picked it up with her fingers. Caitlyn used chopsticks, movements precise, effortless.
“I’m still recovering from seeing you in a black T-shirt at practice today,” Vi said as she chewed. “Didn’t know Mercedes even made you casual clothes.”
“They had to iron it first,” Caitlyn deadpanned. “Rhea threatened to burn it if I didn’t wear something human for once.”
Vi laughed, sharp and full. “You do look dangerous when you wear color.”
“I prefer tactical advantage.”
Vi leaned on the counter, turning slightly toward her. “And what’s tactical about navy?”
Caitlyn didn’t look up from her tea. “It brings out my eyes. Distracts the competition.”
Vi smirked. “You think I’m the competition?”
Caitlyn finally looked at her — slow, direct, and just a little too quiet.
“Of course not,” she said. “You’re the warm-up.”
Vi blinked.
“…You’re kidding.”
Caitlyn sipped her tea with absolute innocence.
Vi pointed at her. “You’re messing with me.”
“Am I?”
Vi stared for a moment. Then snorted. “Okay. Damn. You’re good.”
Caitlyn just tilted her head. “You’ve known that for a while.”
They moved through three more courses — scallop, fatty tuna, egg — each one more effortless than the last. The conversation stayed light. No talk of injury. No talk of telemetry. Just Vi making Caitlyn laugh more than she meant to, and Caitlyn saying just enough to keep Vi off-balance.
“I’m still not sure if this is dinner or an interrogation,” Vi said, mouth full of tamago.
“Why can’t it be both?”
Vi raised an eyebrow. “You inviting all your rivals out for sushi, or am I special?”
Caitlyn didn’t blink. “If I wanted to interrogate someone, I’d choose someone less predictable.”
Vi put a hand over her chest. “You wound me.”
“Do I?” Caitlyn said softly.
Again — too soft to be a joke.
Vi didn’t notice.
But Caitlyn noticed that Vi didn’t notice.
She smiled quietly to herself and plucked a piece of ginger from her plate
When the waiter brought the check, Caitlyn reached for it without hesitation.
Vi protested. “I can pay.”
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to fight me over dinner etiquette?”
Vi considered it. “No. You’d probably win.”
“I’d definitely win.”
Vi narrowed her eyes. “You really like being in control, don’t you?”
Caitlyn stood, smoothing her sleeves. “You only just realized that?”
The waiter asked for a picture as they were leaving. Just one. Said he was a fan. Nervous. Almost forgot to turn the flash on.
They stood close — not touching, but not distant. Caitlyn’s hands in her coat pockets. Vi’s arm casually slung behind her, palm resting on the back of Caitlyn’s chair for balance.
The waiter posted it ten minutes later.
“They were nice. They smiled. They tipped really well. This is my Roman Empire now.”
The photo went viral before either of them got back to their hotel.
The air at Suzuka was crisp. Clean. The kind of chill that cut just enough to wake your senses, even through fireproofs and tension.
The sun hovered behind light clouds, and from above, the circuit looked like it was holding its breath. The stands were packed. The fans were buzzing. And beneath all of it, the grid waited.
Caitlyn Kiramman walked through the garage like nothing had changed.
Black Mercedes team jacket zipped high, hair pinned in a clean twist, posture untouched. No brace. No stiffness. Only her hands — gloved and steady — revealed how focused she really was.
She hadn’t driven since Australia.
No Free Practice. No sim laps in Japan.
Just data.
And now: qualifying.
“You good?” Rhea asked, tightening the belts around her ribcage just a bit more carefully than usual.
Caitlyn met her gaze evenly. “I’m always good.”
That wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t arrogance.
It was fact.
✦ Q1 & Q2
From the first flying lap, she knew what the car wanted.
Turn 3 was the test — the compression, the twist. It bit into her left side with a breath of warning, but not enough to rattle her. She stayed clean. Sharp.
By Q2, she was setting green sectors and matching her teammate's delta.
Vi was fast — no question. Her Red Bull looked angry on track, dancing on the limit with every exit. Sector 2 was hers by default — nobody attacked the spoon curve like Vi.
But Caitlyn?
She carved corners.
Sectors 1 and 3 were hers.
They always were.
✦ Q3
Vi went out first in Q3 and lit up the timing screens.
Purple. Green. Purple again.
Her final time blinked on the board like a challenge.
P1 – 1:27.069.
Caitlyn waited. Watched.
Then rolled out.
Her first sector matched Vi's. Her second was two-tenths behind. But then came Turn 11 — a twitch. Not major. Just a slight delay in throttle that cost her the apex.
By the time she crossed the line, the damage was done.
P3 – 1:27.315.
Not pole.
Not front row.
But not failure either.
She pulled into parc fermé with her jaw tight and her grip tighter.
Vi was already out of her car, helmet tucked under one arm, smile brighter than the overhead sun.
Caitlyn unclipped with perfect control. No flinch. No sign of pain. Just one clean breath and a smooth exit.
She walked over without a pause.
“You earned that,” she said.
Vi blinked, caught off guard for a second. “Didn’t think I’d hear that from you.”
“You’re fast,” Caitlyn replied. “Today, fastest.”
Vi tilted her head. “You okay, though? You looked… tight in Turn 11.”
“Discomfort,” Caitlyn admitted. “Not pain.”
“Scale of 1 to hospital?”
“Four. Maybe five on braking.”
Vi gave her a look. “You sure?”
“I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”
Vi exhaled. “Alright. Just—don’t scare me mid-race. I don’t have the emotional range.”
Caitlyn cracked the faintest smile. “I’ll try to be considerate.”
Caitlyn stepped calmly into the press zone, eyes forward, arms relaxed, headset still warm around her neck. The lights were bright, the questions sharper than the air.
But nothing touched her composure.
SkySports F1:
“Caitlyn, first of all, congratulations on P3 — especially impressive without any Free Practice running. How did the car feel today?”
Caitlyn:
“Controlled. I had full confidence in the setup. The team worked ahead of the curve this weekend.”
RaceFansTV:
“Any lingering discomfort behind the wheel?”
Caitlyn:
“Some. Not limiting. I was able to focus fully on performance.”
F1TrackNews:
“We saw you out of the car post-session congratulating Vi. Do you feel this track favors her driving style?”
Caitlyn:
“She’s quick through the middle sector. That’s always been a strength of hers. She delivered.”
A pause. Then one of the senior reporters from Autosport leaned in — polite, but direct.
Autosport:
“Caitlyn, I’d be remiss not to ask — a photo from last night made rounds this morning. You and Vi at dinner in Tokyo. It sparked quite a bit of fan attention. Any comment?”
There was no hesitation.
Caitlyn:
“I had dinner with a fellow driver. Off-track moments are rare, and I value them when they come.”
Autosport (smiling):
“Understandable. Just a friendly dinner, then?”
Caitlyn (evenly):
“I don’t share private details with the media. My focus remains on qualifying performance and tomorrow’s race.”
She offered a small, professional smile.
And that was that.
Vi came in like thunder after the storm.
Pole-sitter. Grinning. Hair messy under her cap. Relaxed, but alert.
SkySports F1:
“Vi! First pole of the season. That lap was fearless. How’s it feel?”
Vi:
“Honestly? About time. I’ve been chasing purple all year.”
RaceFansTV:
“Sector 2 was insane. You looked glued to the track.”
Vi:
“Car felt amazing. Balance was perfect. I knew if I hooked it, we had it.”
Then the tone shifted — still light, but a touch more careful.
F1TrackNews:
“There’s a lot of conversation online today — mostly fan-driven — about a photo of you and Caitlyn at dinner. Anything you'd like to clarify?”
Vi smirked, but it wasn’t mocking.
Vi:
“We grabbed some sushi. Nothing strategic about it — just good food, off the clock.”
SkySports (gently):
“Fans love seeing drivers get along off-track. Think it's a good thing for the sport?”
Vi:
“Sure. We’re all human under the helmets, right? Not every conversation has to be telemetry and tire deg.”
RaceFansTV:
“So, not a date, then?”
Vi paused, laughing softly.
Vi:
“Define date.”
The reporters chuckled. She left it there — friendly, vague, and just enough to fuel the fire without fanning it.
The Suzuka Grand Prix grid shimmered with heat and nerves. The sun hung low but harsh, catching the glint of carbon fiber wings and visors pulled low in focus. Twenty engines were silent, but the air buzzed with pressure.
Caitlyn Kiramman sat P3 on the grid.
Helmet on. Gloved hands calm on the wheel. Her heartbeat steady. Her breath short — shallow, managed.
The discomfort was there.
But pain was no longer her focus.
Her focus was Vi.
P1. Pole sitter. Red Bull. Confidence practically pouring off the rear wing.
Caitlyn glanced up at the lights above the grid. Five red dots. One chance.
She didn’t blink.
The lights went out.
The storm began.
---
2. Opening Laps – Chase the Ghost
Vi launched perfectly — aggressive, clinical. Covered Turn 1 with control, exiting smoothly. No drama. No mistakes.
Caitlyn slotted behind P2, a Ferrari, choosing patience over pressure. Her hands worked on instinct — throttle, brake, shift — all automatic. Her ribs tensed as the G-force hit through Turn 3. Pain. But not weakness.
She climbed to P2 by Lap 7, executing a clean overtake at the hairpin. Sharp inside line. No contact.
Now it was just her and Vi.
The chase began.
Vi had a three-second gap.
Caitlyn clawed it back.
Not recklessly — but with a surgeon’s calm. Tenth by tenth. Sector by sector. Through the Esses. Out of Spoon. Down the back straight.
By Lap 20, she was inside DRS range.
Her engineer’s voice clicked through the comms:
> “You’re with her. Battery mode 4. Execute when ready.”
Caitlyn responded simply:
> “Copy. Not yet.”
She was studying.
Laps 24 through 31 were brutal.
Every DRS zone, Caitlyn loomed larger in Vi’s mirrors. She feinted inside at Turn 1. Showed the nose at Degner. Tucked in tighter through Spoon.
But Vi defended like her life depended on it.
Vi’s radio was constant:
> “She’s just sitting there. Not even attacking. Waiting for me to screw up.”
> “Rear tires dropping.”
> “She’s not backing off.”
Caitlyn didn’t. She wouldn’t.
Her ribs flared with pressure under load, especially through the chicane. But her grip never wavered. Her focus narrowed.
By Lap 34, she radioed:
> “Still there. Still calculating.”
Rhea replied calmly:
> “We see it. Wait for her to lock up.”
Caitlyn didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.
Vi pushed harder. Burned battery. Defended her lines like a queen under siege.
But the walls were closing in.
Lap 48. Five to go.
Vi was ahead, but barely. Less than six-tenths. Tires cooking. Brakes glowing.
Caitlyn was clinical. Her hands precise. The pain in her side was a sharp hum, but her mind sliced through it.
Lap 49 — Caitlyn attacked.
Turn 1. Deep on the brakes. They went side-by-side.
Vi held the inside. Barely. The two cars danced inches apart.
The crowd lost their minds.
Lap 50 — again. Caitlyn feinted at Spoon, Vi blocked. Their wheels nearly kissed in the chicane.
Vi’s voice cracked over radio:
> “She’s not lifting. If I move one inch wrong, we touch.”
“Keep it clean,” her engineer said.
> “She’s playing with fire.”
But Caitlyn was done waiting.
---
5. Lap 52 – The Incident
Turn 16.
Vi defended the inside. Caitlyn went outside. Both braked deep — too deep.
Vi squeezed. Left just enough space for survival.
Caitlyn didn’t lift.
Their rear wheels kissed. Caitlyn’s front right ran onto the edge of the curb, kicking up dust.
But she didn’t flinch.
She held it.
Surged ahead.
Vi shouted into her radio:
> “SHE PUSHED ME OFF! That was dangerous!”
Silence.
Then:
> “Noted. Stewards reviewing.”
By the time they reached Turn 1 again, Caitlyn was a full second ahead.
Final lap.
Caitlyn didn’t look back.
Her breathing was tight. Her side ached. But she took every corner like the lead was hers by birthright.
She crossed the line — first.
A full second clear.
Vi crossed second.
And then the stewards made their call.
> “Car 44 – Red Bull – 5-second penalty for forcing another car off track.”
Vi’s name dropped to P6.
The radio lit up.
> “NO. NO. She braked late. I defended the corner.”
> “That’s unfair. I gave her a car’s width.”
> “This is ridiculous.”
Her engineer replied, quiet:
> “We’ll discuss post-race. Box now.”
Vi threw her gloves inside the cockpit.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t climb out.
Just sat.
Watching Caitlyn climb the top step of the podium.
The media zone was tense.
Cameras snapped. Journalists leaned forward, mics aimed like weapons.
Vi had barely cooled down. Still in her suit, hair damp, visor lines marked across her cheeks. She looked like she wanted to hit something — or someone.
She didn’t wait for the questions.
She spoke first.
> “That wasn’t racing.”
The reporters blinked. One of them hesitated. “Vi, can you clarify what you mean?”
Vi folded her arms. “What Caitlyn did in Turn 16 wasn’t just aggressive — it was reckless. She braked late, committed to a line that didn’t exist, and forced me wide.”
“The stewards ruled it a racing incident at first—”
“Then gave me a five-second penalty,” she snapped. “For defending the corner I was already entitled to.”
A beat.
Another reporter cautiously asked, “Do you think the penalty was unjustified?”
Vi exhaled sharply.
Her eyes flicked toward the Mercedes section of the paddock — calm, composed, glittering in silver.
Then she said it.
“I just think if the roles were reversed, she wouldn’t be penalized.”
“And why is that?” a journalist asked, intrigued.
Vi’s jaw tightened. Her eyes burned.
“Because she’s Piltover. She’s their face. Their golden girl. Every move she makes is calculated. And somehow, she’s always on the right side of the ruling.”
There was a slight movement just behind the cameras — Vi’s engineer, standing stiff near the edge of the crowd, raised two fingers to his earpiece.
A signal.
Back off.
Vi saw it. Her jaw locked again. Words hung in her mouth, sharp and dangerous.
But she swallowed them.
Barely.
Instead, she breathed in — slow.
“What happened today was unfair. That’s all I’ll say.”
A silence stretched.
Reporters scribbled.
Cameras zoomed.
And Vi?
Vi turned, stormed past the rest of the pen, ignoring every shouted question behind her.
The lights were warm on her face. The microphones too close. But Caitlyn Kiramman stood still, as she always did — spine straight, hands folded neatly in front of her, the Mercedes emblem gleaming against her collarbone.
Her fireproofs were unzipped just below the neck. Her expression unreadable.
She had just been told — quietly, before stepping in — what Vi had said.
The accusation. The insinuation.
The word “Piltover.”
She didn’t flinch.
But something shifted in her posture — just enough to notice, if you knew her well.
A SkySports journalist spoke first.
> “Caitlyn, congratulations on the win. That final overtake was bold. Talk us through it.”
Her voice was even. Crisp.
“Lap 52. I had better exit speed into Turn 15. I went around the outside, fully committed. Vi defended late. There was minimal contact. I held my line.”
“Did you expect the penalty to go her way?”
She didn’t blink.
“I focus on my own driving. I leave rulings to the stewards.”
There was a pause.
Then the question came — not hostile, but careful.
“We understand Vi gave a strong statement. She said that if roles were reversed, you wouldn’t have been penalized. That you benefit from being… Piltover’s golden girl. Do you want to respond?”
Caitlyn was silent for a moment.
She inhaled slowly.
Then looked straight at the camera.
“I race by the book. My move was clean. Within track limits. I left space until I didn’t have it. I overtook because I was faster in that moment.”
But something cold flickered beneath the surface — disappointment. Not anger. Not pride.
Just the kind of quiet hurt that digs deep and refuses to be aired in public.
She gave a final nod.
“That’s all I’ll say.”
And with that, she stepped away.
No further comment.
No drama.
Just silence — and a win.
The Suzuka paddock was beginning to quiet. Crews rolled up cables. Engineers spoke in murmurs. The sun dipped low, shadows stretched between hospitality units and team trailers.
Caitlyn was walking alone — headset in hand, jacket zipped to the throat. Her helmet was already packed. Her win already logged.
But her expression hadn’t softened.
Not once.
She turned the corner behind the broadcast suite — and stopped.
Vi was there.
Leaning against the wall of the Red Bull motorhome. Still in her suit, half unzipped, a bottle of water in her hand, and eyes locked on her like she’d been waiting.
Caitlyn’s footsteps slowed. She said nothing.
Vi pushed off the wall.
“Congrats on the win,” she said flatly.
Caitlyn nodded once. “Thank you.”
A beat of silence passed.
Then Vi said, “You didn’t have to say what you said on camera.”
Caitlyn blinked, calm but sharp. “I said nothing you didn’t already know.”
“That’s the problem,” Vi snapped. “You’re always so perfect about it. Nothing sticks to you.”
Caitlyn’s brow lifted, just slightly. “You’re upset you got penalized.”
“I’m upset you caused it,” Vi said, stepping closer now. “And no one even questioned you. Not for a second. If I’d made that move? Everyone would’ve crucified me.”
“You think I’m treated better because I’m from Piltover,” Caitlyn said.
Vi didn’t answer — not directly.
But her silence was loud.
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “You think the world just hands me victories.”
“Doesn’t it?” Vi bit. “You show up after missing practice, slot it into P3, and the stewards bend over backwards when it’s you in a battle. You get grace I never do.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught — just briefly.
Vi didn’t stop.
“You get called precise. Tactical. I make the same move, and I’m reckless. Aggressive. Dangerous.”
“You’re not being fair,” Caitlyn said, voice low.
“Maybe I’m tired of being fair,” Vi said. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending like you don’t get away with things just because you’re Caitlyn Kiramman.”
The last word landed hard.
Caitlyn’s shoulders stiffened — not in anger.
In hurt.
A flicker passed across her face — something small. Soft. Wounded.
Vi saw it.
And immediately regretted it.
Caitlyn blinked once. Looked down. Then back up.
And her voice, when it came, was quiet.
“I didn’t make the stewards’ call, Vi. I didn’t even argue with you. I passed you. I drove clean. And you—”
She stopped.
“You accused me of being handed everything. You think I don’t earn what I take.”
Vi opened her mouth.
Caitlyn cut her off.
“You think this doesn’t cost me, too?” Her voice broke — just barely. “I drove that race with fire under my ribs. I clawed back from an injury no one even knew about. But to you, I’m still just the privileged one.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Vi’s shoulders dropped a little.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” Caitlyn said, suddenly so tired. “And the worst part is, I’m not even surprised.”
Her voice didn’t rise. She didn’t walk away.
She just stood there.
And Vi saw it — the hurt on her face.
The kind that doesn’t scream.
The kind that doesn’t cry.
The kind that feels like betrayal.
Caitlyn turned, finally, stepping back into the shadows of the paddock.
Vi didn’t follow.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading! 💙
Your comments and support genuinely mean the world.Let me know what you thought of this chapter — especially that moment between Vi and Caitlyn. I’d love to hear your opinions, theories, or even suggestions for what you'd like to see next.
Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading — your support and kind words mean more than you know. Every comment genuinely motivates me to write and post faster. If there’s a scene, moment, or dynamic you’d like to see, feel free to share it. I love hearing your thoughts and shaping the story together with you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Red Bull garage smelled of brake dust, grease, and tension.
It had been hours since the checkered flag fell at Suzuka, but the mood inside was anything but celebratory. Engineers packed equipment in silence. Data analysts avoided eye contact. Even the background noise — the normal hum of paddock chatter — felt muted.
Vi sat alone on the back bench of the telemetry room, still half-suited, race boots untied. Her visor was shoved into her helmet bag, forgotten. Her hair clung to the back of her neck, damp with sweat that had long gone cold.
The anger had cooled. The adrenaline, drained.
Now, there was only the echo of her own words — and the weight of the silence that followed them.
The door opened with a hiss.
Sevika stepped in — Red Bull team principal, shoulders broad and face unreadable. She was holding a clipboard, but it was clearly for show. What she had to say wouldn’t come from a checklist.
“You made the podium and dropped to P6,” she began, tone clipped. “But that’s not what’s getting headlines.”
Vi didn’t look up.
“You know what’s being clipped and posted all over social media? That little line about Caitlyn and Piltover.”
Vi leaned back. “Did I lie?”
Sevika set the clipboard down with a thud.
“That’s not the point. The press thinks you implied bias. The fans think you snapped under pressure. And corporate? They think it’s a PR mess.”
Vi clenched her jaw. “Let them think what they want.”
Sevika stepped forward.
“You’re a Red Bull driver. That means your words hit the entire team. You don’t get to burn things down just because you’re pissed.”
Vi finally looked up. Her eyes were tired. “I know.”
The admission surprised Sevika. She paused, just for a moment.
Vi sighed. “I meant what I said about the penalty. I still think it was unfair. But…”
She hesitated.
“I shouldn’t have said it the way I did. Not like that. Not about her.”
Sevika’s expression didn’t change.
“Not in front of ten million viewers,” she muttered.
Vi gave a humorless smile. “That too.”
“You going to apologize to the media?”
Vi shook her head. “I don’t care about the press. I care that I hurt her.”
Sevika raised a brow. “Caitlyn?”
Vi nodded slowly. “She didn’t deserve that. I was angry. Not just about the penalty. About how easy she made it look. About how she looked at me after. Like I’d become someone she couldn’t even recognize.”
For a second, Sevika didn’t say anything.
Then, more gently:
“So fix it.”
Vi rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know how.”
After Sevika left, Vi sat in silence.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Outside, trolleys rolled over the tarmac. Voices murmured. Tools clicked.
She pulled her phone out of her bag and tapped into her socials.
Mentions: thousands.
She scrolled through a few.
---
@lap17screamer
> Vi really said “Piltover privilege” out loud on international TV huh???
@f1burnbook
> Look I love Vi but that post-race interview? Yikes. Caitlyn’s response was pure class.
@drszonefanclub
> Was the move aggressive? Sure. Was it dirty? No. Caitlyn passed clean. Vi’s just mad she lost.
@kirammanupdates
> Caitlyn didn’t even post after winning Suzuka. That’s how much that interview hit her. She always posts.
Vi frowned.
That one stuck.
She tapped into Caitlyn’s profile.
Nothing since the race.
No podium photo. No telemetry breakdown. No sponsor acknowledgements.
Just silence.
And for Caitlyn, that wasn’t normal.
She always posted. Always.
Vi leaned back against the bench, staring at her screen.
All of Caitlyn’s previous victories had updates — captioned strategies, team photos, fan reposts, sometimes a sly quote tucked between telemetry charts.
But now?
Nothing.
The last post was three days old — a pre-qualifying shot, headset on, eyes focused, calm and unshakable.
Vi stared at the image for a long time.
She remembered the way Caitlyn had looked at her after the race — not cold, not dismissive.
Just…
Disappointed.
Wounded, in the way people are when they expected better.
Vi rubbed her face with one hand, exhaling slowly.
She hadn’t meant to take it out on her.
Well—she had.
But not like that.
Not to the whole world.
Caitlyn hadn’t fought back. Hadn’t dragged her in the press. Hadn’t posted a single passive-aggressive quote.
She just stood there. Said her truth. Walked away.
And now she was silent.
And that silence said more than any tweet, any radio message, any post-race fireworks ever could.
Vi tossed her half-empty water bottle into the bin.
The hollow clatter echoed through the telemetry room.
She pushed up from the bench, boots heavy against the concrete floor, fingers twitching by her sides.
She didn’t know what she was going to say.
Didn’t even know if Caitlyn would listen.
But the one thing she knew?
She had to try.
Before the silence between them turned permanent.
The post-Suzuka break came like a breath the paddock didn’t know it needed.
Two weeks of stillness before the engines roared again. No practice sessions. No travel schedules. Just a rare pause in a sport that never stopped moving.
Mercedes took the time seriously.
In the calm of their Brackley headquarters, a quiet meeting took place—behind closed doors, under the soft hum of filtered light. Ambessa Medarda, towering and composed, stood at the head of the table. Her presence alone made the air feel heavier.
Caitlyn sat near one end, posture straight, expression calm.
Maddie sat across, hands fidgeting under the table, but eyes locked on Ambessa with razor-sharp attention.
Seated around them were key engineers, strategists, and one quietly observant representative from Williams.
“Maddie,” Ambessa began, voice firm but not unkind. “Let’s speak plainly. You were pulled into F1 mid-season. A move born out of opportunity and chaos.”
Maddie nodded once, trying not to look terrified.
“You’ve adapted well. You’ve shown control, clarity under pressure, and remarkable composure for someone who was racing F2 four months ago.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Maddie said quietly.
Ambessa continued, her tone unwavering.
“If you deliver results with Williams in the second half of the season—consistency, clean driving, and tactical understanding—we’ll bring you into the 2026 lineup.”
The words hit the table like a dropped wrench.
Maddie’s lips parted. “I—seriously?”
“You’ll partner with Caitlyn,” Ambessa confirmed, casting a brief glance toward Caitlyn. “But Mercedes doesn’t hand out seats. You’ll earn it. And you’ll carry the weight that comes with it.”
Maddie nodded quickly, breathless. “Yes. Absolutely. I’ll prove it. Thank you.”
Ambessa stood.
The meeting was over.
As quickly as it began, the room emptied. Caitlyn and Maddie were the last to rise.
They stepped out into the corridor—quiet, sleek, sunlit from overhead.
Maddie walked beside Caitlyn, shoulders still trembling slightly with adrenaline.
“Do you…” she began, then laughed nervously, “do you want to grab a coffee or something?”
Caitlyn tilted her head. “I do.”
A small smile crept across Maddie’s face.
Minutes later, they sat outside a café on the edge of the facility’s quiet garden—minimalist concrete tables, light greenery, warm air filtering in through open-glass walls.
Caitlyn stirred her coffee slowly, silently.
Maddie kept her hands around her cup like a lifeline.
“I’m nervous,” she finally admitted.
Caitlyn didn’t look up. “That’s normal.”
“I just…” Maddie stared into the swirl of her latte. “I didn’t expect to be here. F2 is different. It’s ruthless, yeah, but it’s not this. I came in when everything was already moving. No testing. No foundation. I didn’t even unpack properly.”
She laughed, then winced. “Not that I’m ungrateful. I just—I want to be ready. I want to belong.”
Caitlyn finally looked at her.
“You do belong,” she said, steady and sure. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
Maddie’s eyes flicked to her. “It’s easy for you to say. You’re… you.”
“I wasn’t always,” Caitlyn replied without blinking.
Maddie hesitated. “Still. Mercedes? That’s been my dream since I was fifteen. And to even think I might sit in a debrief with you next year…”
She stopped herself, biting the inside of her cheek.
Caitlyn smiled slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”
Maddie laughed, embarrassed. “That sounds like something a comic book mentor would say.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
They both sipped in silence.
The breeze moved through the ivy on the walls. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped once and fell quiet.
Time slowed.
Maddie leaned back a little in her chair. Caitlyn’s gaze had returned to her cup. Her profile—sharp and elegant in the afternoon light—looked almost unreal. Measured. Still.
Maddie glanced away quickly, cheeks warm.
She wasn’t stupid.
She admired Caitlyn. Respected her.
But maybe there was more to it than that.
A bit of awe, yes. But something gentler, too. Something that lingered in the way she watched Caitlyn’s hands move, how her brow furrowed slightly when she thought too hard about something.
She wondered if Caitlyn knew how often people looked at her like that.
Maddie wasn’t sure if she wanted her to know.
She reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her phone.
“Would you mind…?” she asked, lifting it slightly.
Caitlyn turned her head. “A photo?”
Maddie nodded.
Caitlyn didn’t smile fully, but her expression softened just enough — a quiet patience in her eyes, like she was letting herself be seen, just for this.
The shutter clicked.
Maddie looked at the screen. She didn’t edit it. Didn’t filter it. She didn’t need to.
It wasn’t just a photo.
It was a moment.
She tapped out a caption:
> just coffee with my hero ☕💙
And she posted it before she could second-guess herself.
---
They sat there a little longer.
Caitlyn didn’t pull out her phone. She didn’t rush to leave.
She just sat quietly with her coffee, elbows on the table, gaze distant but alert — like she was always two moves ahead of the world, but willing to let herself fall one step behind, just for now.
Maddie didn’t say anything else.
Neither did Caitlyn.
They didn’t have to.
The silence was warm. Uncomplicated.
And when they finally stood to leave, Maddie tucked the moment away in the back of her mind — the coffee, the sunlight, the brief glimpse of softness behind Caitlyn’s cool exterior.
The ballroom shimmered with old wealth.
Soft golden lighting pooled across marble floors. Waiters moved between clusters of guests like well-dressed ghosts, trays balanced with sparkling glasses and speech cards. The air was thick with perfume, diplomacy, and quiet calculation.
Caitlyn stood near the edge of the gallery, spine straight, arms folded loosely in front of her navy-blue gown. Her heels — tasteful, conservative — clicked faintly against the floor when she shifted her weight.
She wasn’t mingling.
She wasn’t smiling.
She was enduring.
Cassandra had insisted.
“Your presence matters, Caitlyn. You’re a Kiramman, not just a competitor. This is your world, too.”
Caitlyn had known what that meant.
Appear. Be seen. Shake hands. Don’t speak too much — but say enough to seem sharp. Represent the family, even if your boots still smelled faintly of burned rubber from Suzuka.
She’d almost refused.
But refusing her mother… wasn’t easy.
The collar of her dress itched faintly. The fabric stretched in ways her racing suit never did — elegant, but restrictive. Her left side still ached if she twisted too much. But she didn’t show it. Not here.
Not when eyes were always watching.
She sipped her champagne with practiced stillness, gaze flicking from one group of politicians to another. Nothing in their smiles looked genuine. Everything felt like a performance.
“Having fun?”
Caitlyn turned.
Jayce had arrived — dressed impeccably in a midnight suit, tie askew in a charmingly careless way, holding a drink in one hand and a small plate of hors d'oeuvres in the other.
“I see you’ve mastered your bored socialite pose,” he teased.
Caitlyn allowed the corner of her mouth to curl. “It’s all muscle memory at this point.”
Jayce came to stand beside her, leaning casually on the balcony rail.
“I figured you’d be halfway out the back door by now. You hate these things.”
“I’m here because she asked me to be,” Caitlyn said simply.
Jayce followed her gaze across the room. Cassandra stood by the grand piano, graceful and composed, surrounded by Piltovan officials and donors, her presence as polished as it was commanding.
“She doesn’t really ask,” Jayce muttered.
“No,” Caitlyn agreed. “She doesn’t.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment.
Then Jayce nudged her gently.
“So. Next race. Two weeks out. You ready?”
Caitlyn nodded, sipping her drink. “Car’s performing well. Setup should translate cleanly to the high-speed corners.”
Jayce smirked. “God, you’re such an engineer when you’re not dodging cameras.”
“Habit.”
His eyes softened a little. “You’re healing okay?”
“Yes.”
He waited.
“…Mostly,” Caitlyn added after a beat.
Jayce tilted his head. “And what about… everything else?”
Caitlyn didn’t look at him. “What else?”
“You know what I mean.”
Silence.
Jayce lowered his voice. “Vi.”
Caitlyn’s hand stiffened slightly around the stem of her glass. Barely noticeable. But Jayce saw it.
She didn’t answer right away.
Then, “We haven’t spoken.”
“She hasn’t reached out?”
“No.”
Jayce frowned. “That doesn’t sound like her.”
Caitlyn stared out at the glittering lights of the city skyline beyond the windows.
“She said some things. I said less. But I suppose it said enough.”
Jayce didn’t push.
Instead, he offered her a napkin from his plate and said gently, “These hors d'oeuvres are criminal. Please pretend to enjoy one so I don’t feel like I’m dying alone.”
Caitlyn took the napkin. A faint smile. “You’re so dramatic.”
“It’s a gift.”
As they stood side by side, the event moved on without them.
The sound of violinists. The clink of glasses. Laughter that didn’t quite reach anyone’s eyes.
Caitlyn let herself lean, just slightly, into the comfort of an old friend’s presence.
Not speaking about it — but not quite hiding it, either.
She hadn’t heard from Vi.
She hadn’t expected to.
But the silence was louder than any apology.
The moment fractured like glass.
Caitlyn noticed it the second the weight of her mother’s gaze reached her from across the ballroom.
Cassandra Kiramman moved with practiced grace through the crowd — every step elegant, every gesture calculated. Dressed in stately silver, her hair pinned into place without a strand out of order, she looked every inch the councilwoman she had always been.
Jayce saw her coming and gave Caitlyn a light nudge.
“I’ll go pretend to be useful somewhere,” he murmured. “Call me if she tries to turn you into a senator.”
Caitlyn’s lips twitched.
Then he was gone.
And Cassandra arrived.
“Caitlyn.”
Her mother’s voice was smooth. Controlled.
Caitlyn turned slowly, drink still in hand. “Mother.”
“You’ve been standing here for twenty minutes,” Cassandra said, not unkindly. “You haven’t spoken to the Minister of Trade. Or the future ambassador from Targon.”
“I wasn’t aware I was scheduled for diplomacy,” Caitlyn replied softly.
“You’re always scheduled for diplomacy. Especially when you’re wearing my name.”
Caitlyn stiffened — just slightly. “I thought I was here for charity.”
“You’re here to be seen. And remembered,” Cassandra said, folding her hands. “Your name still means something, Caitlyn. To these people. To Piltover.”
“And what about what it means to me?” Caitlyn asked, too quietly for anyone but her mother to hear.
Cassandra didn’t flinch. “It means obligation. Responsibility. A future you may not want, but were born to carry.”
There was no venom in her voice. Just truth.
That made it worse.
---
Caitlyn looked back out over the crowd.
“There’s a race in two weeks,” she said, almost to herself.
“You’ll be ready,” Cassandra replied.
A pause.
“I saw the footage from Suzuka. Your driving was precise.”
Caitlyn turned, surprised by the compliment. “…Thank you.”
“But that interview. That girl.”
The softness in her mother’s expression vanished.
“You let her speak about you like that on international broadcast.”
“I didn’t let her do anything.”
“You said nothing.”
“I said enough.”
Cassandra’s jaw flexed. “You’re stronger than that, Caitlyn.”
“I’m not here to win arguments. I’m here to drive.”
A tense silence stretched between them.
Finally, Cassandra spoke again. “This world — politics, governance — it may not be what you want now. But it is your responsibility. One day, your name will be called upon. When it is… I expect you to answer.”
“I always answer,” Caitlyn said, voice cold. “You just don’t always like what I say.”
For the first time, a flash of emotion crossed Cassandra’s face. Not anger.
Something close to sadness.
But it disappeared just as quickly.
She stepped back, hands smoothing the front of her gown.
“Don’t linger too long in the corners. People are starting to whisper.”
Then she was gone — swallowed by the crowd and the sound of violins.
Caitlyn remained where she was, her drink now warm in her hand, her reflection blurred in the glass.
The hotel room was quiet.
Not the comforting kind — not soft or sleepy. Just quiet. The kind that buzzed behind your ears after you’ve run out of excuses not to think.
Vi lay on the edge of the bed, half out of her hoodie, hair still damp from the shower she forgot to finish. One leg bent, one stretched. Her phone hovered above her face, screen glowing in the dark.
She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for.
Race footage? Post-race analysis? Team updates?
No. She wasn’t being productive.
She was just… scrolling.
Avoiding.
Avoiding the memory of Caitlyn’s face after the argument.
Avoiding the hollow ache that settled in her chest when she thought about the things she said — and the things she didn’t.
The ones that mattered most.
---
She refreshed her feed.
New photos.
She almost missed it.
It was one of those glitzy news accounts — @PiltoverPulse or something equally polished.
> 📰 Councilwoman Cassandra Kiramman and daughter Caitlyn attend the annual Piltover Progress Gala.
Caitlyn Kiramman, recently victorious at the Suzuka Grand Prix, joined political figures at the high-profile charity event...
The photo loaded slowly.
And there she was.
Caitlyn.
Hair pulled back. Dark dress, elegant but minimal. Head high. Shoulders perfect. Eyes unreadable.
She looked… still.
Not tense. Not joyful. Just composed, the way Vi had seen her stand on the top step of the podium — but colder. Harder.
Vi zoomed in instinctively, like she might find something in the details. A twitch of a brow. A purse of lips. Something real.
But it was a photograph. Frozen.
And it told her nothing.
---
She kept scrolling.
More pictures.
Caitlyn standing near Jayce. Caitlyn beside Cassandra. Caitlyn shaking hands with someone in a suit Vi didn’t recognize.
Each one looked the same.
Polished. Untouchable.
Like she belonged to that world.
Not to the track.
Not to her.
Vi locked her phone, dropped it to her chest, and stared up at the ceiling for a moment.
Then she picked it up again.
This time she typed: “Caitlyn Kiramman” into the search bar.
Just to see.
Just… curiosity.
Sure.
---
That’s when she saw it.
A post from earlier in the week. A totally different setting.
A sunny café table. A coffee cup. Two chairs.
And Caitlyn — not in a gown, but in a fitted team t-shirt, hair loose around her shoulders, eyes soft.
The post wasn’t even from her.
It was from Maddie.
Vi frowned.
She recognized the girl from Williams — the rookie who had waved at Caitlyn on the parade truck. The one who looked at her like a fan who couldn’t believe she’d been allowed this close to a star.
The caption was short:
> just coffee with my hero ☕💙
Vi stared at it.
The photo wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t suggestive. It was just… warm.
Too warm.
Caitlyn wasn’t even looking at the camera — she was stirring her drink, gaze unfocused. But the light on her face was soft. Her shoulders were relaxed. She looked like she’d let something go, even if just for a second.
Vi scrolled through the comments.
> “Awww this is so cute??”
“Maddie got coffee with CAITLYN?? hello???”
“Caitlyn smiling… and it's not even a press photo???”
“I ship this actually.”
“This is so soft omg.”
Her stomach turned, and she didn’t know why.
Because it meant nothing?
Because Caitlyn had moved on?
Because Caitlyn hadn’t texted her, but had coffee with someone else?
---
Vi dropped the phone beside her and covered her face with one arm.
She wasn’t angry.
Not really.
Not even at Maddie.
She was angry at herself.
For the things she’d said. For assuming Caitlyn would just… wait.
And now?
Now Caitlyn was out there — winning races, attending galas, grabbing coffee with people who hadn’t hurt her.
And Vi?
Vi was here.
Alone, with the static buzz of a phone that refused to light up with the one message she actually wanted to see.
The media room buzzed like a hive.
Bright white lights pressed down on the long desk where three drivers sat, microphones angled toward their faces. Journalists filled the rows in front of them, cameras poised, recorders blinking. The hum of voices stilled as the moderator gestured for quiet.
Caitlyn sat in the middle — calm, pristine, her Mercedes polo tucked in neatly, posture perfect. To her right, Maddie leaned forward nervously, hands folded on the table, a Williams badge gleaming faintly against her chest. And to Caitlyn’s left sat Vi — hoodie unzipped over her Red Bull shirt, cap pulled low, jaw tight.
Two weeks since Suzuka. Two weeks since words cut sharper than engine noise.
Caitlyn hadn’t looked at her once.
---
The first questions were routine.
“Caitlyn, you’re leading the championship by just twelve points now. How are you feeling heading into this weekend?”
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly toward the microphone.
> “Confident. It’s a long season. Every race is its own challenge. We’ve done the work, and I trust my team.”
Polished. Efficient. Nothing wasted.
“Vi, Suzuka was… eventful. Do you still feel frustrated about the penalty?”
Vi’s jaw ticked. She leaned in.
“Yeah, I do. I think it was harsh. But that’s in the past. New weekend, new track. My focus is on winning here.”
Caitlyn’s eyes didn’t move. Not once.
Then came the pivot.
A journalist lifted her hand. “Question for Caitlyn and Maddie. There’s been a lot of buzz online since that photo you two shared last week. Fans are curious — how did that come about?”
Maddie stiffened instantly, her cheeks heating.
Caitlyn, however, remained perfectly composed.
“It was just coffee,” she said, her tone smooth. “We happened to have time after a meeting at Brackley. Maddie’s adjusting to F1 quickly, so it was a chance to check in.”
She paused, the faintest flicker of a smile touching her lips.
“And to make sure she remembers to eat between simulator sessions.”
Maddie made a soft noise — somewhere between a laugh and a squeak. She ducked her head slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“She’s exaggerating,” she muttered into her mic.
The press chuckled. Cameras flashed.
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t waver.
Vi shifted in her chair, restless. She didn’t look at the journalists. She looked at Caitlyn — finally.
But Caitlyn didn’t turn.
Her profile was flawless under the lights, unreadable. Every word weighed before it left her mouth. Every gesture controlled.
It was like Vi wasn’t even there.
When the session ended, the drivers filed out in a line. Maddie trailed slightly, still red in the cheeks, muttering to herself about the teasing. Reporters kept calling after them, but handlers ushered them down the hall toward the paddock’s private corridors.
Vi slowed her steps, just enough to try and catch Caitlyn’s eye.
Nothing.
Caitlyn walked with her headset draped neatly around her neck, talking quietly with her press officer, her gaze fixed forward. Not once did she glance back.
Vi clenched her jaw.
She couldn’t find the moment.
Not here. Not yet.
The silence stretched like another lap unfinished.
The paddock was quieting down.
The sun had long dipped below the horizon, bleeding the sky into a cold, bruised navy. Only the harsh white floodlights remained — humming overhead, casting long, thin shadows between the garages. Everything had slowed. The urgency of the day had melted into mechanical routine: toolboxes being wheeled away, leftover tire warmers coiled like discarded snakes, tired mechanics flicking off lights with muscle memory.
Vi stood alone in the shadows near Red Bull’s hospitality unit, jacket zipped up, cap pulled low. She wasn’t moving. She hadn’t been for the better part of twenty minutes.
She hadn’t said anything to her team. Not when they asked what she was doing, not when they gave up and left.
She was waiting.
Because Caitlyn hadn’t looked at her all day.
And that silence was louder than any argument Vi had ever known.
She’d lost count of how many times she replayed Suzuka in her mind — not the race, but the words that came after. The sharp, reckless interview. The bitterness in her voice. The anger. The way she let her frustration become a grenade, and Caitlyn — of all people — ended up catching the shrapnel.
So when she saw her — alone, finally — it felt like the air shifted.
Caitlyn was walking, slow and purposeful, across the paddock. Headset in hand. Jacket half-zipped, wind tugging lightly at the ends of her hair. Her movements were precise, practiced — like she’d ironed herself flat enough that nothing could get under her skin.
But Vi had been under her skin. And she didn’t know how to undo that.
She stepped forward.
“Caitlyn.”
No answer.
No hesitation.
Just the same clean, uninterrupted stride.
Vi hurried to catch up, boots scuffing faintly against the concrete.
“Please,” she said, just loud enough for Caitlyn to hear. “Just for a minute.”
That made her pause.
Not a full stop — just a fractional slowing, the barest turn of her head.
Then Caitlyn turned fully, her expression composed, unreadable, as if she’d been waiting for this moment all day and had already made peace with how little she would give it.
Her voice was calm. Perfectly modulated.
“One minute,” she said. “Walk with me.”
They walked the outer edge of the paddock — the service lane that curved behind the garages, half-lit by the last row of overheads. It was quiet there. Isolated. Only the whisper of wind and the faint buzz of power from within the garages remained.
Vi fell into step beside her, heart beating faster than it had during the race two weeks ago.
For a while, all she heard were their footsteps.
When she finally spoke, her voice was rough. Small.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you.”
“You’ve been trying to get me to talk to you,” Caitlyn replied, eyes still forward. “Not quite the same.”
Vi winced. “I know. And I get it. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either.”
No reply.
Caitlyn’s face remained neutral. Perfect. Only her jaw, tight beneath the soft shadows, gave anything away.
Vi licked her lips, trying again.
“What I said after Suzuka…”
She trailed off, unsure how to finish. The words tasted hollow in her mouth.
“It was cruel. It wasn’t true. And I’m sorry.”
Caitlyn didn’t stop. She didn’t even flinch.
“You said I was protected,” she said evenly. “That I only won because of where I’m from.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You meant it in whatever way would make you feel less like you lost.”
The words landed like a slap. Quiet, but undeniable.
Vi didn’t argue.
“It was a cheap shot,” she admitted, voice low. “And I threw it at the person who deserved it least.”
“You threw it at the person who trusted you,” Caitlyn said softly. “Who backed you. Publicly. Privately.”
The wind picked up a little, tugging strands of hair loose from Caitlyn’s braid.
Vi looked at the ground.
“I know.”
“I never needed your praise,” Caitlyn continued. “But I thought, at the very least, I had your respect.”
That silenced Vi.
They stopped walking. Caitlyn turned to face her fully under the pale pool of light.
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t harden her tone.
But she didn’t have to.
“You matter to me,” Caitlyn said.
Vi’s chest tightened.
“You matter, Vi,” she repeated. “You have for a long time. But that day…”
Caitlyn looked at her — really looked at her.
“That day, your pride mattered more.”
Vi blinked, throat thick. “I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t,” Caitlyn said. “You reacted. And I became the target. Again.”
“You’re not a target.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m always catching the shrapnel when you explode?”
Caitlyn’s voice had dropped even further. Barely above a whisper.
But it cut through Vi’s chest like a blade.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” Vi said, the words sticking.
“You don’t have to want it for it to happen.”
Caitlyn’s posture hadn’t shifted. Still perfectly still. Perfectly upright. But her eyes…
Her eyes were tired.
“I know how hard you race,” she said. “I know what it means to you to win.”
“Then why did you walk away after the race?”
“Because I needed to remember how to breathe without you turning every bad moment into a weapon I have to absorb.”
That — that was the one that almost broke Vi.
“That’s not fair—”
“Isn’t it?”
Vi stepped forward, almost instinctively, like she could close the distance with proximity alone.
“Tell me what to do.”
“You want a fix,” Caitlyn replied. “But there isn’t one.”
“Then what?”
“You give me space. You give me time.”
She met Vi’s eyes again. No tears. No trembling.
But there was pain. Real pain. Tucked behind every word she had refused to scream.
“I don’t hate you,” Caitlyn said.
Vi’s voice cracked. “Then why does it feel like I lost you?”
“Because you did,” Caitlyn said. “Not forever. Maybe not completely. But for now… yeah.”
Vi’s hands were shaking now. She looked down and saw it for the first time.
“I was stupid,” she said quietly.
Another silence.
“I told myself you could take it,” Vi muttered. “That if anyone could, it was you.”
Caitlyn gave a faint, tired smile.
“It’s not about taking it,” she said. “It’s about not being the first one you turn it on.”
“I don’t want to be that person.”
“Then stop being that person.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try from further away.”
She took a small step back.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
“I can’t keep holding your pain every time you fall apart,” she said.
Vi swallowed hard. “I care about you.”
“And I care about you,” Caitlyn said. “But caring doesn’t erase the damage. It doesn’t rebuild the trust you cracked.”
“Then what does?”
“Time,” she said.
She turned, slowly, without another word, and walked away — her headset swinging gently at her side, the sound of her boots soft against the concrete.
Vi didn’t follow.
Not because she didn’t want to.
But because for the first time… she understood that she couldn’t.
Caitlyn – 9:07 a.m. – Mercedes Garage, Monza
There had always been a calm before the engines started.
The garage smelled like rubber and carbon fiber. Bright LEDs lit every inch of the silver and black floor. A dozen engineers moved around her in quiet efficiency — data pads in hand, cords trailing behind their boots, fans humming behind her car.
Caitlyn sat in the seat she'd known like a second skin. Helmet on her knees. Gloves fitted perfectly. Earpiece in. Suit zipped halfway.
Everything in place.
Except her mind.
Rhea crouched beside her, voice low through her headset.
“Tire pressures are set. Track’s colder than expected — so we’ll feel it on the out-lap. We’ll do a baseline stint on mediums, check temps, then push.”
“Understood,” Caitlyn said, voice clean.
Her tone was normal. Her eyes weren’t.
She could feel it. The margin. That gap between being composed and acting composed. And right now, she was leaning too hard on the latter.
She exhaled once.
But the breath caught — not in her lungs, not in her chest, but somewhere behind her ribs.
Behind last night.
“You matter, Vi. But that day… your pride mattered more.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes for a blink too long. The words echoed like cold static in her skull.
And still, she walked to the car.
Climbed in.
Clipped on the belts.
Gloves. Wheel. Ignition.
No hesitation.
No second guessing.
But her hands were colder than they should’ve been.
Vi – 9:11 a.m. – Red Bull Pit Lane
Vi sat on the edge of the pit wall, helmet on, visor still open. The world in front of her narrowed to one thing: the track.
There was always something about Monza — the speed, the weight of history in the tarmac, the way every braking zone dared you to be braver than physics allowed.
This was her weekend.
No more waiting. No more second place. No more apologies.
Her engineer’s voice rang in her ears.
“Wind’s low. We’ve got a tail on sector two. Get your launch clean and you’ll be purple before Lesmo.”
“Copy that,” Vi said.
She didn’t look across the pit lane.
Didn’t check the timing board for her name.
Didn’t allow herself to.
Because she already knew she’d see it.
And she didn’t know if it would feel like relief or regret.
Caitlyn – 9:22 a.m. – On Track
The first push lap was clean.
Barely.
Her steering corrections were tight. Too tight. Her inputs were coming from memory, not from feel.
Turn 3 — the Curva Grande — usually flowed through her body like water.
Today, it felt stiff. Delayed. She adjusted her line slightly, came out wider than planned.
“Delta’s high,” Rhea warned in her ear. “You’re a tenth off on entry. Let’s reset. Again.”
“Copy,” Caitlyn said.
But her knuckles were whitening on the wheel.
They hadn’t spoken since that night.
And Caitlyn hated that it mattered so much.
She hated that Vi’s words — that reckless, bitter interview — had done what years of press nonsense couldn’t.
Lesmo 1 came fast. She braked a moment too late, clipped the inside kerb. The car twitched.
Her pulse jumped.
Corrected.
Recovered.
Still off pace.
“Balance okay?” Rhea asked. “We’re seeing instability in sector two.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away.
“Caitlyn.”
“Yes. Car’s fine.”
“You’re not.”
Vi – 9:28 a.m. – Sector 2
The Red Bull felt like it was carved from her breath.
Every turn obeyed. Every downshift landed like poetry.
Her engineer called out her sectors and she barely needed to respond. The lap flowed through her — fluid, sharp, exactly what she’d spent two weeks preparing for.
But then she caught it.
On the screens as she crossed into pit lane.
Caitlyn. Mercedes #04. Off-line at Parabolica. Oversteer. Rear twitch.
It wasn’t dramatic. No crash. No yellow flag.
But it wasn’t her.
“She nearly lost it,” her engineer muttered.
Vi didn’t reply.
She just stared at the replay.
Her own heart stuttering in her chest.
Caitlyn – 9:31 a.m. – Box Lap
The car pulled into the box. Her hands unclipped the wheel slowly. Movements clean. Measured. Surgical.
But inside, her mind was screaming.
“You’re driving like someone who didn’t sleep last night,” Rhea said, crossing her arms. “Talk to me.”
Caitlyn looked straight ahead.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re driving like you’re on delay.”
“I’ll correct it in FP2.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
Caitlyn’s eyes flicked to the floor.
“I know,” she whispered. “I’m still not ready to answer.”
---
Vi – 9:40 a.m. – Red Bull Briefing Room
The monitor was still playing in the background. Her P1 was locked in. Report was clean.
But Vi was quiet.
She stared at the board: Kiramman – P9.
And the image of the silver car twitching toward the wall wouldn’t leave her head.
Because she’d seen Caitlyn off her rhythm before — on wet circuits, with blown setups, during red-flag chaos.
But this wasn’t that.
This was her fault.
She had gotten in her head.
Not during the race.
Not on track.
But with words.
10:02 a.m. – Medical Bay, Alone
She hadn’t meant to come here.
She wasn’t injured. There was no strain, no flare-up of old rib pain.
But she needed silence.
The physio room was empty. The air smelled of mint and antiseptic. She sat on the edge of the padded bench, hands folded tightly, her helmet on the floor.
She replayed the lap.
Every missed apex. Every late brake. Every correction.
But mostly, she replayed Vi’s voice.
“I don’t want to be that person.”
“Then stop being that person.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try from further away.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes.
She didn’t regret saying it.
But it still hurt.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading — your support and kind words mean more than you know. Every comment genuinely motivates me to write and post faster. If there’s a scene, moment, or dynamic you’d like to see, feel free to share it. I love hearing your thoughts and shaping the story together with you.
Chapter Text
Free Practice 2 – Friday, 3:05 PM – Mercedes Garage
There was a kind of quiet inside the cockpit that no one outside would understand.
It wasn’t the silence of stillness — not really. The hum of the engine idling below her, the muffled chatter over radio, the white-noise rustle of the garage — it was all there. But for Caitlyn, everything dulled. Blurred. Like a room with the windows closed tight.
She adjusted the strap of her glove, clipped her comms line, and sat perfectly still as the engineers finished the final checks. Everything was exact. Mechanical. The kind of ritual she could do half-asleep, and sometimes had.
But her mind… wasn’t here.
> “Caitlyn, we're green. Run plan B — three push laps, reset, then another two. We’ll use the same offset as this morning. You copy?”
Rhea’s voice, smooth but focused, crackled through the comms.
> “Copy,” Caitlyn replied automatically, her voice giving away nothing.
The moment the lollipop man signaled, her car rolled out of the garage. A controlled launch. No wheel spin. No visible error.
And yet — something was off.
Rhea felt it almost instantly, watching the data scroll in real-time from the monitors.
Caitlyn’s steering input was just a fraction delayed in turn-in at Turn 3. Her throttle pick-up lagged by milliseconds at the exit. Barely anything the human eye could catch. No lock-up. No loss of control.
But Rhea had seen Caitlyn drive since testing. She knew when the balance was off — not the car’s. Caitlyn’s.
Sector 1 – On Circuit
Caitlyn flicked the car through the first chicane, feeling the grip settle just beneath the limits. The track was hot. Rubbered in. Ideal.
But she wasn’t in sync with it.
Her breathing was too shallow — not ragged, not hurried. Just not deep enough to settle the rhythm she usually relied on.
Out of Curva Grande, her eyes drifted for half a second to the barrier.
Not fear. Not distraction.
Just… her mind slipping.
She blinked and corrected her line.
> “Turn 4 — you’re a bit late on apex,” Rhea noted. Her tone wasn’t critical, just observant.
> “Understood,” Caitlyn answered.
No excuses. No explanations.
Just professionalism.
And distance.
Sector 2
The next few corners weren’t terrible. But they weren’t great either.
Each micro-correction bled momentum. Her telemetry told the story: a driver hitting every marker — technically — but without the finesse that made her elite.
It was like watching someone trace a perfect signature… with their non-dominant hand.
And Rhea noticed every stroke.
Rhea — Pit Wall
Rhea tapped her stylus against the screen, brows drawn.
Something was eating Caitlyn.
She’d come back from worse setups. She’d raced through worse injury. But this wasn’t physical.
This was… psychological.
And Rhea had a sinking feeling she knew exactly what — or who — it was.
Sector 3 – Final Lap of the Stint
Through Ascari, Caitlyn ran a little wide. Not over the kerb — not dangerously. Just a half meter wider than her usual razor-thin line.
“Delta’s climbing. You’re .3 off target,” came the update.
Caitlyn didn’t reply.
At Parabolica, her lift was too early. Then too late.
That hesitation cost her the lap.
“Box, box. Let’s come in.”
Mercedes Garage – 3:27 PM
Caitlyn rolled in smoothly, hands steady on the wheel.
But when the engine shut down, she sat still for just a beat too long.
Helmet off. Hair slicked back. She looked fine.
Unbothered.
But Rhea didn’t buy it.
Not for a second.
The pit crew stepped back. Techs began the routine checks. Caitlyn stood, stretched — subtle, controlled — and unclipped her radio.
Rhea met her at the workstation.
“Talk to me.”
Caitlyn pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time. “The balance is a bit floaty in sector two. I’ll review the traces and correct it in FP3.”
Rhea narrowed her eyes.
“It’s not the car.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
“Your lines are clean, but your entry speed’s inconsistent. Reaction time’s a tick slow. It's like your hands know the corners but your head is lagging behind.”
Caitlyn’s voice stayed level. “I’ll fix it.”
Rhea stepped closer, lowering her voice.
“Is this about last night?”
Caitlyn turned her head slightly — not enough to look her in the eye.
“No.”
But it was.
She knew it. Rhea knew it.
Driver’s Room – 4:02 PM
Inside the quiet room behind the garage, Caitlyn leaned against the locker cubby, towel slung around her neck, water bottle sweating in her hand.
She hadn’t changed out of her suit yet.
The lights were low. The air conditioning hummed. Outside, she could still hear the faint buzz of the crowd, the chatter of paddock media.
But inside?
Stillness.
Except her thoughts.
They ran like a second race — relentless and without circuit barriers.
“You matter, Vi. But that day, your pride mattered more.”
She didn’t regret saying it.
But it still echoed like a radio message she couldn’t turn off.
Caitlyn exhaled, eyes closed.
Even when she was alone, she was never alone. Not with the weight of her own words.
And Vi’s.
Especially Vi’s.
Media Pen – 5:15 PM
The lights weren’t any less harsh than usual.
Caitlyn stepped into the pen with her usual calm — Mercedes team shirt, hair swept back, expression as composed as ever.
She wasn’t smiling.
But she didn’t need to.
She answered every question without faltering.
Yes, the setup still needed refining.
Yes, the team was gathering data.
No, there were no mechanical concerns.
Perfect. Professional. Impenetrable.
“Caitlyn, P13 today. Was that just traffic or something else?”
“Just data collection. We were experimenting with a few things. Focused on long-run pace more than quali trim.”
“Your teammate was four-tenths up.”
“She ran a different plan. We’ll converge tomorrow.”
No hesitation. No nerves.
But Rhea, standing just beyond the ropes, saw it.
The stiffness in her shoulders. The slightly too-careful way she folded her hands. The momentary pause before answering anything involving Vi’s name.
Outside the Media Zone – 5:42 PM
As the crowd thinned, Caitlyn stepped out, water bottle in hand, face still unreadable.
And there — near the fence line — was Vi.
Vi looked like she hadn’t decided what to say. Like she was still halfway between anger and apology.
But she stepped forward anyway.
“Caitlyn—”
Before the sentence finished, footsteps thundered toward them.
“Caitlyn!”
Maddie.
Still in her Williams shirt. Pink-tinted sunglasses perched on her head. She was carrying a cup holder with two iced coffees and a protein bar clumsily balanced between her fingers.
“You left the debrief too early — figured you didn’t get a break. I didn’t know what you liked so I guessed! It’s just oat milk and—”
Caitlyn blinked.
Then — softly — took the coffee.
“Thank you.”
Vi stood perfectly still.
Just a few feet away.
But the moment was gone.
Maddie grinned brightly, oblivious. Or maybe not. But either way — she stayed.
“You going to engineering next or straight to recovery?”
“Recovery,” Caitlyn said smoothly. “Ten minutes.”
“Cool, I’ll walk with—”
Vi turned and left before she could finish.
No words.
No goodbye.
Just the familiar sting of an opportunity closing.
Again.
Social Media
@f1nightwatch
> “Caitlyn cold as ice in that interview. I love her.”
“She’s focused. She’s not cold. She’s just not giving them more to spin.”
@teammercedesmoments
> “Caitlyn didn’t even flinch. She’s locked in. But something’s still off.”
Mercedes Garage – Late Evening
Rhea hovered by the telemetry screens, alone now.
She watched Caitlyn’s lap traces again. Over and over.
The mistakes weren’t huge. Not dramatic.
But they were there.
Fractions. Inches. A breath too soon. A beat too late.
And all of it?
Un-Caitlyn.
Because this wasn’t a technical problem.
This was something else.
Something she couldn’t fix in a setup sheet.
Something that wore a Red Bull hoodie and left shadows on Caitlyn’s focus every time she stepped onto the track.
The world roared with sound.
But between Caitlyn and Vi, there was silence.
Thick, dense, and nearly unbearable.
Vi stood at the side of the garage, her helmet tucked under one arm, her cap backwards, hair fraying at the edges. The mechanics paid her no mind. No one did — not right now.
Because Caitlyn was standing across from her. And this was the only chance Vi had left to fix something she hadn’t even realized she broke.
Caitlyn, in her black-and-silver race suit, looked exactly like she always did before a session: still, poised, unreadable.
But Vi had learned to read the shadows in her stillness.
And there were more shadows than usual.
"Caitlyn." Her voice was low, hushed by the nearby engine hum.
Caitlyn glanced over her shoulder, then turned fully. Calm. Collected.
"Vi."
It was polite. Cordial. Almost pleasant.
It wasn’t the Caitlyn who had once stood an inch from her face, flushed with adrenaline and laughter, tossing quick-witted barbs like sparks from a flame.
That Caitlyn was gone.
This one felt like a mirage.
Vi stepped closer. Just enough that the crew wouldn’t overhear.
"I’ve been thinking about what you said. About pride. And how it mattered more than you."
Caitlyn said nothing.
Vi pressed forward, throat dry. "You were right."
Caitlyn’s eyes didn’t change. "I usually am."
Vi managed a faint smile — but it fell flat.
"I think... I ruined something before I even got a chance to understand what it was. Us—whatever that was—”
She paused, searching for something, anything.
"We’re like water and oil," Vi said finally. "We never mixed. But that didn’t stop me from wanting it."
Caitlyn’s gaze finally flicked up to hers — not surprised. Not angry. Just… tired.
"Then why did you keep setting fire to it?"
Vi blinked.
The words hit harder than she expected.
Caitlyn didn’t raise her voice. She never did. But there was a finality to the question that made Vi feel suddenly ten years old — reckless, clumsy, always breaking the things she tried to hold close.
"I don’t know how to be good at this," Vi said, quietly. "I’m good at fights. I’m good at running. But… not this."
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly. Her voice was kind, but colder than it should’ve been.
"Then maybe you should stop picking fights with the people who tried to meet you halfway."
The silence returned — but now it screamed.
Vi opened her mouth. Closed it. Searched Caitlyn’s face for softness, for a crack, for something.
There was none.
Just the faint, poised nod of a woman with a job to do and no time left for people who didn’t take care of her heart.
"Good luck today," Caitlyn said softly. Then, without pause, she turned and walked away.
And Vi stood there, alone in a garage full of noise, feeling every inch of the silence she’d created.
---
Trackside – Sector 2 | FP3 – 10:44 AM
Caitlyn clipped the apex of Turn 6 like her thoughts depended on it.
Because in some way, they did.
She wasn’t driving for the team.
She wasn’t driving for the championship.
She wasn’t even driving for herself.
She was driving because it was the only place left where she could pretend nothing else existed. That there was no voice in her head repeating water and oil, no memory of soft words turned into weapons, no face in a Red Bull suit that haunted every inch of her pulse.
Rhea’s voice echoed in her ear:
"Your sectors are clean. Let’s see if you can bring it together this lap."
"Copy."
Flat. Unshaken.
But her heart was anything but.
She pushed harder.
And the rhythm started to return.
---
Final Lap – Sector 3
Through Ascari, Caitlyn found the edge.
Not the dangerous kind.
The razor-thin kind — the space where instincts take over and thought becomes unnecessary.
The car hummed like it trusted her again.
Parabolica loomed.
This time, no hesitation.
She braked late, caught the corner, and floored the throttle through exit.
The delta flashed green.
Rhea’s voice came back:
"Purple final sector. That’s P2 overall. Nice work."
But Caitlyn didn’t react.
Not even a nod.
She just pulled into the pits, calm and cold.
Like she was driving with an entire war behind her ribs.
---
Mercedes Hospitality – 11:07 AM
The room was dim, quiet, clinical.
Telemetry maps lit the walls. Laptimes scrolled along LED panels. And in the center of the space — like a commander before a war — stood Ambessa Medarda.
Steel-gray suit. Black gloves. Sunglasses tucked into her coat. Her stance held authority so thick, it made the floor feel smaller.
Caitlyn stepped in, towel around her shoulders, bottle in hand, suit peeled to her waist.
Ambessa didn't greet her.
Just motioned to the screen.
"Sector 2 was where you lost the gap to P1. Your braking point into Turn 8 was conservative. Lifted earlier than needed at entry."
Caitlyn nodded once. "Understood."
Ambessa stepped forward.
"Your lap was clean. But clean isn’t enough. Not for someone like you."
Caitlyn looked up.
Ambessa’s eyes were sharp. Not cruel. Never cruel.
But merciless.
"You’ve been... distracted."
No accusation. Just diagnosis.
"I’m not."
"You are." Ambessa folded her arms behind her back. "And I don’t care why. I only care that you correct it."
Caitlyn’s shoulders squared.
"I finished P2."
"You are not built for second."
That stung.
Ambessa continued. "When you were a child, you never flinched. Not during first lessons. Not when the others cried. You held the rifle with bare hands in winter, and you shot straight."
Caitlyn said nothing.
"Do not become soft now."
Silence.
Then Caitlyn replied, softly:
"Being soft isn't the same as being weak."
Ambessa stepped forward.
"In this world? It is."
That silence stretched longer than it should have.
She sat on the edge of her bed.
Helmet beside her. Suit unzipped.
It wasn’t her body that ached.
It was the realization:
Vi had hurt her.
Not because she didn’t care.
But because Caitlyn did.
More than she should have. More than she wanted to admit. More than was safe in a world that demanded so much from her already.
She had allowed herself to believe in something tender.
And Vi’s words — even without cruelty — had broken it.
Water and oil.
She understood now.
They didn’t mix.
Not because they couldn’t.
But because no one ever taught Vi how to hold something delicate without cracking it open.
The hum of the paddock was muffled inside the engineering suite.
Telemetry buzzed gently from the monitors, displaying sector deltas and tire degradation charts in blinking green and red. The room smelled faintly of coffee and carbon fiber, lit with the cool clinical glow of LED panels overhead.
Caitlyn sat at the far end of the long table — hands folded neatly, eyes fixed on the trace graphs. Her posture was flawless. Shoulders squared. Head tilted just enough to suggest engagement.
But Rhea had seen the signs since Thursday.
She wasn’t listening — not really.
She’d answered questions during the debrief with her usual clarity. She’d made all the right observations. But she was… absent.
Not lost. Not shaken. Just distant — in a way that only someone who knew Caitlyn well would notice.
And Rhea noticed.
After the session cleared, and the other engineers filtered out with their tablets and data pads in hand, Rhea stayed.
She stood by the console for a moment, watching Caitlyn pretend to scroll through tire data she already had memorized.
Then she walked over and sat beside her — not across from her, not opposite her — beside her. Quietly.
“I know something’s wrong,” Rhea said.
Her voice wasn’t sharp. There was no confrontation in it. Only quiet concern.
Caitlyn didn’t look up.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“I didn’t ask if you were fine.”
Still, Caitlyn’s gaze remained on the tablet.
Rhea leaned back in her seat, letting a beat of silence pass.
“This started before FP1,” she said softly. “You’ve been different all weekend.”
Caitlyn’s fingers paused over the screen — just for a second — before she scrolled again.
“I’m focused,” she said. “We’re fighting for a championship. Distractions aren’t an option.”
“That’s not what I’m seeing on the data,” Rhea replied.
She watched Caitlyn for a reaction. None came.
“No one’s doubting your pace,” Rhea added. “You’re still ahead of 90% of the grid when you’re not even pushing. But your rhythm’s wrong. Your apexes are late. Your throttle lift is inconsistent in sector two. It’s like—”
“I’ll correct it,” Caitlyn interrupted gently, without a trace of irritation.
Rhea frowned. “Cait… what’s going on?”
“I told you,” Caitlyn said, finally lifting her gaze. Her tone didn’t change — not cold, not defensive. But her eyes were… far. Distant. Not angry. Just somewhere else. “I’m handling it.”
“Handling what?”
A pause.
Then:
“Nothing I want to discuss.”
That silence landed heavy between them.
Caitlyn looked back down at her screen, as if the conversation hadn’t happened.
Rhea stayed a moment longer.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said finally. “But if it’s affecting you this much, I hope you’re telling someone.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
And Rhea didn’t push.
But she left the room with a weight in her chest that telemetry couldn’t explain.
The air was warmer than usual. Sunlight filtered between the gaps in the overhead tarps, creating dappled light on the tile floor.
Caitlyn sat at a small table by the edge, her coffee untouched, fingers loosely wrapped around the paper cup.
She wasn’t thinking about racing.
Not strategy. Not qualifying trim. Not even sector deltas.
She was thinking about words.
Words she had said. Words she hadn’t. And the ones Vi had thrown carelessly into the air weeks ago like they didn’t matter.
Like she didn’t matter.
And she hated that they still echoed.
The chair opposite her scraped softly.
Maddie sat down, all energy and brightness, setting her own drink on the table with both hands.
“I got the oat milk one again,” she said, offering it with a little hopeful smile. “Last time you didn’t hate it.”
Caitlyn blinked, then took the cup gently. “Thank you.”
Maddie studied her quietly for a moment.
“You seem…” She hesitated, trying to pick the word carefully. “Still. Like—like you’re not really here.”
“I’m just focusing.”
“Fair,” Maddie said. “You always do that. Go into sniper mode before a session.”
Caitlyn smiled faintly — the kind of smile that didn’t touch her eyes.
Maddie didn’t notice. Or if she did, she didn’t mention it.
“You’ve been good to me, you know,” she said after a moment. “You didn’t have to explain gear ratios or tire evolution to a nervous rookie, but you did.”
“I want you to succeed,” Caitlyn said simply.
“I’m trying to earn that dinner.”
That caught Caitlyn’s attention.
Maddie grinned. “You remember, right? P5 in the race and you owe me dinner. That was the deal.”
“I remember,” Caitlyn said softly, taking a sip of her coffee.
Maddie’s fingers drifted forward, brushing lightly over Caitlyn’s hand — just for a second. Caitlyn didn’t flinch, but she moved her hand away to pick up a napkin.
The moment passed.
“I like driving with you on track,” Maddie said, still light. “You’re terrifying. In a good way.”
Caitlyn looked up, and something flickered in her eyes. Something close to warmth. But it didn’t last.
“I hope you make it to P5,” she said.
“I’m going to.”
“I believe you.”
Maddie beamed.
And Caitlyn just sipped her coffee again, her grip a little tighter than it needed to be.
The air was sharper now. Full of tire smoke and tension. The kind of air that buzzed under your skin when something important was about to happen.
Rhea passed Caitlyn her helmet without a word.
Their eyes met.
And for just a second, Rhea saw it again — that thing Caitlyn wouldn’t name.
But she said nothing.
And Caitlyn didn’t offer anything in return.
Just a nod. A calm, composed breath.
Then she walked to the car.
Slid in.
Strapped down.
The world outside fell away — into the cockpit. Into control. Into silence.
And maybe that was the only place left where she didn’t have to pretend.
The engines screamed across the Monza circuit — the unmistakable wail of precision at 320 km/h. Sunlight glared off sleek carbon fiber, and the grandstands trembled under the roar of tens of thousands of fans, the atmosphere thick with the electricity only qualifying day could summon.
Vi was locked in.
Helmet on. Gloves tight. Every sense sharpened.
Today was the day.
She wanted pole. Needed it.
Not just for herself — for the team, for the redemption arc she’d started writing the second she walked away from Suzuka with the bitter taste of penalty and regret in her mouth. The mistakes, the words she’d thrown at Caitlyn — they hadn’t disappeared. But the track didn’t care. The asphalt had no memory.
And Vi planned to write a different story here.
The Red Bull flew through Ascari, her tires clawing at the tarmac like it owed her something. Her delta was green. Purple sectors lined her screen. She was hitting every marker, every apex, with mechanical perfection.
Then the timing screen flickered.
Caitlyn Kiramman – Purple in Sector 1.
Vi’s pulse jumped.
Of course.
She should’ve known.
Even after a bad weekend, Caitlyn never disappeared. She wasn’t just fast — she was surgical. Composed. Cold, even. A winter wind wrapped in silver and black.
But when Vi saw the Mercedes glinting ahead, just exiting Lesmo 2, she blinked.
Something was different.
Caitlyn wasn’t just fast.
She was fighting.
Throwing the car into corners with a kind of controlled aggression Vi had rarely seen from her. It wasn’t recklessness — it was intent. Sharper lines. Later braking. She was pushing like she had nothing to lose.
Like something inside her had snapped into focus.
And Vi — mid-corner, throttle pinned — knew she wasn’t getting pole today.
Not with Caitlyn driving like that.
Not with Caitlyn turning emotion into precision with terrifying grace.
Vi crossed the line.
P2. Behind Caitlyn.
By 0.028 seconds.
The top three cars pulled into the grid, engines cooling, the smell of scorched rubber and burnt brake dust heavy in the air.
Caitlyn stepped out of her car first, helmet in hand, dark hair stuck to her temple. She removed it slowly, a wisp of steam rising from her suit.
No celebration.
Just a faint nod to her engineer, a single raised hand to the crowd.
Then a tight, restrained smile.
That was it.
Rhea approached, slapping her lightly on the back. “That was flawless.”
“Thank you,” Caitlyn said, voice even.
Vi watched from behind as she handed her gloves off, gave a curt nod to one of the mechanics, and moved toward the pen for post-quali interviews.
There wasn’t a single shred of emotion on her face.
Not satisfaction. Not pride.
Just… silence.
The Interview Pen – 4:20 PM
The reporters were hungry — they always were when drama and brilliance collided on track.
“Caitlyn, pole position after a rough Friday. That was a stunning turnaround. How do you feel?”
“I’m satisfied with the result. We changed a few things overnight. The car felt good under me today,” she replied, calm and impassive.
“You looked more aggressive than usual — was that a conscious decision?”
“I drove to the limit. It’s qualifying. That’s the job.”
“Some say it looked personal, especially in your fight with Vi—”
Caitlyn raised a brow. “It’s never personal. It’s racing.”
They moved on. The smile never reached her eyes.
When it was Vi’s turn, she kept her helmet on for a few seconds longer than needed.
“What did you make of Caitlyn’s lap?”
“She earned it. She was quick.”
“Looked like a fight between the two of you.”
“It always is.”
“Any lingering tension between you two after Suzuka?”
Vi's jaw tightened.
“We're racers. We push each other. That’s all.”
It was a lie. Everyone knew it.
But no one pressed further.
Vi had just unzipped her suit halfway when she heard footsteps behind her.
“Vi.”
She turned, expecting her race engineer.
It was Ekko, tablet in hand, eyes wide with something not even qualifying could explain.
“You need to see this,” he said, holding out the screen.
“What is it?”
He flipped the tablet around.
A live feed from Piltover News Central. A scrolling headline:
> COUNCIL ATTACKED BY ZAUNITES – MULTIPLE ARRESTS MADE, SUSPECTS STILL AT LARGE.
Beneath it, a mosaic of blurry surveillance images.
And in the bottom-right corner — enhanced, circled in red:
A girl with a shock of blue hair. A manic grin.
Powder.
Vi’s throat closed.
She grabbed the tablet. “That’s not—”
But it was.
Even if grainy, even if warped.
It was her.
Her sister.
Her missing past.
Her worst nightmare wrapped in a ghost with a grenade.
Ekko’s voice was quiet. “They’re saying she might’ve planned it. The blast was targeted. No one was killed, but…”
Vi barely heard him.
The blood drained from her face.
The tablet dropped to the table with a soft clatter.
---
Mercedes Motorhome – 6:03 PM
Caitlyn sat in the lounge, visor flipped up, telemetry sheet beside her, untouched.
She should’ve been reviewing data. Should’ve been fine-tuning her race strategy.
But her thoughts kept circling.
She hadn’t felt like herself since Suzuka.
The words. The look in Vi’s eyes. The way something inside her had cracked open and shown her just how deep the knife had gone.
She cared.
More than she thought possible.
And it terrified her.
Because Caitlyn Kiramman didn’t break focus. She didn’t let people in. She didn’t fall apart because of someone else’s words.
But Vi… Vi had always been different.
The push and pull. The rivalry. The tension.
And maybe, just maybe — something more.
It was maddening.
Rhea popped in.
“Want company?”
Caitlyn looked up, surprised. “I’m okay.”
“You were fast today.”
“I needed to be.”
Rhea studied her for a long beat.
“You sure you’re alright?”
Caitlyn gave a soft nod. “I’m fine.”
And maybe if she said it enough times, it would be true.
The glow of Caitlyn’s phone screen lit up her face in the otherwise dimly lit room.
She had been seated in silence for the past half hour — telemetry sheets still unopened on her tablet, suit unzipped just to the chest, damp from sweat that had long dried. She had replayed the qualifying session in her mind at least a dozen times. Every corner. Every tenth.
And still — it wasn’t the lap that haunted her now.
It was the headline.
> Zaunite Attack Disrupts Council Session — Several Arrests Made. Two Still at Large.
The buzz of a message broke her trance.
From: Cassandra Kiramman
Time: 7:17 PM
> I’m fine. Don’t worry.
They didn’t get past the outer floor. The Council has been moved to a secure location.
Caitlyn exhaled through her nose.
The relief was instant — but shallow.
She read the message again. Once. Twice.
Her mother was fine.
Of course she was. Cassandra Kiramman did not bend easily. Piltover’s Councilwoman was known for her control, her planning, her ability to navigate chaos with precision that mirrored her daughter’s own.
And yet...
Caitlyn’s thumb hovered above the keyboard for a moment, unsure what to say back.
Typing… deleting… then typing again.
> I saw the news. I’m glad you’re safe.
> Keep me updated if anything changes
Three dots blinked, then disappeared.
No response yet.
That was fine.
Caitlyn leaned back into the chair, resting the back of her head against the cold locker behind her.
It was a strange thing — knowing that an attack had happened at the heart of her home city, that lives had been threatened, that the people she’d grown up around had come face-to-face with violence again… and she hadn’t even flinched.
Not externally, at least.
But inside?
She could still hear the metallic echo of her mother’s voice in her mind:
“You wear this name. You don’t get to choose when.”
And Caitlyn — as much as she hated how true it was — knew her mother would still be in that council room tomorrow if allowed.
Just like Caitlyn would still be in the car.
No matter what.
The lights in the paddock were dimming. Most teams had wrapped up the day, retreating into hospitality suites or debrief rooms. A quiet settled over the back end of the circuit — the kind of quiet that doesn’t come often in Formula 1. Just the hum of cooling generators and the faint scent of warm asphalt.
Vi stood alone behind the Red Bull motorhome, her back pressed to the cool concrete wall.
Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. Her jaw clenched.
She wasn’t okay. And she knew it.
It wasn’t just the race. Or qualifying. Or even Caitlyn — though she’d be lying if she said that didn’t matter.
It was the news. The council attack.
The images still burned in her mind. Protesters. Smoke. Arrests.
And Powder.
Her sister.
Gone for years. And now… wanted. Again. For something violent. Again.
Vi didn’t know what stung more — that she had resurfaced, or that it had to be like this.
Why like this, Powder? Why now?
---
She didn’t notice Caitlyn until she heard her voice.
It was gentle. Hesitant. But unmistakably hers.
“Vi?”
Vi’s shoulders tensed. She didn’t turn at first — couldn’t.
“You’re shaking,” Caitlyn said, softer now, stepping closer.
Only then did Vi look up.
Caitlyn stood a few feet away, her arms relaxed at her sides, eyes calm but alert — like she was trying to read between the lines of Vi’s silence.
She looked… concerned.
Not annoyed. Not cold.
Just quietly, deeply worried.
“Did something happen?” she asked.
Vi swallowed hard. She wasn’t used to people asking her that. Not anymore.
“You saw the news, right?” Vi said, voice rough.
Caitlyn nodded. “The council?”
“Yeah.” Vi let out a bitter breath. “Guess Zaun never runs out of ways to fuck up.”
There was no bite in her voice. Just… exhaustion.
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away. She just waited.
“Is your mom okay?” Vi asked.
The question caught Caitlyn slightly off-guard. But she nodded. “She’s fine. A bit rattled, I think. But unharmed.”
Vi closed her eyes for a second. Relief flooded her expression for just a heartbeat — before it disappeared beneath the weight of everything else.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Vi muttered.
Caitlyn took a small step closer, still careful not to crowd her.
“What do you mean?”
Vi ran a hand down her face, then through her hair. “I feel like I’m trying to live in two worlds that weren’t built to exist next to each other. Let alone together.”
She glanced at Caitlyn, her eyes shadowed.
“You and me? We’re just reminders of that. You, with your medals and clean lines. Me, with my baggage and fists.”
Caitlyn’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s not how I see you.”
“Maybe not,” Vi said quietly. **“But I see me. And I see you. And I keep thinking of what you said… that day.”
Caitlyn stayed silent.
Vi gave a bitter laugh. “You were right, you know. I didn’t think. I let my pride speak for me. And I ended up throwing it all at the one person who’s ever tried to meet me halfway.”
That made Caitlyn blink.
Vi turned her head again. “We’re oil and water, Cait. We don’t mix. We just… sit next to each other. Pretending we’re not different.”
Caitlyn's voice, when it came, was soft. Measured. But it held something beneath the surface — something like hurt.
“We are different, Vi. But that never meant we had to be against each other.”
Vi looked at her, the expression on her face somewhere between disbelief and guilt.
“But that’s what happens,” she whispered. “Eventually. Every time. Zaun and Piltover. You and me. Something always explodes, and I end up ruining it before I even understand what it was.”
Caitlyn didn’t reply.
Not right away.
Instead, she stepped just a little closer. Close enough to see the tension in Vi’s shoulders. The slight tremble in her hand.
And still, she didn’t reach out. She didn’t cross the line.
But her presence was steady. Warm.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” she said, finally.
Vi looked down.
“You’re just…” Caitlyn exhaled, the barest tremble in her words. “…not making it easy to believe you want to build something instead of destroy it.”
That hit harder than anything else Vi had heard.
Because it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t said in anger.
It was said in pain. Quiet, dignified pain.
The kind that Caitlyn had always worn like a second skin.
---
Vi opened her mouth.
But nothing came out.
Caitlyn turned her eyes back to the quiet paddock lights in the distance.
“I should head back,” she said, after a moment. “There’s debrief still to finish.”
Vi nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. “Yeah. Of course.”
Caitlyn turned halfway, paused.
Then, softer than before:
“Take care of yourself tonight.”
Vi looked up.
Caitlyn’s face was still unreadable. But her eyes — her eyes lingered.
Just for a moment.
Long enough to say what neither of them could bring themselves to voice.
Then she was gone.
And Vi stayed in the silence.
Realizing that maybe, just maybe…
The only thing more painful than fighting Caitlyn…
Was watching her walk away without looking back.
Notes:
Thank you for reading 💙 I’d love to hear your honest thoughts — what did you feel during this chapter? Any suggestions, predictions, or things you'd like to see in the next part? Let me know in the comments, your feedback means a lot and helps shape where the story goes next 🖋️
Chapter Text
Monza — Sunday, 2:40 PM
The paddock smelled of sweat, rubber, and nerves. The kind of tension that hums in your bones before a storm hits.
Vi sat in the quiet corner of the Red Bull garage, elbows on her knees, helmet dangling loosely from her fingers. The roar of engines warming up should’ve felt like home. But not today. Not with the weight in her chest that refused to move.
She hadn’t slept. Not really.
Her mind kept replaying the image — the screen in the hospitality suite, the broadcast frozen on a familiar face.
Her sister. Powder.
No — Jinx.
The name tasted like blood.
A terrorist attack on the Piltover council. Explosions, panic. Arrests. No casualties — by some miracle — but the footage was enough.
And there, blurry and wild-eyed in the chaos, was her sister.
After all these years.
After thinking she was gone forever.
Jinx was alive. And destroying everything.
“Hey.”
Ekko’s voice pulled her back from the edge. He crouched in front of her, hands resting on his knees, eyes sharp and knowing.
“You’ve got that look,” he said.
Vi frowned faintly. “What look?”
“The one right before you do something stupid.”
She gave a humorless snort. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
He sighed, leaning closer. “Vi. Listen to me. Whatever’s happening with Powder… it’s not here. Not now. You can’t fix it from behind the wheel.”
Her fingers twitched around her helmet. “You saw the footage.”
“I did.”
“She’s alive, Ekko. She’s alive. After all this time—”
“And you’ll find her,” he interrupted, tone steady. “I know you will. But you can’t do it if you burn out here first.”
Vi looked down at her gloves, the small tear in the stitching near her thumb. “She’s all I’ve got left.”
Ekko shook his head. “No. She’s not. You’ve got this team. You’ve got a future. You’ve got a chance to be more than just the girl from Zaun who punches first.”
Vi didn’t reply.
Ekko stood, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Focus on the race. Then, when it’s over, go find her. That’s how you save her. You hear me?”
It took her a moment. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“I’ll find her,” she said quietly. “I’ll save her.”
“Damn right you will.” He smiled faintly. “Now go win this thing.”
3:00 PM — Formation Lap
Engines roared like a thunderstorm rolling over the track. The crowd was a single, deafening heartbeat.
Caitlyn sat in her Mercedes, visor down, breathing even and measured. The world outside her cockpit narrowed into lines and data — tire temps, delta gaps, fuel modes.
Rhea’s voice crackled through the radio.
> “Everything green. You’re P1 on grid. Let’s make it count, Cait.”
“Copy,” she replied, tone perfectly flat. Calm. Controlled.
Inside, her thoughts were anything but.
She’d seen the same news Vi had. Her mother, Cassandra, had been in that council chamber.
When the reports broke, Caitlyn’s chest had gone hollow. But Cassandra was fine — shaken, furious, but alive.
Still, something in Caitlyn couldn’t shake the image of Vi’s face when she’d found her outside the garage last night — pale, trembling, voice cracking when she spoke of Zaun and Piltover like they were doomed to destroy each other.
She hadn’t told Vi she’d stayed up until sunrise thinking about it.
About her.
Not that it mattered now.
The lights went red.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Lights out.
---
Lap 1 – Turn 1
Caitlyn’s launch was flawless — clean traction, perfect reaction. She led into Turn 1, silver arrow slicing through the chaos.
Vi, starting in P2, fought through the pack behind, brushing wheels with a Ferrari and forcing an early overtake at Turn 4.
“Good move,” her engineer called.
But Vi didn’t answer.
Her mind was fire. Anger. Guilt. Fear.
It poured through her veins, turned her focus razor-sharp.
She wanted to win — needed to win.
Not for points.
Not for glory.
For control.
Because right now, everything else in her life was slipping through her fingers.
Lap 8 — The Chase
They were separated by eight-tenths.
Two drivers, two worlds.
Fire and ice.
Caitlyn’s car danced through corners, her lines clean, precise.
Vi’s Red Bull stormed behind her — all aggression and heart.
From the pit wall, Rhea watched Caitlyn’s telemetry with a frown. Her data was perfect — too perfect. No variation. No adaptation. It wasn’t natural. It was mechanical. Like Caitlyn was forcing herself to forget something.
Vi’s engineer muttered, “She’s defending like her life depends on it.”
Vi smirked bitterly. “Maybe it does.”
She closed the gap into Turn 6. DRS wide open.
Caitlyn defended. Vi dove anyway.
They brushed tires — a flash of sparks between them. The crowd screamed.
And Caitlyn’s voice came calm over radio:
> “She’s getting reckless.”
> “Keep your head, Cait. Don’t let her pull you off line.”
> “I won’t.”
But she already had.
Because this wasn’t about racing anymore.
Lap 20 – Pit Window
Caitlyn dove in first. 2.3 seconds. Flawless stop.
Vi followed the next lap — 2.6.
They rejoined the track side by side.
Vi took the outside through Turn 1, braking late, barely keeping control. Caitlyn held the inside, wheels nearly colliding.
> “Keep it clean!” Vi’s engineer shouted.
“I am clean!” Vi snapped. “She’s squeezing me!”
But Caitlyn didn’t move an inch.
Turn 2.
Vi pushed harder, nearly clipping her rear wing.
Caitlyn didn’t flinch.
For half a heartbeat, their helmets aligned — two sets of eyes behind tinted visors, one cold, one burning.
Then Caitlyn was gone again — faster out of the corner, engine screaming like thunder.
---
Lap 40 – The Wall
Vi was losing ground. Her tires were shot, her brakes fading. But she refused to yield.
She could see the Mercedes ahead — perfect, untouchable.
“Come on,” she muttered, voice shaking. “Come on, Cait. Don’t shut me out now.”
And somehow, as if hearing her, Caitlyn made her first mistake.
Turn 7. A fraction too deep on entry. Her rear twitched.
Vi pounced.
Slipstream, DRS, inside line.
They were wheel-to-wheel again — neck and neck — inches apart at 320 kilometers an hour.
Final Lap
> “One lap. Bring it home.”
Caitlyn: “Copy.”
Vi’s engineer: “You’re right there, Vi. Push now.”
And she did.
Every instinct, every ounce of her — poured into that last lap.
Through Ascari, she nearly lost it — back stepped out, caught it, barely. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Caitlyn didn’t falter. Not once.
They roared down Parabolica side by side — the checkered flag waiting, a blur of black and white.
And when they crossed the line — Caitlyn by a tenth — the world erupted.
Caitlyn Kiramman: P1.
Vi: P2.
---
Post-Race
Caitlyn’s radio filled with cheers, but she didn’t celebrate.
She just said quietly, “Good race,” and shut it off.
Vi hit her steering wheel once, hard enough to sting.
She wasn’t angry at losing.
She was angry at herself — for caring so much who’d won.
---
The Podium – Monza, Sunset
The light was golden, soft against the haze of champagne spray and heat.
Caitlyn stood on the top step — poised, flawless, unreadable.
Her smile was polite, practiced. Her eyes, distant.
Vi, one step lower, couldn’t stop staring.
That calmness. That composure.
It was beautiful — and unbearable.
The ceremony ended. The trophies were handed out.
Then came the bottles.
Vi popped hers first — too eager, too fast — the cork shot high into the air.
The crowd screamed.
Caitlyn turned her head just as Vi swung the bottle.
The champagne hit her full in the face.
Cold. Sudden. Violent.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, cameras flashing like lightning.
Caitlyn froze. Her jaw tightened. Droplets shimmered on her lashes.
For a second, Vi’s grin faltered — maybe she’d gone too far.
Then Caitlyn blinked, tilted her head slightly… and smiled.
It wasn’t wide.
It wasn’t forgiving.
But it was real — soft around the edges, sharp in the middle.
And before Vi could say a word, Caitlyn lifted her own bottle —
and returned fire.
Champagne arced in a silver spray, catching the sun, splashing Vi’s hair, her shoulders, her face.
The crowd lost it.
Commentators shouted. Reporters screamed.
Two rivals, drenched in light and laughter, locked eyes in something halfway between rivalry and something else entirely.
For one heartbeat — maybe two — the tension broke.
Caitlyn laughed. Vi laughed back.
And then the moment was gone.
Social Media, Minutes Later
@F1WorldNow:
> “CAITLYN HIT BACK! Champagne war on the podium — the crowd’s gone insane 😭🔥 #ViCaitlyn #PodiumDrama”
@MotorsportLive:
> “Fire and ice. Caitlyn wins, Vi fights. The chemistry? Off the charts.”
@RedBullOfficial:
> “When your driver doesn’t lose, she learns. Great fight today, Vi 💪 P2 secured!”
Backstage
Caitlyn changed quickly, her smile already fading as the cameras left.
Her phone buzzed — a dozen missed calls from Cassandra. She exhaled, exhaustion crawling up her spine. The momentary warmth from the podium was already dissolving into static.
Vi lingered outside, towel around her neck, hair still damp with champagne. She could see Caitlyn across the corridor, surrounded by Mercedes staff, composed, distant.
They didn’t speak. Not yet.
But when Caitlyn turned — just once — their eyes met.
And Vi felt it again.
The thing between them.
The thing she kept breaking every time she opened her mouth.
She’d hit her with champagne.
But it wasn’t anger. It was… something desperate. A plea.
And Caitlyn — for that single fleeting second — had smiled.
The lights were blinding. Cameras flickered like nervous heartbeats. The faint scent of rubber and champagne still clung to the air.
Three drivers sat behind the long white table, microphones poised.
Caitlyn Kiramman — Mercedes, P1.
Vi — Red Bull, P2.
Ekko — Ferrari, P3.
Behind them, the backdrop shimmered with sponsor logos.
In front, a wall of journalists waited like wolves scenting blood.
Caitlyn adjusted her mic. Her posture perfect, her face calm. No hint of the fire that had blazed between her and Vi an hour ago. Only quiet poise — the kind that couldn’t be broken even by victory.
Vi sat beside her, shoulders squared but hands restless on the table. Her boot tapped softly under the white cloth, barely audible under the clicking of camera shutters.
The moderator cleared his throat.
“Congratulations to our top three finishers. Caitlyn, another win for Mercedes — a dominant drive. How was it from your perspective?”
Caitlyn leaned slightly toward the microphone, her tone composed and precise.
“The race went as expected. Strategy was clean. Tyre management was key, and we executed it well. The car felt balanced, and the team did an excellent job today.”
Not a word wasted. Not a crack in the armor.
The moderator turned next.
“Vi — another intense duel between you and Caitlyn. You seem to bring out the best in each other. What does this rivalry mean to you now?”
Vi chuckled, a small sound that wasn’t really laughter.
Her eyes flicked to Caitlyn for a fraction of a second before she looked back at the press.
“I used to think rivalry was just about beating the person in front of you,” she began. “About proving who’s faster. Stronger. Louder.”
Her hand tightened around the bottle of water.
“But racing Caitlyn... it’s different. She makes me better. Forces me to think, to be precise. I used to drive angry. Now, I drive aware.”
The room went quiet.
Even Caitlyn’s eyes shifted, ever so slightly, to her.
Vi went on, voice low but steady.
“After Suzuka, I said things I shouldn’t have. I was angry — at the situation, at the penalty, at myself. I took it out on her when she didn’t deserve it.”
A pause. “And I regret that. Because what we have — what she brings out in me — it’s bigger than rivalry.”
Her words hung in the air.
Every camera pointed toward Caitlyn now, waiting. Watching.
The moderator cleared his throat again.
“Caitlyn, any response?”
Caitlyn blinked once, slowly, before leaning into the mic.
“Rivalry is essential,” she said. “It’s what keeps this sport alive. Vi drove exceptionally today. I respect her skill, as I always have.”
Her voice was smooth. Perfect.
But her eyes — just for a second — softened.
And Vi saw it.
Forty Minutes Later — Mercedes Motorhome
The paddock buzzed outside — reporters chasing quotes, engines being packed, the scent of champagne still drifting through the humid air.
Caitlyn sat in the team room, her hair tied back, the cool cotton of her Mercedes polo replacing the fireproof layers of her suit. Her phone lay face-down beside a half-empty bottle of water.
She had watched Vi’s part of the interview replayed on the monitors. The regret in her voice. The honesty.
It had hit harder than she expected.
Rhea appeared in the doorway, tablet under one arm.
“You good, Cait?”
Caitlyn looked up briefly. “Yes.”
Rhea frowned, unconvinced. “You drove like a machine out there. But I’ve seen you smile after worse weekends. What’s eating you?”
Caitlyn’s lips twitched — a shadow of a smile.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
Rhea hesitated, then shrugged. “Alright. But don’t think too long. You earned a damn good win today.”
When the door shut again, Caitlyn exhaled slowly. Her gaze flicked toward the Red Bull hospitality tent across the paddock. She hesitated.
Then she stood.
Red Bull Hospitality
The light outside was fading. The air smelled of cooling tarmac and celebration. Inside, it was quiet — most of the crew were gone, and the only sound came from a distant TV looping race highlights.
Caitlyn stopped at the door.
Then knocked softly.
From inside came a muffled, tired voice.
“Come in.”
She stepped through.
Vi sat on the couch, still half in her suit, helmet bag beside her, head bowed. Her shoulders were tense, her hair damp from the post-race shower. The faintest tremor ran through her hands.
She didn’t look up right away.
“Ekko, I said I’m fine, okay? Just... give me a minute.”
“Vi.”
The voice was gentle — nothing like Ekko’s. Softer. Measured.
Vi’s head snapped up. Her eyes widened.
“Caitlyn?”
Before Vi could gather herself, Caitlyn crossed the room and knelt down in front of her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, gaze searching Vi’s face. “You’re shaking.”
Vi blinked, startled. “It’s— it’s nothing. I’m fine.”
Caitlyn frowned, reaching out before she could think twice. Her hand brushed Vi’s cheek — a featherlight touch, careful, hesitant.
“Don’t,” Caitlyn whispered. “Don’t tell me that. You’ve looked pale since yesterday. You’re shaking, Vi. Something’s wrong.”
Vi swallowed hard, staring at the floor.
“I can’t talk about it right now.”
“Then let me listen.”
The words hit her — simple, sincere. The kind that left no room for walls.
After a long silence, Vi finally exhaled.
“Remember when I told you about my sister?”
Caitlyn nodded, her thumb still tracing faint circles against Vi’s jaw.
“She’s alive,” Vi said, voice trembling. “After all this time... she’s alive.”
Caitlyn blinked. “That’s... good news, isn’t it?”
Vi shook her head, biting back the tremor in her throat.
“No. She’s changed, Cait. She was part of that council attack. She’s dangerous. I have to find her before she hurts herself. Before she hurts anyone.”
The air between them thickened with silence.
Caitlyn’s mind flashed — the council chamber, her mother, the chaos on the news. But she didn’t let it show.
She simply tightened her grip on Vi’s hand.
“Then we’ll find her,” she said softly.
Vi looked up, startled. “We?”
Caitlyn nodded, her gaze steady. “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
Vi’s breath hitched. “You’d really come to Zaun? To the Undercity?”
“Yes.”
“You’d hate it,” Vi whispered. “The noise, the people, the air. It’s not your world.”
“Maybe not.” Caitlyn’s expression softened. “But I’d rather breathe your air than watch you drown in it.”
The words hit Vi like a heartbeat too loud.
Her throat tightened.
“How can you still be this good?” she asked quietly. “After everything I said to you. After how I treated you.”
Caitlyn smiled faintly — the kind that hurt just a little at the edges.
“Because someone has to be.”
Vi looked at her for a long time. The shimmer of tears returned — quieter this time, not from pain but disbelief.
Caitlyn’s hand was still on her cheek, thumb brushing away a stray drop that escaped. Their eyes locked — the air thick with everything neither of them could say.
And then, softly — almost like she didn’t want to ruin the stillness — Vi spoke again.
“Are you… still upset with me?”
Caitlyn paused.
For a moment, her hand stilled. The faintest flicker of emotion crossed her face — hurt, distant but honest.
Then she exhaled slowly. “Yes,” she said quietly. “A little.”
Vi’s chest tightened. “I deserve that.”
Caitlyn’s lips curved — not a smile, not quite. “You do.”
“But,” she added after a beat, her voice softening, “I’m not angry anymore.”
“Then what are you?” Vi asked.
Caitlyn’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful. “Tired,” she said. “Relieved. Still… figuring things out.”
Vi nodded slowly, eyes down. “I get that.”
Caitlyn brushed her thumb once more along her cheekbone, then withdrew her hand, standing gracefully.
“Try to rest, Vi,” she said, her tone quiet again — composed, but kind. “You’ve had a long day.”
As she turned to leave, Vi’s voice stopped her.
“Caitlyn.”
She looked back.
Vi gave a faint, tired smile. “Thank you.”
Caitlyn’s reply was soft — barely a whisper.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
She hesitated, just for a moment — one breath too long — before leaving.
The door closed gently behind her.
And Vi sat there, staring at the space she’d occupied, her hand still tingling where Caitlyn had touched her.
Somewhere in the noise of Monza fading into night, something between them shifted — not gone, not healed, but different.
Something fragile.
Something that might still be saved.
The paddock was emptying.
The floodlights that had bathed the circuit all day were dimming one by one, casting the garages into long shadows. A few mechanics lingered by the Red Bull trucks, rolling tires into crates, while the low hum of generators filled the quiet between voices.
Caitlyn walked the narrow path back toward the Mercedes motorhome, her steps slow, measured — too careful for someone who had just won a race. Her reflection slid along the glass walls of the hospitality buildings — a blur of silver and white, expression unreadable.
She’d spent most of her adult life training herself to compartmentalize. To process emotion like telemetry — cool, structured, separate.
But tonight, her mind refused to cooperate.
Vi’s voice still echoed, raw and unguarded.
She’s alive.
She’s changed.
I have to find her.
And worse: the look in Vi’s eyes when she said it — fear, guilt, love, loss — all at once. The kind of emotion Caitlyn had always known how to study but never how to comfort.
She stopped walking and exhaled, pressing her palm lightly against the cool glass wall of a closed hospitality suite.
Vi’s sister had attacked the council.
Her mother — Cassandra Kiramman — sat on that council.
The thought hit like a punch to the ribs.
If that connection ever came out…
If the media found out that Vi, the face of Red Bull, the woman from Zaun, had a sister leading the charge against Piltover’s highest officials — the fallout would be catastrophic.
Not just for Vi.
For the sport.
For everything Caitlyn had quietly admired about her — the drive, the fire, the grit that defied expectation. It would all be reduced to a single headline.
“Red Bull’s Vi linked to Zaun terrorist attack.”
Caitlyn’s throat tightened.
She wasn’t naïve — she’d seen how Piltover’s media worked. They’d tear Vi apart before she even had a chance to speak.
And Caitlyn… she couldn’t let that happen.
She leaned against the wall, eyes drifting over the circuit beyond the paddock gates — now just an empty stretch of asphalt under the moonlight. Her jaw clenched as her mind began to shift from fear to strategy.
She hated this part of herself — the part that calculated, that planned — but it was second nature.
She’d been raised to understand how Piltover functioned. Power was about connections. About knowing who to call, what to say, and when to say nothing at all.
And right now, she knew she might have to use every connection she had.
She could still hear Vi’s voice, broken and small — She’s all I have left.
Caitlyn had wanted to reach for her then, not just to comfort, but to protect.
It terrified her, how natural that instinct felt.
She tilted her head back, letting out a slow breath. “Gods, Vi… what have you pulled me into?”
---
Hotel Room – Later That Night
The air conditioning hummed softly, carrying the faint scent of linen and ozone. Caitlyn sat by the window, city lights flickering faintly through the glass. Her hair was still damp from the shower, her posture immaculate even in solitude — knees crossed, robe perfectly folded around her.
The world outside the circuit was quiet. But her mind wasn’t.
She replayed Vi’s words over and over, dissecting every tone, every hesitation. Vi hadn’t said it directly, but Caitlyn could tell — she blamed herself for what her sister had become.
And Caitlyn couldn’t ignore the irony of it.
Two daughters.
Both shaped by the cities that raised them.
One sworn to protect Piltover.
One born from the streets that Piltover crushed.
And somehow, here they were — orbiting each other, colliding, breaking apart again.
Her phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a name: Maddie.
Caitlyn hesitated for a second before answering. Her voice came out calm, practiced — the same tone she used with engineers and sponsors alike.
> “Maddie. Congratulations on P4.”
Maddie’s bright voice filled the quiet. “You saw it! I nearly got podium — if not for that last corner, I swear!”
Caitlyn smiled faintly. “You drove beautifully. You deserved that finish.”
“I’m getting there,” Maddie said proudly. “Little by little.”
“You are.” Caitlyn leaned back against the chair. “I’m proud of you.”
There was a small pause — one that stretched just slightly too long to be casual.
“Thanks,” Maddie said softly. Then, after a breath: “Hey, um… about our deal?”
Caitlyn frowned slightly. “Deal?”
“The dinner,” Maddie said, laughing lightly. “Remember? I said if I finished in P5 or better, you’d have dinner with me.”
Right. That.
Caitlyn glanced toward the window — at the reflection of herself staring back, composed and distant.
For a second, she thought of saying no.
She wasn’t in the mood for company, for laughter, for the effortless warmth Maddie carried with her. But she also knew she couldn’t sit in this room all night replaying Vi’s trembling voice.
She needed a distraction.
She closed her eyes briefly, then spoke.
“Yes, I remember. Tonight?”
“Yeah!” Maddie’s tone brightened instantly. “If you’re not too tired.”
Caitlyn hesitated. Just long enough for Maddie to catch it.
“You don’t have to,” Maddie said quickly, her cheer faltering. “I know it’s been a long weekend.”
“No,” Caitlyn interrupted softly. “Dinner sounds… nice.”
A smile bloomed in Maddie’s voice. “Perfect. There’s this quiet little restaurant just outside the circuit — nothing fancy. I’ll text you the address?”
“Alright.”
“See you in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Promise?”
Caitlyn allowed herself a small laugh. “Yes, Maddie. I promise.”
When she hung up, the silence returned — heavier somehow.
She set the phone down and looked out at the skyline again. The city lights shimmered over the lake like fractured constellations. Everything beautiful always looked fragile from a distance.
Her reflection stared back — the faint circles under her eyes, the controlled line of her lips. The woman everyone saw: polished, perfect, unshakable.
But inside, her thoughts churned.
If the news breaks… Vi’s finished.
If Cassandra finds out… she’ll demand Vi’s suspension.
If Piltover learns that Caitlyn knew, and said nothing…
She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.
She was trapped between two worlds again — just like always.
The councilor's daughter, raised to defend the order that had broken so many others. And now, the driver caught in the crossfire between two cities — one of which she was supposed to represent.
But Caitlyn had made up her mind already.
She believed Vi.
She always had — even when she didn’t want to.
And if helping her meant using her family’s influence, or bending rules, or standing quietly against the council she’d grown up respecting — then so be it.
She’d do it.
Because somewhere between rivalry and friendship, between arguments and podiums and the chaos of two worlds colliding, Caitlyn Kiramman had found something worth protecting.
She wasn’t sure what to call it.
But she knew what it felt like.
The city lights glittered like scattered jewels across the skyline, but inside the bistro, the mood was warmer — copper tones on the walls, the gentle clink of cutlery, laughter humming in the background.
Maddie leaned back in her chair, swirling the stem of her wine glass with one hand, eyes watching Caitlyn from across the table with obvious amusement.
"You know," she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips, "for someone so terrifyingly efficient on the track, you’re very hard to fluster.”
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, the candlelight catching in her slate-blue eyes. She was dressed simply — dark trousers, a fitted grey blouse with the sleeves buttoned to her wrists. Hair swept back, not a single strand out of place.
“Flustered,” Caitlyn repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “Is that your current mission?”
Maddie grinned. “Wouldn’t call it a mission. More like... a fun side quest.”
Caitlyn set down her fork with that slow precision she was famous for — the kind that suggested control in every motion. Her lips curved, not quite a smile, more like the idea of one. “Then let me save you time — it’s a doomed quest.”
“Ooh, now that sounds like a challenge,” Maddie teased, leaning forward slightly, chin resting on her palm.
Caitlyn didn’t rise to it. Instead, she cut a neat piece of her meal and took a bite, gaze calm, unfazed. “You do make dinner... entertaining.”
Maddie laughed, then groaned. “Please. You know what? I’ll earn my redemption with a story so embarrassing it’ll haunt me forever.”
Caitlyn leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms lightly. “This, I want to hear.”
---
Maddie launched into a tale about a misadventure at the Monaco GP — a drunk bet, a karaoke machine, and a very poor rendition of a Whitney Houston song that somehow ended up in a team group chat. She acted it out, voices and all, hands gesturing wildly.
Caitlyn listened, one brow arched in amusement. When Maddie finished, red-faced and laughing at herself, Caitlyn rested her chin lightly on her knuckles.
“Monaco,” she said thoughtfully. “I missed that weekend. Apparently, fate was kind to me.”
“Rude,” Maddie said, but her smile didn’t fade. “You’re meaner than people think.”
“I prefer the term ‘honest.’”
“Well,” Maddie said, swishing the last of her wine, “if I make it to P3 in the next race, you owe me another dinner.”
Caitlyn tilted her head, thoughtful. “That sounds suspiciously like bribery.”
Maddie pointed at her with her fork. “Call it... incentive. Motivation.”
Caitlyn studied her for a second. “You think dinner with me is motivating?”
“I think,” Maddie said slowly, “that dinner with you is worth chasing. Even if you keep looking at me like I’m part of your data telemetry.”
Caitlyn didn’t laugh. But the corner of her mouth lifted just enough to be dangerous.
“Fine,” she said. “You get your podium — you get your dinner.”
Maddie exhaled, mock-relieved. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
---
The walk back to the hotel was slow.
The air was crisp, and the streets alive with nighttime chatter. They didn’t talk much — the kind of quiet that didn’t demand filling.
Until they turned a corner.
A small crowd had gathered — a few young fans with phones clutched in shaky hands, eyes wide the moment they recognized them.
“Oh my god, it’s them!”
The shout made both drivers pause.
Caitlyn smiled first — that calm, composed kind of smile that made her instantly recognizable. She stepped forward, polite but never cold.
“Would you like a photo?” she asked one girl, who looked like she might cry.
Maddie stood a few paces back, watching.
She watched the way Caitlyn knelt to speak to a child in a wheelchair, crouched low and genuine. The way she signed autographs with care, asked names, shook hands. The way she posed but didn’t perform.
The way she treated people — soft, but never fake.
And somewhere between that and the laughter of the group, Maddie felt something shift in her chest.
It hit her like the realization that came too late.
She was falling. Stupidly, hopelessly — falling for a girl who didn’t even need to try to pull people in.
When Caitlyn turned to her again, waving her over for a group selfie, Maddie smiled so wide it hurt.
---
Social Media
> @paddockpulse: “THESE PICS. Maddie and Caitlyn out in the wild??? Signing autographs together?? STOP IT”
> @f1tiktok: [Video of Caitlyn gently fixing a fan’s phone grip for a selfie, Maddie in the background laughing]
> “Caitlyn is so soft with fans I’m actually going to cry. And Maddie is the luckiest rookie."
> @f1shippingchaos: “Future Mercedes teammates"
The private jet hummed softly, slicing through the clouds with effortless grace. The sky outside was streaked gold and rose, the kind of light that made everything feel too still, too fragile.
Vi sat slouched across from Caitlyn, one leg draped over the other, fidgeting with the strap of her glove. She looked utterly out of place — and she knew it. The polished cabin, the quiet hum, the faint scent of bergamot tea that lingered near Caitlyn’s seat — it all screamed Piltover.
And Caitlyn… she fit right in.
The Mercedes star embroidered subtly on her navy blouse, the neatness of her posture, the calm stillness in her expression. She didn’t even have to try to look composed — it was simply how she existed.
Vi hated that it got to her.
She broke the silence first. “You really don’t do normal, huh?”
Caitlyn looked up from the document she was half-reading on her tablet. “Pardon?”
“This,” Vi gestured around them. “Private jet, perfect lighting, tea that probably costs more than my entire gear set. You don’t even wrinkle.”
Caitlyn’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. “I don’t wrinkle?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I think you mean I prepare,” Caitlyn said smoothly. “It’s different.”
Vi smirked. “Right. You ‘prepare.’ Guess that’s what the dinner with Maddie was, too?”
That earned Caitlyn’s attention.
Her eyes lifted — calm, assessing. “I didn’t realize my social calendar was of interest to you.”
Vi shrugged, leaning back. “It’s all over social media. You two looked... close.”
Caitlyn didn’t react right away. She simply set the tablet down and reached for her cup, her movements slow, deliberate. “We had dinner. That’s all.”
“Looked fun,” Vi muttered, feigning nonchalance. “Didn’t think you’d have time between interviews and saving the world.”
Caitlyn took a sip of her tea before replying, “You seem… unusually invested.”
“I’m not,” Vi shot back too quickly.
Caitlyn’s eyes softened, but her tone carried that quiet frustration that only came from knowing someone too well. “Vi.”
“What?”
“Must we keep doing this?”
Vi frowned. “Doing what?”
“This,” Caitlyn said, gesturing vaguely between them. “You throw little jabs like you’re testing how far you can push before I stop caring.”
Vi froze, caught off guard by the directness.
Caitlyn sighed quietly, setting her cup down. “You don’t have to keep reminding me where you come from. Or where I do. I’m quite aware.”
Vi looked away, jaw tightening. “You don’t get it.”
“I do,” Caitlyn said, her voice still soft but firmer now. “I get that you think we’re built from different worlds. Oil and water, isn’t that the line?”
Vi’s eyes flicked back to her, surprised she remembered. “Something like that.”
“And yet,” Caitlyn said, folding her hands neatly, “here we are — in the same world, same jet, working toward the same thing.”
Vi scoffed, but there wasn’t much strength behind it. “Yeah. For now.”
Caitlyn inhaled slowly, the quiet frustration flashing just for a moment across her composed features. “You make it sound like inevitability is a curse.”
Vi blinked, unsure how to respond.
Caitlyn leaned back slightly, her eyes distant for a moment. “You keep saying we’re too different, Vi. That Zaun and Piltover can’t mix. But you’re wrong.”
Vi frowned. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Caitlyn said simply. “Because it’s not about where we come from. It’s about what we do with it.”
Vi studied her — that calm, grounded certainty. It made her want to punch something and hold onto it at the same time.
“You always talk like that,” Vi said, her voice quieter now. “Like everything’s just logic and choice. Like feelings don’t make people ruin things.”
Caitlyn’s expression softened, but her eyes stayed on her. “You think I don’t feel?”
“I think you hide it better than anyone I know.”
Caitlyn’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak right away. When she did, her tone was low. “Sometimes that’s the only way to survive where I come from.”
That silenced Vi. For once, she didn’t have a comeback.
Caitlyn didn’t press her advantage. She simply sipped her tea, watching Vi with that composed, unreadable calm she wore like armor. The cabin felt smaller now. More honest.
Then Caitlyn asked, her voice smooth but curious, “What’s it really like? The Undercity.”
Vi raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “Why?”
“If we’re going there,” Caitlyn said evenly, “I’d rather not be the idiot walking in blind.”
Vi huffed a short laugh and shook her head. “You? In that outfit? They’ll eat you alive.”
Caitlyn blinked once. “Eat me?”
“Not literally,” Vi said, grinning. “But they’ll spot you as a Topside royal from a mile away. And trust me — that kind of look doesn’t earn you discounts.”
Caitlyn glanced down at herself — the pressed blouse, the silk-lined jacket, the neat slacks that probably hadn’t known a stain since the day they were made. “What would you suggest, then?”
Vi stretched her arms behind her head. “Something... scuffed. Lived-in. Clothes that look like they’ve seen a fight or two.”
“I don’t suppose you carry a spare set of those on you?”
“No, but I know a guy. He won’t ask questions if you don’t look him in the eye.”
Caitlyn nodded slowly, absorbing the details like facts on a case file. “You said it’s loud.”
Vi nodded, gaze distant. “Yeah. Loud. Messy. Chaotic. Smells like oil and fire and something always rotting. But it’s alive, Caitlyn. It’s real.”
She glanced at Caitlyn and caught her staring — not with judgment or pity, but with the kind of interest that unsettled Vi. Not just curiosity. Not fascination.
It was care.
And Vi wasn’t used to it.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Vi muttered.
Caitlyn didn’t look away. “Because I’m listening.”
Vi shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her stare.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before,” Vi added, her voice quieter. “What Zaun’s really like. What it means to grow up there.”
“They should have,” Caitlyn said gently.
Vi didn’t know what to say to that.
Then Caitlyn leaned forward slightly, hands laced on her knees. “We’ll find her, Vi.”
Vi blinked. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Caitlyn said. “Because we won’t stop until we do.”
Vi looked at her, a cocktail of emotion swirling beneath her stern exterior. She wanted to believe her. She did believe her. And that made everything harder.
Especially after Suzuka.
She turned her eyes back to the window, jaw clenched.
Caitlyn noticed. “What is it?”
Vi hesitated. Then: “I meant what I said in that press room. About you. About... regretting what I said.”
Caitlyn was quiet.
Vi rubbed her face with both hands. “I was angry. I was scared. That penalty — it felt like everything was slipping again. And I didn’t know where to put it, so I put it on you.”
Caitlyn exhaled slowly. “You made me the villain in your spiral.”
Vi nodded, ashamed.
But Caitlyn didn’t say anything cruel. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t even correct her posture. She just sat there, calm and composed — but not cold.
“I was hurt,” Caitlyn said. “You knew exactly how to cut me, and you didn’t hesitate.”
“I know.”
“But that’s not all I heard.”
Vi looked up.
“I also heard someone trying to protect something she’s not ready to admit she cares about.”
Vi’s heart beat faster.
“And I can’t say I didn’t see it coming,” Caitlyn added, her voice softer now. “You flinch every time I get too close.”
Vi swallowed, throat dry. “I don’t want to ruin this.”
“You’re not.”
“I have before.”
Caitlyn tilted her head. “Then don’t run this time.”
Vi laughed bitterly. “Easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up thinking trust is just bait in a trap.”
Caitlyn leaned forward. “No, I don’t. But I know what it’s like to walk into a room and wonder if everyone’s just waiting for you to fail because of your name.”
Vi looked at her — really looked. The perfect lines of her uniform, the way she held herself like she was holding up more than just her own weight.
And maybe she was.
Caitlyn broke the silence this time. “This isn’t about Maddie. Or the press. Or even your sister.”
Vi frowned. “Then what is it about?”
“You and me.”
Vi froze.
Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “You and me in the middle of all this madness, trying to make sense of something that shouldn’t work — but somehow still does.”
The silence stretched between them like a held breath.
Then Vi muttered, “You’re really bad at staying mad.”
Caitlyn smiled faintly. “I’m very good at knowing what matters.”
Vi looked away again, but not out of avoidance this time — more like she was trying to hide the way her walls were crumbling.
They sat in silence for a while longer.
Then Caitlyn reached into the side compartment of her seat and pulled out a sleek, dark duffel bag.
“I brought something,” she said, placing it on the seat beside Vi.
Vi raised an eyebrow. “More bergamot tea?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
Vi opened the bag and froze.
Inside was a set of Zaun-style clothing — not just dirty scraps, but carefully curated pieces. Worn denim. A patched leather jacket. Scuffed boots that looked authentic, not store-bought.
She looked up, stunned.
“You thought of this?” Vi asked.
Caitlyn gave a small nod. “Told you. I prepare.”
Vi stared at the clothes, something aching behind her ribs. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
Vi ran her hand over the jacket. “But you did anyway.”
Caitlyn’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Because I know how much she means to you.”
Vi looked back at her — eyes a little shinier than before.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading this chapter. This one meant a lot to write — the tension, the vulnerability, and the shifting ground between Vi and Caitlyn has been brewing for a while. I’d love to hear your thoughts:
What did you think of the private jet scene and the emotional tone between Vi and Caitlyn?
What are your theories about what’s waiting in the Undercity?
What would you like to see in the next chapter?
Any favorite lines or moments? Let me know!
I’ll post the next chapter once I get 5 thoughtful comments — so don’t be shy, drop your feelings, predictions, or ideas below 👇
Chapter Text
The elevator drops like a stone.
Vi stands loose at the hinge of the rattling cage, one hand braced above Caitlyn’s shoulder as the Undercity yawns open below them—green-lit fog, scaffolds like ribs, pipes hissing with heat. Caitlyn wears the scuffed jacket and boots Vi packed. The disguise works too well; she looks wronged by the world and somehow taller for it.
“You’re staring,” Caitlyn says without looking at her.
“Just clockin’ how good grime looks on you,” Vi answers, grin slanted. “Don’t worry. You’re still breakin’ at least three hearts per minute.”
“That statistic seems… inflated.”
“Mm. Your face isn’t.”
The gate slams open. Zaun breathes them in.
They move fast. Vi cuts through back stairwells and steamwalks like she never left; Caitlyn keeps pace, eyes cataloging everything—pipe numbers, stenciled glyphs, painted arrows only locals understand.
A newsloop flickers on a wall: static, blue-haired blur, the word JINX glitching in neon. Vi’s jaw twitches. Caitlyn’s hand finds her sleeve. A quick squeeze. Not pity—anchor.
“Two stops,” Vi says. “We keep it quick.”
“Understood.”
Clue One — The Dredge
The Dredge is half bar, half scrap exchange, all trouble. The door guard—three metal fingers, busted nose—squints. Then the squint turns into a smirk.
“Well I’ll be. The prodigal knuckles returns.”
“Evenin’, Griz.” Vi bumps his shoulder on the way in. “We need a name.”
“Names cost.”
“Good thing I brought a wallet.” She jerks a thumb at Caitlyn. “Topside.”
Griz’s eyes flick over the jacket, the boots, the posture that screams not-from-here despite the dirt. “She ain’t Topside,” he decides. “She’s trouble.”
“Both can be true,” Caitlyn says coolly, and flips a coin through dexterous fingers. Griz catches it, bites it—pure. A little impressed, he nods them through.
Inside is smoke and low light, gears ticking, aer-stoves hissing at the bar. Vi’s old contact sits in a corner, back to a pipe, monocle lens glowing a sickly chartreuse. He smiles like oil.
“Hello, Vi.”
“Cut it, Wren. Heard a whisper. Blue hair, bombs, bad timing. You point, we walk.”
Wren turns the monocle dial. “You never bring me flowers.”
“Get sentimental, and I’ll put you through this table.”
Caitlyn sets a second coin on the metal. “Time is short.”
He hums, taps the coin, then leans in. “You’re hunting a ghost. She runs with new company. Silco’s people. You know the name.”
Vi’s knuckles crack once. “He’s dead.”
“Rumors tend to stay alive longer than men,” Wren purrs. “If Silco’s truly gone, someone’s wearing the myth. Chem-runners with shimmer-stamped crates moved through Stillwater docks three nights ago. The girl? She left a calling card.”
Wren slides over a battered tin toy: a painted monkey with one eye scratched out and a grin too wide. A violet smear of explosive dust clings to its jaw.
Caitlyn’s gaze flicks to Vi. The muscle in Vi’s cheek jumps, then sets. She pockets the toy.
“Address.”
“District six, rail underpass. Watch the vents.” Wren’s smile turns sly. “You’ll be watched back.”
Vi stands. Caitlyn too. Wren calls after them, almost kindly: “Violet. If you’re going to save her, bring a net, not a fist.”
“Never liked nets,” Vi says, and pushes through the crowd.
They take the rails overhead, dart down a ladder into heat and wet iron. At the underpass, scorch scars mar the concrete. The smell of sugar-burned chemicals sticks to the back of the throat. Caitlyn kneels, measured as a metronome.
“Charge was directional. Contained. Not meant to kill.” She brushes ash aside with a gloved hand. “Meant to… announce.”
Vi ghosts a finger over a chalk drawing on the column—crazy-bright blue lines spiraling into a laughing face, eyes like firework pupils. Jinx.
Footfalls echo. Not theirs.
Vi moves first, pulling Caitlyn behind a pillar. Three silhouettes in the fog: long coats, gas masks, bottle slung crystals clinking softly.
“Shiver boys,” Vi murmurs. “New chem. Numb first, then it hollows.”
“Numbers?” Caitlyn whispers.
“Three too many. But we can scare ’em.”
Caitlyn’s hand rests on the grip of a compact stunner under her jacket. “Or we can avoid confrontation.”
“That your way of sayin’ you’ll be mad if I go introduce myself?”
“It’s my way of asking you not to make me fight anyone tonight.”
Vi thinks about Jinx’s chalk, the toy in her pocket, the way Wren said the word save like it was a joke. She exhales, tension sizzling off her like steam.
“Fine. We ghost.”
They pace their breath, move with the fog, slip out as the masks pass within arm’s length. One of the men turns, senses pricking; Caitlyn’s hand finds Vi’s back and presses, precise—two inches left, out of sightline. They keep moving.
When the steps fade, they don’t talk. They run.
By the time they slow, Vi’s dragging air like it’s poison and medicine both. Caitlyn’s hair has escaped its tie, a curl pasted to her temple with sweat. Vi grins without meaning to.
“What,” Caitlyn asks, steadied again in a heartbeat.
“Your ‘I’m fine’ face in dirt? Priceless. Come on.” Vi hooks a thumb down an alley where a stall glows warm and greasy. “You earned dinner.”
“It’s past midnight.”
“Then it’s breakfast.”
The stall is four stools, one dented counter, a battered pot hissing with broth the color of secrets. The cook—a woman with silver coils for hair and permanent scowl—gives Vi a once-over that softens into something like relief.
“Look what the vent dragged in.” She slaps a bowl down. “You’re thinner.”
“Hello to you too, Auntie Rala.” Vi jerks her chin toward Caitlyn. “Play nice. She’s with me.”
Rala eyes Caitlyn’s posture, her hands, the jacket too clean at the seams. “You eat or you pose?”
Caitlyn, to her credit, doesn’t bristle. “I… will eat,” she says, like she’s accepting a dare.
Two bowls. Noodles thick as wire, greens that taste like ozone, a slice of meat that might be animal and might be myth. Vi picks up her chopsticks and goes to war.
Caitlyn lifts hers and freezes. “It’s glowing.”
“Just the oil.” Vi slurps. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
Vi leans in, close enough for the steam to fog both their cheeks. “You trust me?”
Caitlyn holds her gaze a fraction too long. “Unfortunately,” she says, deadpan.
“Open.”
Vi lifts a tangle of noodles with the chopsticks and aims. Caitlyn closes her mouth resolutely. Vi’s eyebrows rise. “Really? We’re doin’ the stubborn princess bit?”
“I’m not a—”
Vi gently taps the noodles against Caitlyn’s lips. Caitlyn’s composure fractures. She opens, accepts the bite. Chews.
The heat hits first. Then the sour. Then the deep, smoky sweet that tastes like the underside of a bridge after rain. Her eyes widen despite themselves.
“It’s—” she coughs once, neatly. “—spicy.”
“Now you’re alive,” Vi says, satisfied, and steals half of Caitlyn’s toppings while she’s distracted.
Caitlyn swats her wrist, scandalized. “That was mine.”
“Consider it tax.”
Caitlyn narrows her eyes, but the corner of her mouth is trying very hard not to smile. “You are insufferable.”
“And you love it.”
“I did not say that.”
“You thought it loud.”
Caitlyn very deliberately returns to her bowl.
They eat in a silence that is not heavy. Rala sets a chipped bottle down without asking. “Drink. For luck.”
Caitlyn sniffs it, grimaces. “Industrial solvent.”
“Zaun whiskey,” Vi says. “Different word for the same scream.”
Caitlyn considers, then sips. Her eyes water instantly. Vi laughs outright this time, a bright sound that rearranges the air.
“Alright.” Vi rises, dropping bills on the counter. “We got what we came for. Stillwater docks, vents, Silco’s ghost. We crash, wheels up at dawn.”
Caitlyn stands too, steadier than she should be after the whiskey. “You’re not going to look for her tonight.”
Vi’s answer is simple. “I’d run toward a bomb if she was there. But she’s not. And you’re with me.”
For a heartbeat, Caitlyn says nothing. Then: “Good. Let’s get you out of here.”
As they turn, Rala catches Vi’s sleeve. “Vi.”
Vi glances back.
“You ain’t got to save a storm,” Rala says, voice rough. “You just have to survive it.”
Vi nods once. “I know.”
Her hand brushes Caitlyn’s as they leave. Caitlyn’s fingers don’t flinch.
They vanish into the steam, the toy monkey knocking softly in Vi’s pocket with every step.
The Singapore heat had weight — the kind that clung to skin and turned every breath into silk and salt. The paddock shimmered under floodlights, cameras flashing, reporters orbiting like persistent satellites.
Caitlyn had been through hundreds of media days. But none where Vi sat only two chairs away — and Maddie sat between them.
The stage lights bleached everything. Three microphones. Three drivers. One long table of tension.
The moderator smiled brightly. “Caitlyn, congratulations on Monza. Another win, and you’ve widened your lead in the championship. How’s the mindset coming into Singapore?”
Caitlyn leaned forward, posture immaculate, voice smooth. “The team’s focused. We treat every circuit as a clean slate. Execution and control — that’s the key.”
Her tone was calm, but her mind wasn’t. Because Vi was there. Arms folded. Legs spread. Watching her like she was waiting for her to slip.
“Vi,” the moderator continued. “You pushed Caitlyn hard last race. Do you think you can turn the tables this weekend?”
Vi grinned, leaning lazily toward her mic. “That’s the plan. She’s good — annoyingly good — but she’s not untouchable.”
The crowd laughed. Caitlyn didn’t. Her eyes flicked toward Vi, who was still smirking.
Then Maddie’s laugh joined in — bright and careless — and she reached out, touching Caitlyn’s arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’d say Caitlyn’s pretty close to untouchable.”
Caitlyn’s polite smile didn’t falter. But something in her chest did.
Vi saw it — saw Maddie’s hand, the quiet way Caitlyn didn’t move away — and something ugly twisted in her stomach. She didn’t know why. She told herself it was irritation. Competition. That was all.
The interview dragged on, full of practiced charm and predictable questions. But Caitlyn could feel Vi’s gaze between answers — hot, restless, unreadable.
When it finally ended, Maddie walked off beside Caitlyn, laughing about something that didn’t matter. Vi followed a few steps behind, jaw tight, pretending not to look.
Caitlyn found Vi in the paddock tunnel, leaning against a pillar, scrolling through her phone like she was trying to burn a hole in the screen.
“Vi,” Caitlyn called softly.
Vi looked up. “Yeah?”
“Do you want to play padel?”
Vi blinked. “Padel?"
“Yes. There’s a court at the hotel.” Caitlyn’s lips curved. “Join me.”
Vi snorted. “You wanna beat me twice in one week?”
Caitlyn’s smile sharpened just slightly. “You’re assuming I’ll let you score.”
That did it — the grin Vi couldn’t hide, the challenge lighting in her eyes. “You’re on, Cupcake.”
The sky had fallen into honey and fire, the city lights already glowing in the glass walls of the court. Heat shimmered from the surface, and Caitlyn’s shirt clung to her back, the collar of her blouse open — uncharacteristic, almost careless.
Vi rolled her shoulders. “Never figured you for someone who sweats.”
Caitlyn raised a brow. “That’s because you’ve never worked hard enough to make me.”
The game began.
Caitlyn was all elegance — perfect footwork, measured power, every shot precise. Vi was chaos — strength, instinct, a grin between gritted teeth.
Every point dragged longer than it should. Every near-collision left them breathing too close. Once, Vi lunged for a low shot, nearly colliding with Caitlyn — her hand brushed Caitlyn’s hip to steady herself. Caitlyn’s breath caught, a tremor so subtle even she barely felt it.
“You okay?” Vi asked, oblivious.
“Fine,” Caitlyn managed. “You just nearly killed a Mercedes asset.”
“Worth it,” Vi grinned.
By the third set, they were soaked, laughing between gasps. Caitlyn’s braid had loosened; a lock of hair clung to her temple. Vi’s tank clung to her like second skin. Every time Caitlyn looked away, her eyes came back to the line of Vi’s neck, the pulse beating hard there.
The last rally was brutal — both pushing too hard, neither willing to stop. Vi dove, caught the ball mid-fall, sent it spinning back just as Caitlyn lunged forward.
The ball hit the edge, bounced twice, and died.
Draw.
They both dropped their rackets, collapsing onto the court in a heap of breath and laughter.
The night hung heavy above them, lights dimmed to a soft golden haze. Caitlyn lay on her back, chest heaving, hair spread against the ground. Vi sprawled beside her, eyes half closed, one hand over her stomach.
“That was—” Vi exhaled, “—hell.”
Caitlyn turned her head slightly. “You enjoyed it.”
Vi cracked a smile. “Maybe.”
For a while, there was only their breathing. The city hummed far below, a pulse beneath their silence.
Then Caitlyn spoke, quieter. “You never stop moving, do you?”
Vi laughed softly. “You stop moving, you start thinking. I try not to.”
Caitlyn turned toward her, eyes tracing the sweat drying on Vi’s jawline, the faint scars beneath it, the wild hair curling at her temple. Something tugged deep inside her chest — something she didn’t want to name.
“You’re impossible,” Caitlyn murmured.
Vi smirked. “You love it.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because the word love had lodged somewhere in her throat, too dangerous to release.
Vi turned her head, catching Caitlyn’s gaze. “What? You’re staring again.”
Caitlyn’s lips parted. “Am I not allowed?”
Vi chuckled, missing the meaning entirely. “Sure. Just don’t fall for me, Princess. Wouldn’t end well.”
Caitlyn froze. The world seemed to tilt.
Vi meant it as a joke. Caitlyn knew that.
But something in her chest twisted anyway — a quiet ache she hid behind a faint smile.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said softly.
They both looked up at the stars again. Vi’s breathing slowed. Caitlyn’s eyes lingered on her profile — the small scar above her brow, the freckles dusted across her nose, the mouth that never quite stayed still.
She wanted — desperately, stupidly — to reach out. To trace the line of Vi’s jaw with her fingers. To see if she’d flinch.
But she didn’t.
She only turned slightly, their shoulders brushing — just enough to feel it.
Vi didn’t move away.
The air between them crackled, a heartbeat too long, too loud.
Then Vi yawned — loud, oblivious, wrecking the spell entirely. “Alright, that’s enough star therapy for one night.”
Caitlyn exhaled, the tension dispersing like steam. “Of course,” she said, voice steady again.
They stood. Vi stretched, carefree and beautiful in the way only someone unaware of it could be. Caitlyn stayed a moment longer, eyes tracing her silhouette against the lights.
When Vi turned back, Caitlyn’s expression was composed again — every feeling folded neatly behind professionalism.
“You coming?” Vi asked, tossing her towel over her shoulder.
Caitlyn nodded. “Always.”
And when they walked back through the quiet hotel corridor, their arms brushed once. Neither spoke about it.
But Caitlyn’s pulse didn’t slow the entire way back.
Friday — Free Practice, Marina Bay
The heat was merciless.
Even at night, the circuit shimmered — concrete radiating back the day’s sun, humidity thick enough to taste. Mechanics worked with ice towels around their necks. Every breath smelled like rubber, sweat, and burnt brake dust.
Inside the Mercedes garage, Caitlyn sat in her cockpit, visor down, focus absolute.
“Mode push,” Rhea’s voice came through her radio. “You’re clear on track. Let’s see what she’s got.”
“Copy,” Caitlyn replied, calm as ever. The heat didn’t touch her composure; it only sharpened it.
Out on the circuit, her silver arrow moved like something alive. Perfect apex at Turn 5, flawless traction at 7.
Purple. Purple. Purple.
Rhea’s voice came again, soft disbelief edging her tone. “Cait, that’s three tenths clear of everyone. Don’t overcook the tyres.”
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn said, eyes fixed ahead. “Let’s finish the lap.”
She crossed the line. P1.
Her breathing stayed steady. The team erupted around her — engineers clapping, data techs cheering — but Caitlyn didn’t smile. Not yet.
Because when she looked up at the screen, she saw Vi’s name — P6. Struggling.
And in that moment, something tight and unspoken twisted in her chest.
The session ended with drivers spilling out of their cars, heat still clinging to the air. Caitlyn removed her helmet slowly, her hair damp against her neck, skin shining under the garage lights. She handed the helmet off to a mechanic, eyes flicking toward the Red Bull garage across the paddock.
Vi was there — leaning against the sidepod of her car, head bowed, still half in her suit. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Even from a distance, Caitlyn could see the tremor in her hands.
Ekko said something, but Vi waved him off, trying to steady herself. Then she swayed slightly, catching herself against the car’s halo.
Before she even realized it, Caitlyn was moving.
“Caitlyn?” Rhea called after her. “Where are you—”
“I’ll be right back,” Caitlyn said quickly, tone calm but firm enough that no one followed.
She crossed the lane between garages in long, purposeful strides. The cameras were still rolling, journalists milling, but Caitlyn’s eyes stayed locked on Vi.
“Vi.”
The name came out low, barely above the noise. Vi looked up, eyes glassy, lips parted in a faint smirk. “Heh. Look who’s checking on the competition.”
“You’re overheating.” Caitlyn’s voice was sharp, but quiet. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Vi muttered — and immediately stumbled.
Caitlyn caught her before she hit the ground. Her hands were firm on Vi’s shoulders, steadying her. For a split second, they were too close — the smell of sweat and rubber, the pulse under Vi’s skin beating hot against Caitlyn’s palms.
“Breathe,” Caitlyn murmured, her voice softer now. “In through the nose. Slowly.”
Vi tried to laugh but it came out shaky. “You always bossy off track too?”
“Apparently.”
Ekko returned with a water bottle, but Caitlyn took it first. “Sip,” she ordered. “Not all at once.”
Vi obeyed, grimacing. “You’d make a scary nurse.”
“I’m not a nurse.” Caitlyn pressed her lips together, then added quietly, “But I do care about my patients.”
Vi looked up at her — surprised, maybe even a little touched — but Caitlyn had already straightened, masking it. “You need rest,” she said briskly. “Go cool off before you collapse again.”
“Again?” Vi smirked. “That’s optimistic.”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but there was warmth there now — a flicker of something that could almost be fondness. “Just… try not to give the cameras a story.”
And with that, she turned away before the look on her face gave her away.
By the time the night wound down, the paddock was empty and the city hummed faintly outside the glass. Caitlyn knocked once, quietly.
The door opened after a moment — Vi in a loose tank top, hair damp from the shower, eyes heavy. “Didn’t think the queen of composure did hotel calls.”
Caitlyn stepped inside without asking. “You didn’t sound fine earlier. I brought electrolyte packs. And an ice compress.”
Vi laughed softly. “You serious?”
“Completely.”
She set the small med bag on the table, moving with clinical precision — as if she was back in the garage, handling data. “Sit.”
Vi obeyed, still half-amused. “You always like this with everyone?”
“No,” Caitlyn said simply, kneeling in front of her. “Hold still.”
The words hit Vi harder than they should have. But Caitlyn didn’t notice — or pretended not to. She placed the cold pack against Vi’s collarbone, letting it rest just above her chest. Her fingers brushed skin — a fleeting, electric touch that lingered longer than necessary.
Vi inhaled sharply. “It’s cold.”
“It’s meant to be.”
Their eyes met — close, too close — and for one dizzy second, neither moved.
Then Caitlyn leaned back, breaking the spell. “You’re flushed. You need to hydrate.”
“Yes, doctor,” Vi muttered with a grin, taking the bottle she offered. She drank obediently, and within minutes her posture softened — exhaustion overtaking stubbornness.
When her head started to droop, Caitlyn reached out, steadying her again. “Lie down,” she whispered.
Vi didn’t argue this time. She just eased back onto the bed, eyes already closing. “You gonna watch me sleep now, too?” she murmured, half-asleep, teasing.
Caitlyn’s lips curved faintly. “Maybe.”
Vi’s breathing slowed. Within moments, she was out — face soft, mouth slightly open, one hand resting over the edge of the blanket.
Caitlyn sat there for a long time, the quiet wrapping around them like a secret.
She brushed a strand of hair from Vi’s face, fingers barely grazing her temple. Her voice, when she spoke, was almost soundless.
“You make everything harder than it has to be.”
Her thumb lingered against Vi’s cheekbone. “And I still can’t stay away.”
For a long moment, she just watched — the rise and fall of Vi’s chest, the small crease between her brows even in sleep.
Then, almost without thinking, Caitlyn leaned closer and whispered, “You’d never believe me if I told you.”
Vi stirred, groggy. “Mmh—what time is it?”
“Late,” Caitlyn said quietly. “Sleep.”
Vi blinked up at her, eyes unfocused but mischievous. “Didn’t know Mercedes offered bedtime service.”
Caitlyn sighed, trying not to smile. “Only for special cases.”
Vi chuckled sleepily. “You’re weird.”
“So they tell me.”
“Thanks… for the ice. And… y’know… not letting me pass out in front of everyone.”
Caitlyn’s tone softened. “You’re welcome.”
Vi smiled faintly, already drifting again. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me like that. Gotta keep my badass image.”
Caitlyn let out a quiet laugh. “Your secret’s safe.”
Vi’s lips twitched. “Good. Wouldn’t want you falling for me or anything.”
Caitlyn froze — the words landing far too close to truth.
By the time she found her voice again, Vi was already asleep, breathing steady, peaceful.
Caitlyn stood, collecting the melted ice pack, her expression unreadable.
She paused at the door, looking back once. “Too late,” she whispered.
Then she left, closing it softly behind her.
Saturday — Qualifying, Marina Bay
The air hung heavy again — the kind of tropical heat that seemed to blur even the sound of the engines. The grandstands were packed, lights reflecting off helmets and halos like molten glass.
The cars screamed through Q1. Then Q2.
By Q3, it was only them.
Caitlyn. Vi.
Rhea’s voice crackled in Caitlyn’s ear, steady and low. “Final run. Track evolution’s strong. Two laps of fuel, full deploy on lap two. You’re currently two-tenths behind Vi’s delta.”
“Copy,” Caitlyn said, voice perfectly calm.
Across the pitlane, Vi’s engineer spoke through the static: “She’s coming for you. Focus. Clean sectors. Trust the grip.”
“Always do,” Vi replied, rolling her shoulders once before pulling her visor down.
The lights went green. Both cars launched out of the pitlane like silver and blue streaks cutting through humidity.
The city lights reflected off the carbon, the roar echoing between walls that left no room for error.
Sector One — Precision
Caitlyn’s steering was smooth, delicate — every corner a practiced exhale. Purple in sector one.
Vi’s dash flashed green — then purple again. She bit back at every tenth Caitlyn took, attacking curbs like they owed her blood.
The commentary crackled over the loudspeakers:
“Unbelievable pace from both women — it’s like they’re in their own class again!”
Sector Three — Chaos and Control
The final corners came in a blur. Vi’s tires screamed through Turn 19, centimeters from the wall. Caitlyn chased the line perfectly — no drama, just poetry and precision.
Across the finish line —
Vi P1. Caitlyn P2.
By 0.073 seconds.
The crowd erupted. Red Bull garage exploded into cheers. Ekko slammed the desk in triumph; even Rhea was smiling quietly in the Mercedes booth.
Caitlyn stayed silent for a second — eyes flicking to the timing screen, then closing briefly.
Then, softly into the radio: “Good lap from her.”
Rhea’s voice was calm, knowing. “And from you. Front row. Tomorrow’s another story.”
Parc Fermé
The heat shimmered between the cars, reporters pressing in. Vi pulled off her helmet, grin wild and bright, hair sticking to her face. For once, she looked untouchably happy.
Caitlyn climbed out of her car, every movement deliberate, polished. The cameras followed her — they always did — waiting for rivalry, for the famous tension to spark again.
Instead, she walked straight to Vi.
No hesitation. No PR filter.
She stopped in front of her, still in her fireproofs, eyes steady.
“Congratulations,” Caitlyn said simply.
Vi blinked — maybe surprised by the softness, maybe just trying not to grin too wide. “Thanks. Thought you had me on sector two.”
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, that almost-smile ghosting across her lips. “You were sharper at nineteen. You earned it.”
Vi laughed. “You actually saying that out loud?”
“Don’t get used to it,” Caitlyn murmured, stepping just close enough that the microphones wouldn’t catch. Her tone lowered, private. “I’m proud of you.”
Vi froze for half a heartbeat — then looked away quickly, scratching the back of her neck. “Don’t say stuff like that. People’ll think you like me.”
Caitlyn’s smile was razor-thin and devastatingly soft. “They already do.”
Before Vi could respond, Caitlyn turned — walking back toward the Mercedes side, posture perfect, hair catching the floodlights.
Within minutes, clips flooded online.
@F1Buzz
> Vi takes her first pole of the season — and guess who was first to congratulate her?
Caitlyn walked straight across Parc Fermé like it was personal.
We are witnessing the softest rivalry in motorsport history.
#Kiramman #Vi #SingaporeGP
@DriveToSurviveClips
> The look on Caitlyn’s face when Vi smiled… my skin is burning.
@PaddockTea
> People: “It’s just sportsmanship.”
Caitlyn: looks at Vi like she’s gravity.
@F1_Analytics
> P1: Vi (1:34.667)
P2: Caitlyn (1:34.740)
0.073s gap.
That’s basically the length of a heartbeat. Or, apparently, a glance.
@TeamRedBull
> POLE!! 🏁
Vi. You. Beauty.
#RedBull #PolePosition #SingaporeGP
@MercedesAMG
> Front row start for Caitlyn Kiramman — consistent, composed, clinical. Tomorrow, we fight. ⚔️
#SilverArrows #TeamCait
@PaddockPulse
> We’re not saying there’s tension between Caitlyn and Vi.
We’re saying there’s capital-T TENSION.
Sunday — Marina Bay Circuit
The lights burned bright against the night sky, turning the track into a silver river cutting through the heat. Singapore wasn’t a race — it was survival.
Caitlyn sat in her cockpit, visor down, every breath measured, every heartbeat synced with the rumble of the engine beneath her. Beside her on the grid, Vi’s Red Bull shimmered in electric blue under the floodlights — P1, first pole.
Vi’s voice crackled over team radio.
> “Let’s do this.”
And Caitlyn, though she couldn’t hear it, whispered the same thing.
> “Let’s.”
The five red lights glowed.
Then vanished.
Caitlyn launched perfectly — second phase clean, side by side with Vi into Turn 1.
They brushed wheels, sparks dancing in the air like fireflies.
“Careful,” Rhea warned.
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn replied, eyes locked on the back of the Red Bull.
Vi defended hard, fearless, pushing through the tight corners like she was dancing on the edge of chaos. Caitlyn followed — calculated, relentless.
By Lap 10, they were pulling away from the rest of the field. Just like always. Fire and ice, the world holding its breath between them.
Lap 34
Turn 14. Tight, blind, brutal.
Caitlyn was lapping traffic when it happened.
A McLaren locked up behind her — no time, no space — and slammed into her rear wheel.
The world spun. Metal screamed.
Caitlyn’s car slammed into the barrier, sparks showering across the track.
Rhea’s voice hit the radio instantly, urgent and sharp.
> “Caitlyn! Talk to me! Are you okay?”
Silence.
The cameras caught the wreckage, commentators falling silent, the entire paddock freezing for a heartbeat that felt like forever.
Then —
> “I’m okay.”
Her voice finally came through, calm, a little strained.
> “Rear suspension’s gone. I’m out.”
Relief flooded through the Mercedes garage. But Caitlyn stayed still for a moment, hands trembling faintly on the wheel before she finally unbuckled.
She sat quietly in the Mercedes garage, headset on, fireproofs half unzipped. The crew worked around her, but no one said much.
She watched the monitors, eyes following Vi’s Red Bull cutting through the chaos like it was built for it.
Rhea approached softly. “You sure you’re alright?”
Caitlyn nodded once. “Physically, yes.”
Then, after a pause: “Mentally… depends on the next thirty laps.”
Rhea smiled faintly. “You’re watching her.”
Caitlyn didn’t deny it. “She deserves this.”
Final Laps
Vi’s tires were fading. The Ferrari behind her was closing in.
Every corner was a fight. Every second, a heartbeat from collapse.
Caitlyn leaned forward unconsciously, eyes wide, whispering to no one, “Hold it together, Vi. Come on.”
The checkered flag waved.
Vi crossed the line — P1.
Her first win.
The Red Bull garage exploded. Mechanics screaming, hugging, jumping over pitwall barriers. The crowd deafening.
Caitlyn exhaled — long, quiet, trembling.
The cameras caught her smile. Small. Real.
The fireworks burst over Marina Bay, reflecting in the glittering water below.
Vi stood on the top step, champagne in hand, tears streaming freely behind her grin.
Caitlyn watched from the monitors — arms crossed, headphones still around her neck.
The look in her eyes wasn’t envy.
It was pride.
She didn’t even notice Rhea watching her from across the room, smiling knowingly.
Later that night, when the celebrations quieted and the cameras finally drifted away, Caitlyn found Vi near the paddock exit — still in her race suit, hair messy, voice hoarse from interviews.
“Hey,” Caitlyn said softly.
Vi turned, eyes lighting up instantly. “You came.”
“I heard there was a winner who needed proper congratulations.”
Vi’s grin faltered slightly when she saw the faint bruise along Caitlyn’s jaw from the impact. “You sure you’re okay? That crash—”
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn cut in gently. “You’re the one who just fought fifty laps of heatstroke and nearly lost your tires.”
Vi laughed breathlessly. “You watched the whole thing, didn’t you?”
“Every lap.”
That made Vi pause. “You— really?”
Caitlyn nodded once, gaze soft. “You drove beautifully, Vi.”
Something in Vi’s expression broke — the exhaustion, the disbelief, the weight of it all finally hitting. “You don’t get it,” she muttered. “Singapore’s brutal. I thought I was gonna lose it out there. My arms were shaking—”
“I know,” Caitlyn said, stepping closer. “That’s why it matters. You didn’t give up.”
Vi’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. “It was intense. I can’t even—”
Then her knees wavered slightly, the adrenaline finally fading. Caitlyn caught her before she could stumble.
“Easy,” she murmured, steadying her. “You’ve done enough for one night.”
Caitlyn half-guided, half-carried Vi to her room. The moment the door shut behind them, Vi all but collapsed on the edge of the bed.
“Don’t—” Vi muttered, “—don’t tell anyone you had to help me walk. I’ve got a reputation.”
Caitlyn chuckled softly, kneeling in front of her again. “I think your win tonight gives you some room to be human.”
She placed an ice pack against Vi’s neck, gentle, practiced. Vi shivered but didn’t pull away.
“You and these ice packs again,” Vi mumbled with a lazy grin. “You got a thing for freezing me, huh?”
“Only when necessary.”
Vi opened one eye, still teasing. “You worry too much, you know that?”
Caitlyn smiled faintly. “And you don’t worry enough.”
Their eyes met then — soft, tired, something unspoken pulsing between them.
Vi exhaled slowly, the tension melting out of her shoulders. “You’re the only one who talks to me like that.”
“Maybe that’s why you listen,” Caitlyn murmured.
Silence lingered, fragile and golden.
Vi’s eyes grew heavier, her voice barely there. “You really proud of me?”
Caitlyn’s hand brushed her cheek. “Always.”
Within minutes, Vi was asleep.
Caitlyn sat there for a long time, her hand absently tracing circles against Vi’s back, her chest aching with something she didn’t want to name.
Finally, she eased Vi down onto the bed, tucking the blanket gently around her.
She stood there in the dim light, watching.
“Congratulations, Vi,” she whispered. “You earned every second of it.”
The city outside still pulsed with distant celebration, but Caitlyn’s suite was quiet.
She sat by the window, hair loose for once, the glow of Marina Bay reflecting in her eyes.
She should’ve been replaying her own crash — analyzing data, dissecting her mistake.
But all she could see was Vi — smiling on that podium, eyes wet, voice breaking when she said we did it to her team.
All she could hear was Vi’s laugh echoing faintly in her chest.
Caitlyn pressed her fingers to her temple and exhaled. “This isn’t supposed to happen.”
But the thought of Vi asleep in that next room — safe, exhausted, victorious — made her lips curve into a soft, unguarded smile.
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, the city lights painting her in gold.
And for once, the calm, composed Caitlyn Kiramman didn’t know whether that terrified her — or made her feel alive.
The glass walls hummed with the vibration of air conditioning, and the city beyond looked like it was built from gold and lies.
Caitlyn stood by the window, spine straight, hands clasped behind her back — every inch the Kiramman heir. The bruise along her jaw was the only sign that yesterday had hurt.
Ambessa Medarda’s reflection appeared behind her in the glass before her voice did.
“You were sloppy.”
The words were quiet, but they hit like an order.
Caitlyn didn’t turn. “The telemetry shows—”
“The telemetry shows nothing that excuses weakness.”
Ambessa moved closer, slow, deliberate. Her voice carried that low, controlled resonance that made people want to stand straighter. “You have always been sharp, precise. But lately, you drift. You feel.”
“I perform,” Caitlyn said evenly. “Even when others don’t.”
Ambessa’s gaze darkened. “You think your title protects you?”
“No.” Caitlyn’s voice was still, calm. “My work does.”
For a moment, Ambessa said nothing. Then, almost softly:
“You forget who built the world you drive for.”
The words curled like smoke. Caitlyn finally turned — eyes calm, face unreadable, every inch the product of a council upbringing.
“Then tell me what you really want to say,” Caitlyn said.
Ambessa’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I want you to stop letting a girl from the Undercity turn you into something… small.”
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change. “You’re talking about Vi.”
“I’m talking about distraction,” Ambessa replied. “About how far a Kiramman has fallen from focus.”
“She’s a rival,” Caitlyn said.
“Mm.” Ambessa took another step, circling her like she was evaluating a weapon that had dulled. “Then tell me why your eyes find her before the flag does. Why you guard her when you should crush her. Why you defend her to your own detriment.”
Caitlyn stayed still. Inside, her stomach turned — but she refused to blink.
“Because I don’t mistake compassion for weakness,” she said.
Ambessa’s lips curved faintly. “You mistake it for loyalty.”
Silence stretched. Then Ambessa set a slim datapad on the table. Its screen flickered — council footage, the Chamber, the explosion, the girl with wild blue hair.
Caitlyn’s eyes flicked to it — then back to Ambessa. Her expression never changed.
“Jinx,” Ambessa said. “The Undercity’s ghost. The one Vi protects.”
Caitlyn’s voice stayed measured. “That’s classified material.”
Ambessa smiled like a wolf. “So you do know.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
Ambessa leaned on the table. “Do you understand what this means? That your… friend’s sister is responsible for the attack that nearly killed Piltover’s council?”
“Vi had nothing to do with it.”
Ambessa’s tone sharpened — still quiet, but now surgical. “She is blood to the one who did. And if anyone connects that blood to you, Caitlyn, the headlines will write themselves. The Kiramman heir compromised. Mercedes’ face consorting with a criminal’s kin.”
Caitlyn’s jaw flexed, but her eyes stayed calm. “If that’s a threat—”
“It’s a warning,” Ambessa interrupted. “Because I won’t have to lift a finger. The press will eat her alive. Red Bull will cast her aside. And when the council starts asking questions, your mother will see to it that you disappear from this sport faster than she can sign the order.”
Caitlyn’s mask never cracked. Only her voice lowered, smooth and cold.
“You’d ruin her life to make a point.”
Ambessa’s gaze was steady. “I’d protect what’s mine. That includes you.”
Caitlyn met her eyes — unflinching, calculating. “I didn’t ask to be protected.”
“No,” Ambessa said, quiet again. “But you will obey.”
They stood like that — silence and tension filling the room like heat.
Then Ambessa straightened, tone back to something almost gentle. “You’re young. You think you can balance heart and duty. But Piltover doesn’t reward tenderness, Caitlyn. It punishes it.”
Caitlyn’s answer came like a knife hidden in velvet. “Then perhaps Piltover needs to change.”
Ambessa’s smile was faint — something between admiration and pity. “You sound like her.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
Ambessa tilted her head. “Don’t.”
She turned, walking toward the door. “Win the next race,” she said without looking back. “And show the world who you are. Or I will.”
The door closed softly behind her.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! 💙 I’d love to hear what you think of this chapter
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Chapter 10: Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Heat sits on Austin like a hand that won’t lift. The circuit breathes dust and roasted rubber; everything smells faintly singed. Vi tells herself she likes it—heat is honest, it doesn’t pretend—but the truth is she slept four hours on a mattress that felt like a shelf, and every time she closed her eyes she saw a pair of blue eyes in a plume of smoke and a toy monkey rattling in her pocket like a dare. She tells herself she’s fine. The lie lasts until she walks into the Red Bull garage and Nadia looks up with that tired, pinched expression that says the car kept her awake too.
“Hydrate,” Nadia says, not hello. “And sit for once.”
“I sit at 320 kph,” Vi says, throwing her bag onto the chair. “That count?”
Nadia doesn’t smile. “We rechecked the loom. Twice. She looks clean.”
Looks isn’t is. Vi hears it between the lines. She hears the squeak of jack stands, the soft curses from the rear of the car where three mechanics have turned into a single organism of stress. She forces the grin anyway. “Then we go play.”
Across the lane, silver moves like a school of fish. Mercedes. Neat, quiet, controlled. Caitlyn’s there in a crisp white shirt , sunglasses reflecting the paddock like a shield. Vi pretends she doesn’t track her automatically, that hot little line of gravity tugging at her chest. Don’t. Not here. Not with cameras. But then Caitlyn turns—just a fraction, just enough to feel it—and Vi swears she feels that look land on her skin like a palm: Are you okay?
She nods once, tiny. I am now. Stupid. She knows better.
Rhea leans in to speak to Caitlyn; their heads bow together over a tablet. Caitlyn keeps her face composed but her hand is tight on the headset—tendons standing out. Ambessa’s voice has been living under Caitlyn’s ribs since Singapore: you will obey. She hated how easily the command slid into her like a key turning a lock she didn’t know she had. She hates more that every time she sees Vi she can’t hear anything else.
FP1. Out-lap, easy. Vi swings the car through Turn 1 like she’s tonguing a bruise. The Texas sky is a hard, dumb blue. Nadia’s in her ear, steady: “Brakes check. Harvest check. Mode one.”
“Copy.” The steering’s honest. The throttle’s honest. She lets herself breathe.
Push.
It starts small: a cough in the PU, a stutter like someone yanked the cord and gave it back. Not a full cut, just enough to turn her stomach to ice. “Feeling a torque drop on exit,” she says, making her voice flat, clinical. “Not massive. Just wrong.”
“Telemetry is clean,” Nadia says, and Vi hears the scratch of pen on paper, the clatter of a keyboard in the background. “Box this lap. I want to look, not guess.”
She brings it in. Mechanics descend, neat hands, clipped tools. The floor comes off. The belly opens. Vi kneels and watches with them, pretending her presence helps. She grew up with engines that bled; it’s always personal.
Nadia re-seats a connector with surgical care. “Nothing obvious. Try again.”
Back out. Heat rises off the asphalt; Vi can taste it through the vents. Half a lap and there it is again, a sharper cough, the digital dash blinking a single warning so fast she might have imagined it.
“Same,” she says. “Worse.”
“Understood. Abort lap. Bring her in, low torque mode. We won’t cook her for nothing.”
“Copy.” The words feel like defeat and she hates that too. She can’t control the urge to punch something; she flexes her hands around the wheel until knuckles pop and it bleeds off into breath.
Caitlyn hears the Red Bull on the tow hook before she sees it on the screen. The car looks wrong when it’s quiet. She knows that better than anyone. A still race car has the same grief as a hospital room. Rhea is saying something about side wind in sector two and Caitlyn is nodding, answering perfectly, hitting all the words she’s supposed to hit. But behind her face, something mean and bright flares: if someone touched her car—if someone dared—
Stop. Ambessa again: If I wanted her destroyed, I’d need only one headline. You don’t get to make this about your heart.
She inhales. Coaxes calm back into her bones. Cars. Data. Corners. She will not be sloppy. She will not break.
Ekko finds Vi after FP1, Ferrari cap backwards, chin up like he can use attitude to block the sun. “You left your engine map at home?”
“Cute,” Vi says, but she can’t quite keep the snarl out of it. He sees it. He always does.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I’m mad,” she says. It comes out low. “I hate feeling like the car and I are strangers.”
He bumps her shoulder with his. “You and a machine have always been suspiciously close. Maybe she’s jealous you’re flirting with a Mercedes.”
“Shut up,” Vi says, smiling despite herself.
“If you need anything—”
“I need laps.”
His eyes soften. “Then get ’em. I’ll see you after FP2.”
Nadia waits for the joke to fade. “We’re pulling the control electronics,” she tells Vi. “New loom, new connectors. If there’s a gremlin, it won’t be the same one twice.”
“Good,” Vi says. “Zero patience for recurring villains.”
They work through lunch. The garage is a hive: panels, sealant, torque wrenches clicking in a rhythm Vi could sleep to if sleep weren’t a myth right now. She watches hands more than faces. She tries to imagine which pair would cut on purpose. She hates herself for it. She hates whoever made her think that way more.
Caitlyn eats a protein bar she can’t taste. She reads a brief that says nothing. She finds herself searching through technical bulletins for supplier codes without remembering deciding to do it. It feels like sliding off the road at slow speed—no drama, just inevitability. When she catches herself, she closes the laptop. She sees her reflection in the black screen: perfect, controlled, and underneath, a thread of panic thin as silk. She hates it. She likes it less that she knows exactly whose name it spells.
FP2 begins under a sky that has softened to hot coin. Vi straps in with her mouth set in a line that says Try it again and see what happens. Nadia lists systems with the calm of a lullaby. Vi listens and thinks of Zaun’s stairwells, of running on metal grates barefoot, of choosing speed over pain because speed felt like choosing herself.
Out-lap. No cough. She lets the car stretch—Turn 2, Turn 3, the esses holding like they promised. She’s almost smiling when it happens. A sharp stutter under full load that jerks her forward in the harness.
“Power loss,” she barks. “Significant. Feels like a cut. I can’t—” Her own voice flickers when the dash goes black for a heartbeat.
“Neutral. PU off now,” Nadia says, and her tone drops into the octave that means a prayer wrapped in an order. “Coast safe. Don’t try to nurse it.”
It’s quiet for a moment that feels like humiliation wearing a mask. Marshals wave. Vi coasts to a stop. She can hear her own breath, hot, too loud. She wants to scream. She leans her helmet against the wheel and laughs once instead; it sounds like breaking.
When the tow line clicks, she keeps her visor down. She won’t give anyone that picture.
Back in the garage, the smell hits her first: sweet, faint, like plastic burns and sugar spills. A mechanic has already got the rear casing open; another is unplugging the battery with the careful boredom of fear. Nadia is on her knees, hands braced, eyes scouring. Vi peels her gloves, drops onto her haunches beside her.
“What do you see?” she asks, too even.
“Something I don’t like,” Nadia says. She points with the tip of a zip tie. The harness sheath has a nick. Not a ragged bite from pressure, not a fray. A neat, hateful little smile that goes just deep enough to matter. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice unless you’re looking for it. Unless you made it.
“Could be a tool slip,” a mechanic offers.
“Could be,” Nadia says, clipped. Vi knows her well enough to hear the words she isn’t saying.
Vi feels heat crawl up her neck. It’s not the Texas sun. It’s not the engine. It’s a burn made of memory and fury. Zeppelins and clickers, chem trails and chalk spirals. She tastes metal. She thinks of the underpass in Zaun, of the scorch on concrete and the laughing face drawn in blue.
“Okay,” she says. “Then we fix it. And then we find who thinks they’re funny.”
Nadia looks up at her. There’s exhaustion there, and tight worry, and love in the way engineers love: through competence, through refusal to look away. “We’ll log it. We’ll call the FIA again. They’ll—”
“They’ll shrug,” Vi says.
“They’ll have to call it something if it repeats,” Nadia says.
“They’ll call it a coincidence that makes sponsors nervous if they put the word Zaun in the sentence,” Vi says, and hears how tired she sounds. It makes her angrier.
Across the paddock, Caitlyn watches a mute replay: Vi’s car dying, the tow, the Red Bull crew moving like bodies at a funeral. She thinks of the badge mismatch Rhea mentioned over coffee, a passerby in gray coveralls that didn’t scan right near Red Bull on Thursday. She thinks of the way Ambessa said I don’t need to lift a finger and knows with a cold certainty that some fingers are always lifted; they just belong to someone else, someone you can burn without singeing the hand that signed the order.
Rhea appears at her shoulder with a glass of water. “FP2 for us was clean,” she says. Her tone is careful. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking,” Caitlyn says.
“About your line through nine or about their electrical nightmare?”
Caitlyn doesn’t bother pretending. “She’s not safe,” she says softly.
“She won’t stop,” Rhea says, equal parts fond and bleak. “You know that.”
“I do.” She feels the truth settle like a stone. She also feels an impulse so childish it makes her want to laugh: drag Vi into a car that isn’t trying to kill her, buckle her in, tell her to breathe. The idea is ridiculous; it is also exactly what she wants. She sets the water down very gently. “If the FIA doesn’t catch this—”
“They’ll say ‘insufficient evidence,’” Rhea finishes. “They always do, until someone bleeds in a way cameras can’t ignore.”
Caitlyn looks at the clock. Her own debrief starts in eleven minutes. She should be thinking about wind shear and brake temps. Instead she thinks of a cut in a sheath, a precise little wound. She thinks of the way Vi makes jokes when she wants to cover fear, the way her mouth never quite lets grief out in public. She thinks of duty as a ladder and love as a tripwire and wonders how many rungs she can skip before she falls.
Ekko appears in Red Bull like he owns it; it’s a paddock privilege you earn when you’ve slept on a garage floor for someone before. He ducks under a wing and squats beside Vi, who’s wiping her face with the corner of a towel like she doesn’t trust her hands. He doesn’t touch her; he puts his elbow on the floor, shoulder to shoulder instead. It’s an old language. “You good?”
"No,” she says immediately, and that’s how he knows she will be. “I’m pissed and tired and I want to fight a loom with my fists.”
“Would watch,” he says. “Would sell tickets.”
She huffs. “They slice neat. Whoever it is. Not a butcher.”
“Neat cowards,” he says, and looks like he wants to burn a building he can’t find. “You tell your Cupcake?”
The glare she gives him could set air on fire. “Don’t.”
“Mhm.”
“She doesn’t need to—not her team, not this—” Vi stops. The logic is obvious and stupid. He just waits. She blows out a breath. “I don’t want to give anyone a list of reasons to say I don’t belong.”
“You already gave them the only reason that matters,” he says. “You’re fast.”
She grins, crooked. “Tell that to a dead battery.”
“I will. In Italian.”
“Worst threat ever.”
When he leaves, she feels better and worse. Nadia taps her shoulder with a torque wrench and nods toward the back. “Come see something.”
They go into the narrow, hot space behind the garage where spare parts live like stacked bones. Nadia has a tablet up with photos from the dyno run the night before—loom pristine, seals intact. She swipes to a fresh image from now: the nicked sheath. “It wasn’t there,” she says. Her voice is very careful. “It is now.”
Vi’s throat tightens. “Then someone came in between.”
“Or they touched it during reassembly,” Nadia says, and Vi hears the I have to say this in the sentence. “We’ll check sign-ins, badge scans, camera angles.”
“Cameras miss everything that matters,” Vi says. She doesn’t mean to sound like Zaun when she says it. She does.
Nadia looks at her for a long beat. “Do you want to pull out of quali?”
The answer jumps up her spine like a fight. “No.”
“It’s a real question, Vi.”
“So’s mine,” she says, too soft. “Do you trust me?”
“With my job,” Nadia says. “With my life, on a good day.”
“Then make her safe. I’ll drive the rest.”
Nadia’s mouth twists. “Okay.” And what she means is I’m scared too. I’ll stand in front of this bus with you. I’ll pretend we don’t hear it coming.
Caitlyn slips outside alone when her debrief ends. The wind has cooled a little; the flags on the hospitality roofs flap like exhausted birds. She leans on the balcony rail and stares at the circuit’s long straight, at the black ribbon where courage and stupidity become the same thing if you misjudge one centimeter. She thinks of Ambessa. She thinks of Vi’s face at the fence, sweat shining at her temple, jaw tight with fury that looked too much like grief.
Her phone vibrates. A message from an internal logistics channel she’s not supposed to see anymore because she asked not to: supplier lots, inspection stamps, the habit of efficiency that makes every chain traceable if you squint. One name pops, not because it shouldn’t be there but because it always is—Medarda Global Logistics, stamped across a line that includes electrical components destined for multiple teams this week, Red Bull among them.
It could mean nothing. It could mean everything. Her pulse jumps and then she makes it slow, the way she does when a car steps out at high speed and she has to let instinct hold the wheel. She doesn’t know who cut a sheath. She doesn’t know why the world always finds new ways to test Vi. She does know she’s standing on a balcony in a country that loves a headline, and that if she opens her mouth wrong she could be the story instead of the solution.
She presses the phone to the edge of the railing until the metal bites her palm. She closes her eyes and lets herself feel it—anger, fear, the stupid, terrifying tenderness that doesn’t ask permission.
Down below, a Red Bull mechanic laughs at a joke and the sound carries up like a wish that doesn’t believe in itself. Somewhere in the maze, Vi is wiping grease off her hands and setting her jaw the way she does when she decides that surviving isn’t enough; winning is the only apology she accepts from the world.
Caitlyn watches the line where the track meets the sky until the horizon stops wavering. She is not a saboteur. She is not a politician. She is a driver with a clean lap stored in her spine and a woman she can’t stop looking for in crowded rooms. She lets the last thing be true for one blurry second, then tucks it away ruthless and neat.
FP2 is over. The paddock goes soft with evening. Tomorrow they’ll pretend the slate is clean. Tonight, Caitlyn presses her fist to her mouth and breathes around it until the ache becomes a decision: whatever this is, it will not be ignored.
The light over Austin was too clean for what she was about to do.
Morning FP3 — the one that’s supposed to be routine, boring, a last tidy brush over the setup before the serious part starts. People joked in the paddock, walked slower, sunglasses on, media crews still waking up. Somewhere someone was blasting country music like it was a street festival, not the last shakedown before qualifying.
Caitlyn walked through it like a blade.
White Mercedes polo, hair in a high ponytail, helmet bag in her hand, mouth set in that precise line that made journalists decide, automatically, not now. Outside, she looked like she always did: unbothered, exact, carved from the same marble as the team’s hospitality unit. Inside, every thought was a circle around the same center.
Vi’s car did not fail by accident.
The cut was too neat. The part too new. The timing too perfect — right after Ambessa's threat.
“Morning,” Rhea called over the noise, already in the garage, headset on, sleeves rolled up. “Track temp’s climbing fast. Wind’s still asleep. Good window.”
“Good,” Caitlyn said, placing the helmet down.
Rhea looked up longer than usual. “Sleep?”
“A little.”
“Worried about quali?”
“Always.”
Rhea didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press. “We’ll do systems, one long run, two push laps. Nothing heroic.”
Nothing heroic. Caitlyn nodded, as if that were the plan.
Across the lane, just visible between moving bodies and stacked tires, electric blue flashed — Red Bull. Vi was there, half in her suit, hair up, chewing on her bottom lip in that way she did when she wanted to punch someone and settled for her own mouth instead. Nadia was showing her something on a tablet, serious, low-voiced. Vi nodded, but her eyes kept flicking toward Mercedes, quick, like she was checking the weather.
Caitlyn looked down before she could be caught.
Helmet on. The world narrowed. Engine noise dulled to rhythm. Her own breath echoed in the foam around her ears.
Rhea in her radio now, calm as ever. “Alright, Cait. Track is clear. Out-lap, please. Mode harvest. Let’s have a clean one.”
“Copy.”
She rolled out of the garage. Sun hit the silver nose of the car and tossed it back in a hard flare. Pit lane, limiter, release. The circuit opened like an empty stage. It would have been so easy to just… drive. To pretend none of it existed. To pretend she hadn’t lain awake thinking of Vi sitting on a tool chest, wiping grease off her fingers like she was trying to wipe off humiliation.
Turn 1 — up the hill, slow hairpin. Easy. Turn 2 — downhill, flowing. The car was good. Of course it was; Mercedes didn’t do messy. Balance neutral, maybe a hint of oversteer on fast direction change, but nothing she couldn’t account for.
“Car feels good,” she said.
“Happy to hear it,” Rhea replied. “No big gusts reported yet. We can push next lap.”
We can push.
She thought — in the second before the next corner — about how Ambessa would watch this session. Not live, maybe, but a replay. How she’d tilt her head and think She’s correcting. She understands. How satisfied she’d be if Caitlyn just internalized the lesson: Don't go near Vi.
Caitlyn’s jaw clenched under the helmet.
No.
Next lap. Out of the final corner. Onto the straight. Engine howling, straight-line speed singing. Her hands were steady, eyes scanning for flags, delta, wind gusts. Nothing unusual.
“Alright,” Rhea said. “Push lap. Let’s see purple sector one.”
“Copy. Pushing.”
She did what she was told.
Sector one was textbook. Braking points like a metronome. Turned in just enough. Let the car breathe just enough. The screen back at Mercedes would’ve glowed violet. The commentators — if this had been broadcast — would’ve said, that’s why she’s leading the championship.
Sector two, she fed in a fraction more commitment, the way you do when you know the tires have come in. She could feel everything: the grain of the track, the temperature on the right-rear, the lightness before the downforce fully bit.
And in that exact place — in that exact feel — she placed her choice.
Not a big mistake. Big mistakes are suspicious. Not a stupid one either; she had pride. Just… a human one. A slight overcommit on turn-in into the fast left. A breath too late off-throttle. Enough to unload the rear at the worst possible moment.
The car stepped.
Not violently — just slipped, tail drifting wide where anyone else might’ve got it. She corrected once — crisp, visible on telemetry — which would make it look real. But she didn’t take the second correction she knew would save it. She let the slide run just wide enough to meet the outside kerb at a bad angle.
Gravel. A shower of pale rooster tails. Then the barrier — not a full-on, car-destroying slam. A hard kiss. Enough to trigger every alarm. Enough to make everyone watching freeze.
Silence.
Then Rhea, sharp, not the calm voice but the human one.
“Caitlyn? Caitlyn, talk to me. Are you okay? Caitlyn.”
Static.
Caitlyn sat there for half a heartbeat, hands still on the wheel, heartbeat big in her throat. Made sure. Let the image burn. Let the panic flare in at least three garages.
Then, level as a glass of water: “I’m okay.”
Exhale exploded over comms. “Copy. Power off. Stay in the car. Marshals are coming.”
“Power off.”
The session went red. The boards around the circuit flashed. The crowd murmured. Cameras swiveled.
Over in Red Bull, Vi’s head snapped toward the screen. Her stomach dropped clean out.
“Who?”
“Mercedes,” Nadia said, already listening to her own feed. “Turn thirteen. Looks like Caitlyn.”
“Is she talking?” Vi’s voice was too loud. She couldn’t help it.
“She just checked in. She said she’s okay.”
Vi was already pulling her gloves off, tossing them onto the desk. “I’m gonna—”
“Vi,” Nadia said, warning in her tone. “We don’t know yet—”
But Vi was already moving. Out the back of the garage, helmet tucked under her arm, fireproofs half on, expression carved out of something close to fear. Ekko, coming back from his own briefing, saw her and actually stopped. “Vi? What—”
“Caitlyn hit,” she said, not slowing.
He grabbed her elbow. “She radioed she’s fine.”
“She didn’t answer at first,” Vi said, voice cracking at the edge. “She didn’t answer.”
And that, for a driver, is the longest second in the world.
She made it to the pit wall, breath hot, hair sticking to her neck. Marshals on-screen were already around the Mercedes, tapping the tub, giving thumbs-up. The replay ran on a loop — it hadn’t even looked that bad. A little snap, a little run-off, a kiss to the barrier. Not her style, though. Not hers.
“You okay?” Vi muttered at the screen like Caitlyn could hear it.
In the medical car, Caitlyn sat very still as they towed her back. Her shoulder would bruise. Her pride already had. But her pulse was steady. She could do this part; she’d been doing it her whole life. Get hurt. Get up. Tell no one you meant to.
Rhea met her as soon as she stepped down. Eyes scanning for injuries, for tells. “Any pain?”
“Shoulder. Minor.”
“Head?”
“Clear.”
Rhea looked at her — really looked. Saw it. “That wasn’t like you.”
“Track temp rose faster than expected,” Caitlyn said, slipping right into the official narrative. “I misjudged the rear.”
“You don’t misjudge the rear,” Rhea said quietly.
Caitlyn held her gaze. Didn’t blink. “I did today.”
They stared at each other for a heartbeat. Then Rhea’s expression softened, not with acceptance, but with something like I know what you did and I will not hang you here. “Alright,” she said. “We’ll tell them it was a gust. Data can show it if we want it to.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Don’t do it again.”
Cameras were already outside the garage. You don’t get a championship leader kissing a barrier in FP3 without ten thousand eyes on you. PR hustled; microphones appeared. Caitlyn swapped helmet for cap, zipped the suit to her collarbones, looked polished in sixty seconds.
“Caitlyn — what happened out there?”
“Just pushing a bit too much on a hot track,” she said, eyes cool, voice warm. “Car was feeling great — I took a little more than the grip allowed. Thankfully, we hit soft, the team will check everything, and we’ll be back for qualifying.”
“Rare mistake from you—”
“It happens,” she said, smiling faintly. “If you’re not making mistakes, you’re not close enough to the limit.”
“Any concern for qualifying?”
“We’ll be there. Mercedes is strong.”
They were going to move on — but she added, almost as if she’d just remembered, tone casual, eyes cutting straight through the lens:
“Sometimes, when conditions change suddenly, things fail in ways you don’t expect. What matters is how fast we catch it.”
To the media, it was nothing. A line about changing track temps. To anyone who knew what had happened to Vi’s car two days in a row, it was a knife wrapped in velvet.
She was stepping away when she saw Vi.
Vi stood just outside the taped media zone, arm pressed to a Red Bull comms girl so she could lean around her. Fireproofs still on, hair damp with heat, eyes — gods — eyes fixed on Caitlyn’s left shoulder, jaw set like she was daring it to be dislocated so she could go fight someone about it.
Their gazes met.
Everything else went quiet.
Vi didn’t smile. She just searched her face — for pain, for fear, for something off. She found it. Caitlyn could tell she found it. There was too much steadiness, too much blankness.
“You okay?” Vi mouthed.
Caitlyn nodded once. I’m okay.
Vi didn’t look convinced. She moved in anyway, ignoring PR’s tiny panic, closed the space between them like she had every right.
“Hey,” Vi said, low. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn said out loud this time. Up close, she could see Vi’s pupils were still wide, fight-or-flight high. “You were worried.”
“You didn’t answer,” Vi snapped, too fast to be controlled. “For like… a second. Or two. Or— whatever. It was too long.”
“I was catching my breath.”
“You don’t get to do that.”
Caitlyn almost laughed. “I don’t?”
“No,” Vi said, chin up. “Not when you’re the one always telling me to be careful.”
There was so much in that sentence — you take care of me, so I get to take care of you back.
Caitlyn’s chest actually hurt.
“I’m okay,” she repeated, softer. “I promise.”
“Your promises are shit,” Vi muttered. Then, quieter, so no one else could hear: “Why’d you push that hard in FP3?”
Caitlyn let the mask tilt a fraction. “Because sometimes people need reminding that I can push harder.”
Vi blinked. Confusion, suspicion, something like admiration flickered all at once. “Who’s ‘people’?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer. She just touched Vi’s forearm, featherlight, like she was checking she was real. “Don’t change your quali plan. You hear me? Go out. Be fast. That’s how you answer them.”
“You are hurt,” Vi said, looking down at the hand on her. “You’re being nice.”
Caitlyn actually smiled at that. “Go, Violet.”
The use of the name made Vi’s breath stutter. She stepped back, reluctantly, watching her like she was walking into a fight.
Caitlyn did.
Not the one Vi thought.
The Mercedes motorhome was cooler inside — good air, money air. It buzzed with quiet activity. She could have put this off. She could have pretended the crash was enough of a message.
But Ambessa only ever truly heard what was said to her face.
Caitlyn found her in the private meeting room at the end of the corridor, glass walls looking over the paddock. Ambessa stood with her back half-turned, reading something on a tablet, posture relaxed in that lioness-at-rest way.
Without knocking, Caitlyn opened the door and stepped in. Closed it behind her.
Ambessa didn’t turn right away. “I see you’ve already done your media pen.”
“Of course.”
“A rare error,” Ambessa said, tapping the screen. “The kind that reminds people you’re human. It’s not all bad.”
“Mm,” Caitlyn said. Stood straighter. “Sometimes I find mistakes… clarifying.”
That made Ambessa turn.
Her eyes flicked over Caitlyn — checking for damage, real and metaphorical. “Clarifying how?”
“It reminds everyone there are limits,” Caitlyn said, voice fluid, intimate, not a hint of tremor. “And that when things on the track start failing in odd ways, people will start asking why.”
Ambessa’s smile was mild. “Track temperatures do that.”
“So do certain logistics chains,” Caitlyn said softly.
There. Not an accusation. Not even a statement. Just… gravity, dropped in the room.
Ambessa’s gaze sharpened, but she didn’t bristle. “You’ve been reading too many reports.”
“I’ve been reading the ones you taught me to read,” Caitlyn said. “The ones that tell you what really happened, not what people said happened.”
“Then you know,” Ambessa said, folding her arms, “that this sport is fragile. One rumor in the wrong mouth about the wrong girl, and the whole paddock turns on her.”
“I do,” Caitlyn said. Held her eyes. “That’s why I made sure the cameras saw me hit the wall today.”
Silence.
Ambessa’s head tilted. “To what end?”
“So they’d know,” Caitlyn said, calm, clear, almost gentle, “that I will wreck my own session before I let anyone quietly sabotage a rival of mine. Especially one you’ve already marked.”
She didn’t say Vi’s name. She didn’t have to.
Ambessa let out a soft exhale through her nose — not anger. Approval. Annoyance braided with pride. “Still sentimental,” she murmured.
“Still a Kiramman,” Caitlyn corrected. “Which means I know exactly how Piltover likes to make problems disappear. First you discredit. Then you distance. Then you discard.”
“You think I’d do that to you?” Ambessa asked, brow lifting.
“I think you’d do it to someone near me to make me step back,” Caitlyn said. “And I think you thought I would. I’m just telling you — I won’t.”
That was the threat. That was all of it. No shouting. No “I know it was you.” Just: I saw your hand, and I am not moving.
Ambessa walked closer, slow, assessing. “You crashed a multi-million-dollar car,” she said, amused. “To tell me you disapprove.”
“To tell you I saw it,” Caitlyn said. “And that if it happens again, I will make sure people will start asking questions in public.”
Ambessa’s eyes warmed at that — a patron seeing a weapon reach maturity. “You’ve grown very sharp.”
“You sharpened me.”
“Then don’t aim at me.”
“Then don’t aim at her.”
It was out. Quiet. Final.
Ambessa studied her for a long second. Then she smiled — small, dangerous. “You know, people will think you lost focus.”
“That’s fine,” Caitlyn said. “I can win from people underestimating me.”
“You always could,” Ambessa said, almost fond. “But listen to me, little Kiramman.” Her voice dropped, soft and lethal. “There are currents here you don’t see. That girl is a distraction."
“I want her safe. ” Caitlyn said.
“There is no ‘her’ in the life you’re walking toward.”
“There is,” Caitlyn said, utterly sure. “Because I’m the one walking.”
A beat.
Ambessa laughed, quiet, delighted. “Very well.”
Caitlyn didn’t relax. “So we understand each other.”
“We always have,” Ambessa said. “You make your little gestures. I make mine. But don’t mistake my patience for weakness.”
“Don’t mistake my patience for obedience.”
They looked at each other and in that moment they both knew: a line had been drawn, clean and invisible.
Caitlyn turned to leave.
Just before she opened the door, Ambessa said, “Win tomorrow, Caitlyn. It will make your little… display… look like nothing.”
Caitlyn looked back over her shoulder, expression smooth as ever. “I will,” she said. “But know this — if her car fails again like that, I crash harder.”
And she left.
Out in the corridor, the air felt colder, thinner. She walked past team members who smiled, mechanics who waved, PR who gave her thumbs-up for “handling it so well out there.” She smiled back, practiced, perfect.
Only when she was alone — door locked, hotel room quiet, the skyline of Austin humming beyond the glass — did the adrenaline finally let go. Her hands shook. Just once. She pressed them flat on the desk until they were still again.
Her phone buzzed.
Vi:
u sure you’re ok?
dont say “fine” im not dumb
Caitlyn stared at it for a moment, a slow, helpless warmth cracking through the frost Ambessa had left behind.
Caitlyn:
Shoulder sore. Ego bruised. Alive.
Go be fast tomorrow.
Three dots. Then:
Vi:
someone wants me off that grid
too bad
Caitlyn smiled — real this time, small, tired, unstoppable.
She typed, then deleted, I’ll fight them for you.
Instead she sent:
Then we make it very hard for them.
Outside, the circuit lights burned in the dark, drawing two colors together that were never meant to mix.
Qualifying days always felt louder.
Not because the engines were any different — same V6 howl, same breathless upshifts — but because the air around them sharpened. People walked faster. Voices pitched higher. Mechanics didn’t joke as much. Fans screamed earlier. It was a day the world judged you with numbers and didn’t care about your reasons.
Austin baked under a white sun. The grandstands were already full, flags waving, heat clinging to the concrete like a second skin. From the outside, it was just another Saturday. From the inside, it was a day stitched to what had happened in FP3.
Every single person in the paddock had seen the replay at least twice: Mercedes just… stepping, sliding, kissing the barrier. A “rare mistake.” Clean, survivable, easily explained. The story had already settled: track temp spike, wind gust, driver pushing. But the people who mattered more than cameras — engineers, rival drivers, the ones who’d watched Caitlyn for years — knew something else:
Caitlyn Kiramman didn’t do random.
And today, she looked even less random than usual.
She arrived at the garage with her right shoulder taped under her suit — just a small compression band, nothing obvious. She’d insisted on doing the medical checks quickly and without fuss. Range of motion: acceptable. Pain: manageable. Clearance: granted. But Rhea still watched the way she moved, that fractionally careful set to her arm when she zipped up, and didn’t miss it.
“Any worse?” Rhea asked, tone casual but eyes not.
“No,” Caitlyn said. “Stiff. That’s all.”
“You don’t have to be a hero.”
“I’m not,” Caitlyn said, meeting her gaze. “I’m a driver.”
Rhea sighed, just a tiny surrender. “Alright. Then we’re doing this properly. Out early Q1, don’t get traffic, put a banker, come back in. Minimum laps. No shoulder drama.”
Caitlyn’s mouth twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”
Across the way, Red Bull’s garage was a different energy — fast, a little feral. They’d run simulations all morning to make sure the electrical gremlin from practice was dead. Nadia had been on and off calls with Milton Keynes, with the FIA, with anyone who would listen. On paper, the car was clean.
On paper, Vi was always clean.
Reality was messier.
Vi leaned on the halo of her car, helmet dangling from her fingers, eyes fixed not on her own screens, but on the Mercedes bay. Caitlyn was talking to Rhea, calm, controlled — but she was using her left hand more than her right. She was keeping her shoulders squared like she was holding something still.
Vi knew bodies. She’d watched enough drivers pretend they weren’t injured to spot one more. And Caitlyn… she was too composed. Not her usual locked-in, clinical, almost elegant focus. This was… armored. Like she’d wrapped chains around a feeling and dared it to move.
Nadia followed her gaze. “You’re not allowed to worry about Mercedes,” she said. “Contractually.”
“Shut up,” Vi muttered, but her eyes didn’t move. “She hit the wall yesterday.”
“She kissed it,” Nadia corrected. “You crashed harder than that in FP1 Bahrain.”
“That was different,” Vi said. “I was stupid.”
Nadia raised a brow. “And she wasn’t?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’,” Vi said, frowning. “She doesn’t do stupid.”
“Anyway. Stop watching her shoulders and start watching your sectors. We are not going home without a front row after this week.”
Vi’s grin came back, but it was thinner. “Yes, boss.”
Q1.
The light at the end of the pit lane went green and cars poured out like bullets. Everyone wanted clear air — Austin was long, and traffic could ruin your whole afternoon. Mercedes sent Caitlyn out early, as planned. Red Bull sent Vi right behind, not because they had to, but because Vi wanted to see her. Wanted to measure her pace with her own eyes, not a timing screen.
Out-lap. Tires warming, engines snarling, radio chatter filling the air.
Rhea: “Temps good. Brake warm-up clean. You’ve got track ahead, one car behind you on a push, blue for him if he closes, but you should be clear.”
Caitlyn: “Copy. Mode push, lap one.”
Nadia: “Track evolution is high. Don’t overthink Q1, Vi. Green is enough. No need purple.”
Vi: “You say that like I know how not to.”
Nadia, sighing: “Fine. Go hunt.”
First push.
Caitlyn’s silver arrow sliced through sector one like it had been drawn on. Every curb taken at the exact millimeter that got you rotation without spiking the suspensions. Her steering inputs were art — smooth, minimal, rhythmic. If you didn’t know her, you wouldn’t have noticed she was slightly guarding the right shoulder on long lefts. Just slightly. Enough to protect it. Not enough to slow her.
Vi watched the delta on her wheel — saw it flick purple next to CAI. Her lips tightened.
“Time to beat’s a 34.2,” Nadia said. “We’re expecting track to come to us, so don’t panic.”
“Panic?” Vi barked a laugh. “I’m huntin’.”
She pushed.
Vi’s style had always been louder than Caitlyn’s. Where Caitlyn painted, Vi punched. She attacked the curbs harder, trail-braked later, let the rear dance a breath on exit. It looked messier from outside and felt cleaner from inside. That was the thing about good drivers — the chaos outside was often just breath inside.
Her first lap went P2. No drama. Enough to move through.
They boxed.
Q1 ended easily for both of them. No traffic, no risk, no need to show everything. But even then, the cameras caught it: Caitlyn P1 in Q1. Vi P2. Less than a tenth between them. Again.
Social feeds lit up instantly.
@paddockpulse:
> THEY’RE AT IT AGAIN
#ViCaitlyn #WhoHurtThem
@safetylift:
> Caitlyn bins it in FP3 and wakes up violent on Saturday morning ok
@motorsportlive:
> Remember when these two said their “rivalry makes them better”?
They weren’t lying.
Q2.
This was always the session where the track changed feel — rubber down, temp up, pressure up. Everyone was lighter on fuel, everyone more awake. Pit lane became a choreography of seconds.
Mercedes debated one run or two; Rhea chose two. “I want a banker in case of yellow.”
Caitlyn didn’t argue. She did roll her right shoulder once, subtle, before pulling the helmet on.
Vi saw it.
She narrowed her eyes. That wasn’t just a bruise. That was today bruise — not yesterday. FP3 had been hours ago. Everything in the paddock moved fast, but bodies didn’t heal that fast.
She wanted to march over and ask, What did you do? Why did you do it? Who were you talking to after? But she didn’t. Cameras. Nadia. The knowledge that Caitlyn would stare at her with that cool, polite Kiramman look and not answer.
So she did the only thing her body trusted more than questions.
She went faster.
“Out now,” Nadia said. “You have a window.”
“Copy.”
Track out. Tyres hot. Grip good.
She hit turn one on an angle only idiots and gods chose — hairpin up the hill, straightening early, letting the rear slide enough to pivot, catching it like it was made to. The lap flowed. Sector two was clean. Sector three — she found two-tenths where there’d been none.
P1.
For about forty seconds.
Then the silver arrow finished its lap.
Delta dropped.
Caitlyn: P1.
Vi: P2.
Gap: 0.051.
“Of course,” Vi muttered.
Nadia laughed in her ear. “It’s like she’s allergic to being behind you.”
“Good,” Vi said, teeth flashing. “I’ll give her hives.”
In the Mercedes garage, Rhea exhaled. “Nice one, Cait. That’s through. You don’t need to run again if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” Caitlyn said.
Rhea eyed the shoulder. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Rhea didn’t push. She’d learned something in the last twenty-four hours: Caitlyn wasn’t just driving today, she was saying something with her driving. And Rhea didn’t know the whole message — but she knew enough to let it be said.
Q2 ended the same way as Q1.
P1: Caitlyn.
P2: Vi.
Ferrari, McLaren, the rest of the grid — they were there, but today was a two-car story.
By the time Q3 started, Twitter was already calling it fire vs frost again. The production truck had queued up split-screen graphics. The commentators were already saying things like “we’re lucky to be watching this live.” The fans in the stands were holding both Mercedes and Red Bull flags because they just wanted blood.
Ten minutes. Two sets of soft tires. One pole.
They rolled out together. Not coordinated, but not coincidence either. Cars often ended up near their natural enemies.
Vi pulled alongside in pit lane for a second — low speed, no helmets yet — and tilted her head, visor open just an inch. “Shoulder okay?” she called across.
Caitlyn didn’t even look. “Drive your car, Vi.”
That — that — made something in Vi’s chest flare. That wasn’t the usual playful frost. That was deflection. That was don’t make me say out loud what I did yesterday.
“Fine,” Vi yelled back, settling the helmet. “I’ll just beat you instead.”
“You can try,” Caitlyn said, and now there was a smile in it — but a sharp one.
Green light.
Out-lap. Track clear. Everything humming.
“Tyres in good window,” Rhea said. “This run is for position in queue. Your money lap will be the second one.”
“Understood.”
“Same to you, Vi,” Nadia said. “First run, baseline. Second run, kill.”
“Copy, kill,” Vi said, grinning under the helmet.
First push.
Caitlyn went first. She laid down a lap so clean it looked computer-grown. No oversteer. No drama. Every apex, every curb, every throttle phase — perfect. It was a message: I am not rattled. I am not injured. I am not stepping back.
P1.
Vi followed.
Her lap was different — wilder, louder, closer to the wall at turn 19, kerb-eating at 9, almost losing the rear at 13 and catching it with an obscene bit of car control that made half the paddock gasp. She crossed the line.
P2.
Gap: 0.018.
Nothing. Less than nothing. A blink. A muscle twitch.
In the Red Bull garage, someone whistled. “She’s gonna flip the table if she misses pole by that, huh?”
“Shut up,” Nadia said, but she was grinning too.
On track, they both did cool-down laps, weaving, making space for the final run.
Caitlyn flexed her right hand on the wheel. Her shoulder hurt. She ignored it. She’d driven with worse.
But she was… angry.
Not at the car. Not at the lap. At the fact that she’d had to make that choice in FP3. At the fact that Ambessa had made her calculate love against career like a ledger entry. At the fact that Vi had looked at her today with wide, worried eyes like she was made breakable.
She took that anger and rolled it into focus. Not the usual race-day calm. Something harder. Something like if you keep touching her, I keep touching the walls.
Rhea felt it over the radio, even without words. “Hey,” she said, tone softer. “You’ve already done enough. This is just polish.”
“I don’t polish,” Caitlyn said. “I win.”
Rhea smiled despite herself. “Then go win.”
Last run.
The sun had edged a little lower, but the track was hotter — so many cars had run. Grip was high. It was going to be fast.
Caitlyn started the lap and everything disappeared. No paddock. No Ambessa. No Vi. No shoulder. Just the car. Turn 1 — nailed. Sector one went purple. Sector two — she found time she hadn’t had in practice. Sector three — she didn’t protect the shoulder at all, took the high-speed left flat, trusting the strapping.
Across the line.
New P1.
The cheer from Mercedes was loud — but half-relieved, half of course.
Thirty seconds behind, Vi went.
Nadia’s voice: “Everything you’ve got, Vi. Right now. We don’t owe anyone ease after the week we’ve had.”
“Say less,” Vi said.
She threw the car.
Where Caitlyn had been neat, Vi was animal. She forced rotation at Turn 1, hustled the car through the esses, used every millimeter of track exit. Sector one — green, close. Sector two — she actually took time out of Caitlyn, the dash flashing purple for a glorious second.
Sector three.
That was where the Mercedes had been unbeatable all weekend. Stability, traction, exit. Vi wrestled the car through it — almost lost it in the long right, corrected, lost maybe half a tenth.
She floored it to the line.
P2.
Gap: 0.027.
The world screamed anyway. Austin loved a fight.
Red Bull garage — applause, some groans, some laughter.
Vi sat in the car for an extra second, breathing hard. Sweat ran down her spine. Her hand flexed on the wheel.
“P2,” Nadia said, not disappointed. “Hell of a job after no running yesterday.”
“Yeah,” Vi said, laughing once, breathless. “Yeah, I know. I know.”
She pulled into parc fermé behind the Mercedes. Caitlyn was already out, helmet off, hair damp, face flushed. She didn’t do the fist pump. She never did. She just nodded to the team, composed, like pole was the standard.
But Vi saw it.
The tiny, tiny wince as she lifted her arm to take off the HANS.
Invisible to cameras. Obvious to someone who’d watched her strip guns on bad days.
Vi hopped out of her car, tossed the wheel back, and walked over, still helmet on. The cameras loved it — rivals, front row, drama.
“Congrats,” Vi said through the helmet, voice slightly muffled. “Guess you like walls now.”
Caitlyn looked at her, eyes sharp, mouth soft. “Guess I like winning more.”
Vi cocked her head. “Shoulder?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
Caitlyn’s expression barely shifted, but her eyes warmed. “You were good,” she said, quieter so the mics wouldn’t catch. “Especially sector two.”
“You were better,” Vi said, and there was no bitterness in it, only the frustration of someone who loved the fight. “But you’re… different today.”
“How so?”
“Usually when you’re focused you’re… open.” Vi searched for the word, brows drawn. “Like you’re listening to everything. Today you’re… shut. Like you closed a door.”
Caitlyn inhaled once, slow. “Maybe I did.”
“Why?”
Caitlyn glanced, reflexively, toward the Mercedes motorhome — the one she’d walked into this morning to face Ambessa. Then back at Vi. “Because people keep trying to tell me where I’m allowed to look.”
Vi frowned, not getting all of it, but getting enough to know it wasn’t about lap time. “You gonna tell me who?”
“Not yet,” Caitlyn said. “But I’m handling it.”
“You don’t have to handle it alone,” Vi said, too fast. “Whatever it is—”
“I do,” Caitlyn said, but her voice gentled at the end. “Because it’s my world. And I won’t let it touch you.”
That shut Vi up.
Because that was not rivalry. That was not “thanks for the push.” That was I am protecting you even when I shouldn’t. And it was said so casually, so matter-of-factly, that Vi’s heart actually did something stupid in her chest.
Before she could answer, the interviewer beckoned them over. Top three. Parc fermé. Microphones. Smile for the world.
“Caitlyn,” the reporter said, “pole again, after a tough FP3 yesterday — how did you reset so quickly?”
Caitlyn’s smile was flawless. “You focus on the things you can control. Yesterday was… a little reminder that conditions can change fast. Today we executed.”
“Were you at all shaken?”
“Not at all,” she lied beautifully. “The team gave me a perfect car. I trust them completely.”
Vi’s eyes flicked to her at I trust them completely.
It was so… pointed.
So… aimed.
The reporter turned to Vi. “Incredible lap from you too — only twenty-seven thousandths off. After the issues yesterday, that must feel like a victory.”
Vi laughed. “Almost. I mean — finishing quali sessions is a victory this weekend. But nah, she was just faster. I’ll fix that tomorrow.”
“Is there extra motivation, given everything that happened to your car?”
Vi’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You could say that.”
“Do you think someone doesn’t want you to win?”
A beat. Heat. Cameras leaning in.
Vi wanted to say yes. Wanted to say someone is cutting my car open and pretending it’s bad luck. But she glanced sideways — at Caitlyn, straight-backed, eyes on the reporter, jaw flexed — and decided not to throw gasoline on a fire Caitlyn was clearly already trying to control.
“I think,” Vi said instead, “we made it pretty clear today we’re still here.”
Caitlyn’s lips twitched — the barest approval.
They were dismissed. Mechanics swarmed. Photos were taken. Social media exploded.
@f1tiktok:
> HOW is the gap always this small it’s actually witchcraft #Vi #Caitlyn
@paddocktea:
> also?? vi watching caitlyn during the whole interview?? babes WHAT did you see
@racerightnow:
> “conditions can change fast” – ok caitlyn we heard the subtext
When it finally calmed, when the crews rolled the cars back and the sun started to lean west, Vi caught up with Caitlyn again in the corridor that ran between the two motorhomes. It was quieter there, just the hum of aircon and distant crowd noise.
“You meant that,” Vi said, without hello.
“Meant what?”
“That line. ‘When conditions change fast, we have to catch it.’” Vi folded her arms. “That wasn’t about track temp.”
Caitlyn looked at her for a long moment. The corridor light caught the bluish shadow on her shoulder where the belt had dug. She looked… tired. Not physically — deep tired. The kind that comes from having to fight something you can’t punch.
“It was about a lot of things,” Caitlyn said finally. “One of them was you.”
“Why?” Vi stepped closer. “What’s going on?”
Caitlyn almost said it. Almost said Ambessa went for you through your car and I told her I would set this place on fire before I watched her do it again. But that would drag Vi into a game she wasn’t supposed to play. That would put a target on her head bigger than a broken loom.
So she did what she always did.
She swallowed it.
“Sometimes,” she said instead, “people think because you came from the Undercity, you’re movable. Expendable. That you don’t have people who will make noise for you.”
Vi stared at her. “And you crashed a car to prove them wrong.”
Caitlyn didn’t say yes.
Vi exhaled a laugh that was half disbelief, half something a lot like affection. “You’re insane.”
“You already knew that.”
“You—” Vi shook her head, eyes going a little bright. “You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” Caitlyn said. “Because if I didn’t, she would’ve done it again.”
“She?” Vi echoed.
Caitlyn let the pronoun hang.
Vi’s expression changed — slowly, like a filter dropping. “This is Piltover shit,” she said quietly. “Isn’t it.”
“Always is,” Caitlyn said. “And I will handle the Piltover part.”
“And I’m just supposed to race.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” Caitlyn said, eyes softening. “But it keeps you on the grid.”
Vi looked at her for a long time. At the shoulder she’d pretended didn’t hurt. At the eyes that had been too cold on track. At the mouth that had delivered a line that sounded like PR but had been a warning shot.
“You know,” Vi said finally, voice low, almost teasing to hide the weight, “You have been hiding so many things from me."
Caitlyn’s lips actually curved, tired and warm. “I know.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Caitlyn said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “I’d rather crack than watch you break.”
That hit Vi like heat.
She didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know if it was love, loyalty, guilt, all of it. Didn’t know why someone born in polished Piltover halls would offer her that kind of protection.
So she did what she always did when feelings got too big.
She punched her lightly in the uninjured arm. “Then don’t crash tomorrow.”
“No promises,” Caitlyn said, eyes dancing now. “You might make me.”
And Vi laughed — real, bright, the kind that made the corridor feel less like a trap and more like a secret.
But as Caitlyn walked away, shoulders straight, braid swinging, Vi watched her go with a crease between her brows.
Because yeah, she was happy for her. Proud, even. Caitlyn on pole after crashing the day before? That was monster behavior.
But it wasn’t… normal.
This wasn’t the usual machine-calm Caitlyn. This was someone holding a door shut with her whole body so the person behind it wouldn’t get dragged out.
Something was going on.
And Vi swore, right there in the too-cold hallway between rival motorhomes, that if Piltover wanted to play quiet war through cars and headlines, they were gonna have to start dealing with Zaun’s way of playing too.
Loud.
Lights over Austin always looked prettier than they deserved to.
They turned the whole circuit gold — pitlane, grandstands, even the tower — like the sun was personally invested. But under that color was heat, and under that heat was pressure, and under that pressure were two women who’d spent the entire week circling each other like magnets no one could pry apart.
Race day.
Engines in the distance warming. Fans already screaming. The grid a mosaic of colors and sponsors and nerves. Mechanics knelt by tires, umbrellas up, coolers everywhere. Reporters trying to squeeze in the last questions. It smelled like fuel and sunscreen and burnt rubber. Somewhere a DJ was doing too much.
Caitlyn stood beside her car on pole — helmet in one hand, eyes on Turn 1 up the hill. Her shoulder still ached, but it was a precise, contained ache now. Manageable. Filed. She’d strapped it well. She’d driven a qualifying lap with it. She could drive 56 laps.
She looked the same as always — smooth, distant, untouchable. But her focus today wasn’t the usual gentle tunnel. It was tighter. Angrier. Like she’d decided that after FP3, after qualifying, after the look Ambessa had given her, she was going to make absolutely sure that no one in Piltover could say, see, she’s distracted.
She’d win.
Right behind her, Red Bull blue. Vi swung her leg over the cockpit and dropped in like she’d done it her whole life — which, in a way, she had. She slapped the side of the car twice, her ritual, then sat back, visor up for now, eyes forward.
She could see the back of Caitlyn’s helmet from there. Could see the way her shoulders sat — level, not slumped, not cautious. If Vi hadn’t known about FP3, she wouldn’t have known she was hurt at all.
“Okay,” Nadia’s voice crackled in her ear. Calm, grounding. “Race plan: aggressive start, defend lap one, don’t burn the tires chasing her stupidly. We get her in the stops or if she makes a mistake.”
“She won’t,” Vi said automatically.
Nadia paused. “You sound sure.”
“She’s mad.”
“You can use that.”
“Or she can,” Vi said, eyes narrowing. “We’ll see.”
Behind them, Ekko’s Ferrari in P3. Vi glanced at him. He raised his brows like, don’t crash, I just got here. She snorted.
Formation lap.
Cars pulled away, one by one, engines roaring, cameras panning. The crowd rose to its feet like muscle memory.
Caitlyn rolled off cleanly, swerving to bring temp into the tires, eyes flicking to mirrors, checking Vi’s distance. Her engineer, Stef, took over for Rhea on race comms.
“Temps good. Brake warm-up good. Everyone on expected compounds. Vi behind on same tire as you.”
“Copy.”
“Ferrari behind her, so if you and Vi fight, Ekko will sniff.”
“Understood.”
She let the car hum through the esses. The track surface was honest — hot, grippy, punishing if you overdid it. Austin was one of those places that rewarded rhythm. She had rhythm today. Even the shoulder fell into it.
Behind, Vi weaved with more aggression — her style was always a little violent, even on a formation lap. Nadia watched the data. “Your fronts are getting hot faster. Back it off slightly.”
“I like ’em hot.”
“Yeah, that’s why you never had tires left on lap 40. Behave.”
Vi huffed — but she did back off a hair.
They reached the grid again. Cars slotted in, one after another, like beads on a string. The noise from the grandstand rose. The lights came on.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Vi’s whole body stilled.
Caitlyn’s breathing went slow.
Lights out.
Caitlyn’s launch was clean. Of course it was. No wheelspin, no bogging, just perfect traction up the hill. She covered the inside early, shoulder barely protesting. Vi hooked up well too, but not better. She stayed tucked behind, no space to send it without suicide.
“Good start,” Nadia said. “Stay in DRS range.”
“Tryin’.”
Turn 1 — a mess behind them. Cars fanning. Someone locking up. But the front was clean. Caitlyn dropped down, set the car for Turn 2, flowing right. Vi followed, half a car length back, engine whining.
Lap 1 down. Mercedes, Red Bull, Ferrari.
The rhythm set quickly.
Caitlyn’s driving today was… merciless. Not desperate — she didn’t block like someone terrified of losing. She just wasn’t leaving scraps. Every apex was fully hers. Every exit was perfect. Every time Vi got within seven tenths, Caitlyn would find a tenth and push her out again.
From the pit wall, Rhea watched the telemetry on one screen and the paddock on another. Ambessa was there at the back of the Mercedes pit box — hands behind her back, face unreadable, posture as imposing as if she were in council chambers. Rhea clocked her. She also clocked the way Caitlyn’s lap times had no variance.
“My god." one of the engineers muttered. “She’s driving like a metronome.”
“No,” Rhea said quietly. “She’s driving like she’s making a point.”
Lap 6.
Nadia: “Okay, Vi, you’re sitting 0.9. I need 0.7 to make it spicy.”
Vi: “She keeps getting a goddamn rocket exit.”
“Because she’s not overdriving like you. Breathe. You’ll get her when tires come to us.”
Vi settled. Watched. Waited. Caitlyn in front of her was a line of silver cutting air. Clean. Elegant. Irritating.
She wanted to rattle her.
Lap 9.
DRS enabled.
Down the back straight, Vi popped it open. The Red Bull screamed. The gap dropped.
“0.6. 0.5. 0.4. You can show,” Nadia said.
Vi dove left — not a real move, just a show-the-nose. Caitlyn didn’t flinch. Didn’t even move off-line. Held the racing line like of course you wouldn’t send from there, you’re not stupid.
Vi grinned in the cockpit. “Oh, you wanna play ice queen today? Bet.”
Next lap she showed again. This time a little later. Still nothing.
Caitlyn’s radio: “She’s probing.”
Rhea: “Let her. You’re doing great. Our degradation is better than forecast. We’ll extend.”
“Copy.”
That was the thing: it wasn’t just that Caitlyn wasn’t making mistakes. It was that she wasn’t even tempted to. She was the perfect student of herself — drive well enough, long enough, and no one can point to distraction.
But she knew — she knew — that every camera had already cut to her and Vi three, four times. That social media was already pushing clips from qualifying, from Singapore, from Monza. That Ambessa was standing ten meters away, watching to see if she’d soften at the sight of Vi in her mirrors.
So she didn’t.
Lap 14 — pit window opening.
Red Bull to Vi: “We can undercut. Your call. You’re losing too much in dirty air.”
Mercedes to Caitlyn: “We can go longer. Pace good. Don’t let her force you.”
Vi chewed it, cursed, spat, “Box.”
She dived in.
Perfect stop — 2.4.
She came back out into mild traffic, cleared it fast, pushed on the out-lap like her life depended on it.
Caitlyn stayed out.
The overcut would work if her tires stayed alive.
Rhea: “Two more laps. You’re still purple in sector three.”
“Understood.”
Those two laps were savage. Vi on fresh tires was flying, setting personal bests. If Mercedes stayed out too long, they’d lose track position.
Rhea read the screens, did the math, and called: “Box, box.”
In.
2.3. Clean.
Out.
They rejoined.
Side by side?
No — Caitlyn emerged just ahead. Half a car. Enough to claim the corner. Vi screamed into the radio, half-frustrated, half-thrilled, “You gotta be kidding me!”
Nadia laughed. “Then go again.”
The rest of the field fell away. Ferrari couldn’t live with their pace. McLaren tried an alternate strategy, but it didn’t matter.
It was those two.
Lap after lap.
Vi, at 0.7, 0.5, 0.4 — never quite close enough. Caitlyn, absorbing pressure like she’d been carved for it. Every time Vi thought this is it, the silver arrow would just… breathe and step away.
Halfway through, both of them were sweating. Caitlyn could feel the strap cutting over the bruise on her shoulder. Once, over the radio, she let out a breath she hadn’t meant to let them hear.
“You good?” Rhea asked immediately.
“I’m fine.”
“Shoulder?”
“Manageable.”
“You can back off for temps.”
“I won’t.”
“Cait—”
“I said I won’t.”
Rhea shut up. She recognized that tone. The one that said this isn’t about the race anymore.
On the Red Bull wall, Vi’s fuelled frustration had turned into something else — respect, sure, but also this gnawing what are you carrying that you have to drive like this? Because this wasn’t normal race-lead driving. This was a woman holding a line like she was holding a secret.
Lap 40.
Traffic.
This was where Vi could make it work.
They hit backmarkers — two cars fighting their own little war. Blue flags waved but not fast enough.
Caitlyn had to compromise her entry.
Vi saw it. Lunged. Right up on her gear box.
“Now!” Nadia barked. “Now, now, now!”
Vi sent it.
Caitlyn covered.
Not dirty — never dirty — but firm. Enough to make it clear: not today, Violet.
They were wheel to wheel for a heartbeat — the crowd rose, the commentators probably lost their minds — but the corner curved to Caitlyn. She held.
Vi fell in behind, heart hammering, laughing out loud in the helmet. “Okay,” she gasped. “Okay then!”
“Less flirting, more driving,” Nadia said, but she was smiling too.
Last ten laps.
Both of them were tired now. You could hear it in the radio. Breaths a little louder. Gear changes a little heavier. The heat ate at concentration.
But Caitlyn never cracked.
Not once.
She managed the gap. Kept it out of DRS just enough. Dipped in, pulled out. It was like watching a door close an inch every lap.
Final lap.
“White flag,” Rhea said. “Last one, Cait. Bring it home.”
She didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to — because something in her chest was tight and if she spoke, it might come out wrong.
Behind, Nadia: “Last chance, Vi. I know you’re cooked but so is she.”
Vi: “Then I’ll cook harder.”
She tried. Gods, she tried. She pushed that car past what the engineers had asked of it. Through the long right-hander before the back straight, she almost lost the rear — saved it with a flick born from Zaun chases on wet metal — and got a slightly better exit.
Not enough.
Down the straight, the gap sat at 0.6.
Too far.
Caitlyn didn’t back off. She didn’t do the little showboaty weave some drivers did before the flag. She just drove through the last corner like a queen finishing a walk.
Checkered flag.
P1 — Caitlyn Kiramman.
P2 — Vi.
The crowd roared.
“YES!” Rgwa shouted. “That’s it! That’s how we do it!”
In the car, Caitlyn finally let herself exhale, long and shaky. “Well done,” she said, voice soft. “Car was incredible.”
“You were incredible,” Rhea added.
Behind, Vi punched her wheel once — not in anger, in adrenaline. “Damn it!” she shouted, and then, laughing, “That was so good.”
Nadia: “P2 after the week we had? I’ll take it.”
“Yeah, yeah. I wanted her today.”
“You’ll get her tomorrow.”
“Not if she drives like that again,” Vi muttered, but there was zero bitterness. Only admiration.
On the Mercedes pit wall, mechanics hugged, slapped backs. Rhea grinned into her headset. And behind them, Ambessa watched.
She did not clap.
To the cameras, it would look like Piltover dignity. To someone who knew her, it looked like disapproval very carefully buttoned up. Because on the big screens, as replays ran, it was very obvious that the first person Caitlyn looked for on the cool-down lap — the first car she drew alongside to wave at — was not the Ferrari, not the McLaren, not even the fans.
She found the blue Red Bull.
She lifted her hand, just a flick, just for her.
Vi laughed in her helmet and flicked hers back.
Ambessa’s jaw tightened — barely.
Parc fermé.
Hot engines ticking. Heat waves rising. Mechanics rushing in. Caitlyn pulled up first, parked on the number 1 board. Vi right behind.
Caitlyn climbed out — slow, careful because of the shoulder, but she disguised it as elegance. Helmet off. Hair damp. Face flushed.
Vi bounded out like a puppy with too much energy, tossed her helmet to a mechanic, and walked straight over.
“Okay,” she said, voice bright, breathless. “Okay, okay — that was insane.”
Caitlyn’s lips curved. “You were glued to me.”
“Yeah, and you still didn’t mess up.”
“That’s the point.”
Vi rolled her eyes — then, low, eyes flicking around to check for mics: “Shoulder?”
“Holding.”
“You’re crazy.”
The sun had dropped just enough to turn everything honey. The American anthem blasted. Cameras ringed the rostrum. Caitlyn on the top step, hands behind her back, expression composed. Vi on P2, bouncing a little on her heels because she couldn’t not move for long.
They got their trophies — big, shiny, heavy. Caitlyn held hers properly, smiled properly, did the sponsor-facing smile.
Then they handed out the champagne.
Vi was looking at the bottle like a weapon before they’d even finished the photo. She popped hers first — classic — cork shooting high. Foam fizzed over her hand.
Caitlyn glanced at her — just in time to get hit full in the face.
Cold, hard, stinging.
For a heartbeat, she froze. The crowd gasped — because this was Caitlyn Kiramman, polished princess of Piltover, doused like a rookie.
And then she did something half the paddock had never seen her do on a podium.
She laughed.
She tilted her own bottle.
And fired.
The champagne arced in a gleaming spray, catching Vi square in the chest, soaking her hair, her suit. Vi shrieked — actual shriek — and charged up a step so she could reach Caitlyn properly. They chased each other in circles on the podium, laughing, bottles blasting, officials trying to not get hit and failing miserably.
The crowd went wild.
Phones out. Clips already headed to social.
@f1tiktok:
> WHAT DID WE JUST WITNESS??? CAITLYN “I’M COMPOSED” KIRAMMAN WENT FULL GREMLIN ON VI
@paddockpulse:
> THIS ISN’T RIVALRY ANYMORE THIS IS FOREPLAY
@mercedesstan:
> NOT CAITLYN ACTUALLY LAUGHING??? VI IS A PUBLIC SERVICE
Even the commentator on the main feed couldn’t help it. “Well, that’s… that’s the most relaxed we’ve ever seen Caitlyn Kiramman, I think.”
For one moment — one golden, champagne-soaked, sunlit moment — it wasn’t Piltover or Zaun or sabotage or council attacks or whispered threats.
It was just two women who loved racing, who loved beating each other, who loved that the other existed to make the fight worth it.
After the podium, still damp, they went to media.
“Caitlyn, dominant weekend — pole, win, fastest lap. After yesterday’s crash, did you feel extra motivated?”
Caitlyn, hair slicked back “Motivated, yes. Dominant… I wouldn’t say so. Vi was on me the whole race. If I’d made one mistake, she would’ve taken it.”
“You didn’t make one.”
“That’s because I couldn’t,” she said, glancing sideways. “She doesn’t let me.”
Vi, at her mic, shook her head, smiling like she was trying not to. “Nah, she was untouchable today.”
“You pushed her very hard.”
“That’s my job,” Vi said, shrugging. “And it’s fun. Don’t tell her that.”
“She can hear you.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The reporter seized on that. “There seems to be a lot of mutual respect between you two, even with the rivalry.”
Caitlyn didn’t hesitate. “She makes me better.”
Vi blinked — just a little. That was… plain.
Vi recovered fast. “Yeah, same. I used to drive angry. Now I drive smarter. That’s her fault.”
“So — no hard feelings about the champagne attack?”
Caitlyn’s eyes glittered. “She started it.”
Vi pointed at her. “She enjoyed it.”
“She’s insufferable,” Caitlyn added, deadpan.
“She loves it,” Vi shot back.
The cameras ate it up.
Behind the TV pen, just at the edge of frame, Ambessa watched.
She’d changed into something sharper — dark suit, hair immaculate — but she still carried that same immovable calm. Her eyes tracked Caitlyn as she spoke. Tracked Vi, too. Tracked the way the crowd responded more warmly to them together than to Mercedes alone.
She didn’t scowl. Didn’t hiss. Didn’t stride in to stop it.
She just… stilled.
Because this — this right here — was exactly what she’d warned about. Emotion, public, uncontained. The Kiramman heir soaked in champagne by an Undercity girl and laughing about it.
It was… powerful.
It was also dangerous.
Rhea noticed her. Their eyes met across the paddock. Rhea gave a tiny, polite nod — not submissive, just I see you.
Ambessa’s mouth curved the slightest bit — not amusement. Something closer to, so this is the road she’s choosing.
She turned without a word. Walked away from the paddock, from the noise, from the screens replaying two drivers spraying each other like teenagers.
No scene. No confrontation.
But the message was as clear as the one Caitlyn had sent with her FP3 crash:
I saw it.
I don’t approve.
I’m not done.
Later that night, in the quiet of her room, hair finally dry, shoulder finally aching without witnesses, Caitlyn scrolled through the clips: her on the podium actually smiling, Vi laughing up at her, the slowed-down shot of champagne catching her in the face.
She should’ve been embarrassed.
She wasn’t.
Her phone pinged.
Vi:
u looked good laughing up there, princess
should do it more
Caitlyn stared at it, lips lifting.
Caitlyn:
then stop trying to make me crash
Three dots.
Vi:
never 😈
besides
thought u said u wont let anyone touch me
Caitlyn’s fingers hovered.
She typed:
I won’t.
Didn’t delete it this time.
Sent it.
Outside, Austin still hummed with fans and music and distant engines being packed away. Inside, two cities’ worth of politics tightened their nets.
And in the middle of it, two drivers had just made it very, very public that they would not be turned against each other.
Notes:
This turned into the longest and most chaotic chapter yet — but I loved every second of writing it!
I hope you enjoyed the tension, the race, and that podium chaos as much as I did.
Please leave a comment if you liked it (or if you have ideas for what should happen next 👀).
I’ll post the next chapter once we hit 7 comments — deal?
Chapter 11: Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mexico City was the kind of place that made engines sound feral. The altitude thinned the air until even breathing became performance. The sky itself seemed closer, stretched taut above the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez like a mirror waiting to shatter.
Caitlyn adjusted her gloves, listening to the faint buzz of telemetry through her headset. Every number sang the same sterile tune: fuel pressure steady, brake bias optimal, hybrid recovery green. Everything perfect. That should’ve calmed her. It didn’t.
Across the pit lane, the Red Bull garage roared awake. Vi stood in the middle of it — hair tied up, half in her race suit, eyes bright despite the heat. She laughed at something Ekko said, leaning into him like gravity worked differently around her. Caitlyn had seen it a hundred times, but today the sight knotted something low in her chest.
“Caitlyn, we’re good to roll,” Rhea said over comms.
Caitlyn’s hands tightened around the wheel. “Copy. Rolling.”
The garage door split open, sunlight slicing through the shade, and the Mercedes slid out like liquid metal.
Track temperature: 48 degrees. Tyre grip: low. Heart rate: 92. Caitlyn catalogued each one. Precision was her sanctuary.
On lap two, she found rhythm. Throttle. Brake. Turn in. Apex. The car obeyed like a thought made flesh.
Rhea’s voice: “Nice and clean, Cait. Let’s push for data now. Vi’s out, half a sector behind.”
“Copy.”
She didn’t mean to look for the Red Bull. But her eyes found it anyway — the flash of blue in her mirrors, Vi’s aggressive line through Turn 7. Bold, imperfect, alive. Caitlyn’s lips twitched under the visor.
Then Vi’s onboard channel crackled faintly through shared telemetry. Static, a small curse, then silence.
“Red Bull reporting issue?” Caitlyn asked.
“Not yet.” Rhea’s voice carried a frown. “Minor system drop. They’ll fix it.”
The monitors in Mercedes pit wall showed Vi’s car wobble slightly on the straight. Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. She’d seen glitches before — they didn’t look like that.
But she kept driving. Smooth, consistent, clinical.
When FP1 ended, Caitlyn returned to the garage in perfect silence. Vi, on the other hand, slammed her helmet onto the table hard enough to make Ekko flinch.
“Fuel mapping’s off,” Vi said to her engineer, brow furrowed. “It’s cutting power mid-curve. Like someone’s yanking the throttle.”
Caitlyn stepped out of her car. Rhea passed her a towel. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Caitlyn’s eyes flicked toward Vi. “Her data?”
Rhea raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you worry about Red Bull’s fuel maps?”
Caitlyn managed the faintest smile. “Curiosity isn’t a crime.”
That night, the paddock was quieter — only the hum of distant fans and the clicking of cool-down systems. Caitlyn found herself in the data room, half in shadow, watching Vi’s telemetry replay.
She found it again. A half-second blip — small, deliberate, like a pulse injected into the data stream. Not random. Not mechanical.
Someone had done this.
“Still awake?”
Ambessa’s reflection appeared on the glass before her voice did. She didn’t knock. She never did.
“Working,” Caitlyn said, eyes still on the data.
Ambessa moved closer, every step measured. “You work too much when you’re anxious.”
“I’m not anxious.”
“Good.” Ambessa’s tone was velvet and iron. “Because anxiety breeds distraction. And distraction, Caitlyn, costs championships.”
Caitlyn turned slightly, her expression cold and polite. “Is that advice or evaluation?”
Ambessa smiled faintly. “Whichever you prefer.” She paused by the console, eyes glancing at the screen. “Red Bull problems?”
“Telemetry glitch,” Caitlyn said smoothly. “Nothing unusual.”
“Mm.” Ambessa’s gaze lingered. “Pity. I rather liked watching her climb the standings.”
Caitlyn’s hand stilled on the mouse. The phrasing was too casual. The timing, too perfect.
“I’m sure she’ll recover,” Caitlyn said.
“I’m sure she will.” Ambessa leaned close enough that Caitlyn could feel her breath. “Assuming the right people stay focused.”
Then she left. No warning. No sound except the door hissing shut.
Caitlyn stayed still for a long moment, the static from the monitors whispering in her ears.
On the screen, the data pulse glowed faint purple — faint enough to miss, sharp enough to warn.
She didn’t need to wonder anymore.
Someone wasn’t just testing Red Bull. They were testing her.
The next morning, the circuit shimmered under a pale haze.
By eight, the paddock smelled of rubber and brewed coffee, mechanics in grey and blue moving like clockwork. Mexico’s air was thin, but the noise made it feel heavy.
Caitlyn arrived earlier than usual. Sleep had been a theory, not a fact. The telemetry spike from the night before replayed behind her eyelids every time she blinked.
She moved through Mercedes like part of the machinery—helmet under her arm, face composed, hair perfectly braided. No one would guess that something in her chest was tightening a notch with every hour.
Rhea handed her the run plan. “Short runs first, then race sims. Same spec as yesterday.”
“Copy.”
Caitlyn glanced at the notes—each line a ritual of control—and signed.
Across the lane, laughter cracked through the morning. Vi again; she was surrounded by engineers and camera crews, telling some joke about humidity and horsepowers. Her grin was a small sun; even the Red Bull staff looked lighter near her.
Caitlyn’s eyes softened before she could stop them.
Then she put the helmet on.
---
FP2 opened like a promise. The cars dove out of the pits; tyres hissed against the asphalt still slick from overnight dew. Caitlyn took her warm-up laps at half speed, scanning mirrors. Vi was ahead this time, bright blue car dancing through the turns with that same fearless rhythm—overshooting apexes by millimetres, correcting by instinct.
For fifteen minutes, everything ran clean. Caitlyn’s times steadied, the rhythm returning.
Then Vi’s radio flared on open frequency—barely a syllable, a sound of irritation.
Static followed. Again.
Caitlyn’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “Rhea, Red Bull reporting anything?”
“Negative. Why?”
“Nothing,” Caitlyn said, keeping her tone even. But she’d already noticed the pattern: the same sector, the same half-second silence.
Two laps later, Vi aborted her run.
The session ended with Caitlyn in P2 and Vi in P8.
The data screens didn’t explain why.
---
Afterwards, the heat broke open into thunderclouds. The teams retreated indoors; even the fans quieted. Caitlyn stripped the gloves, flexing her hands. The fingertips were raw from clutch pressure.
When she looked up, Vi was there.
Helmet under her arm, hair sticking to her temples, eyes bright despite everything.
“Hey, Cupcake,” Vi said, leaning against the doorway. “You were flying out there.”
Caitlyn allowed herself a small smile. “So were you, until you weren’t.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Vi’s laugh was short, rough. “Car felt weird again. Throttle delay. We checked the systems—nothing. I swear it’s haunted.”
“Haunted?” Caitlyn’s voice carried a trace of amusement. “A scientific diagnosis.”
“Yeah, well, ghosts are real when you’re doing 300 down a straight.” Vi’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading her face. “You good? You look… I dunno, paler than usual.”
“I’m fine.”
Always the same answer.
Vi smirked. “You sure? ’Cause if you crash tomorrow, I’m telling everyone it’s ’cause you missed me.”
“That would be a first,” Caitlyn said dryly.
Vi’s grin widened, but her tone softened. “Seriously though, take it easy. Don’t burn out before quali.”
“I could say the same,” Caitlyn said. Then, after a pause, quieter: “They’ll sort your car. They always do.”
“Hope so.” Vi rubbed her neck, thoughtful. “Kinda feels like someone doesn’t want me winning.”
The words hit like a cold drop under armor.
Caitlyn kept her expression perfectly neutral. “That’s racing. Paranoia comes free with the contract.”
“Guess so.” Vi exhaled, pushing off the doorframe. “Anyway, dinner bet—loser buys tacos?”
Caitlyn’s lips curved faintly. “You’re assuming I’ll lose.”
“Always do.” Vi winked, and walked away, leaving the faint scent of heat and engine oil in her wake.
Caitlyn sat alone in the Mercedes telemetry room, the glow of monitors bleaching her face. The rhythmic click of her pen was the only sound.
She compared data streams—hers and Vi’s, lap by lap.
The interference pulses weren’t random. They followed a pattern: always within twenty seconds of when Mercedes uploaded their own live data to the FIA servers.
Which meant whoever was tampering had access to her team’s relay.
Someone inside the Mercedes network.
Someone who could move the strings unseen.
Caitlyn’s throat felt dry.
The door slid open; Rhea entered, holding two coffees. “You’re still at it? FP3’s tomorrow. Get some rest.”
“I’m cross-checking something.”
Rhea set the cup beside her. “Telemetry again?”
“Just verifying consistency.”
Rhea studied her for a moment. “You’ve been… quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“That’s the problem,” Rhea said softly. “You get quiet when something’s wrong.”
Caitlyn forced a small smile. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Rhea sighed, unconvinced, and left her to the hum of the monitors.
When the door closed, Caitlyn stared at the Mercedes logo reflected in the glass.
It looked like a weapon when it caught the light.
The air on Saturday morning had teeth.
Cooler than before, sharper. The overnight storm had washed the dust off the asphalt, leaving the circuit raw and slick. The mechanics moved like ghosts in their overalls, voices muffled by headsets.
FP3 was supposed to be routine — low fuel runs, final checks, confidence laps.
For Caitlyn, it was reconnaissance.
She arrived later than usual, calculatedly late, to avoid the camera surge that followed her every weekend. Vi was already suited up, half-leaning on the pit wall, hair damp from the humidity, joking with a junior mechanic about altitude sickness. Her laughter cut clean through the static hum of the paddock.
Caitlyn slowed as she passed, careful not to look too long, careful not to feel the warmth that flared in her chest at the sound of that laugh.
“Morning, Princess,” Vi called after her. “Try not to lap me too early today.”
“I’ll consider it an act of mercy,” Caitlyn replied without turning.
Vi grinned, watching her go, eyes following the precision of Caitlyn’s posture — the effortless command of it. She had no idea what kind of war Caitlyn was fighting behind that calm.
---
The garage smelled of ozone and brake dust. Caitlyn climbed into the cockpit, helmet resting on her knees for a moment as she stared at her hands. They were steady. They always were.
Rhea leaned in. “You’re green across the board. We’ll do race runs first, then qualy sims. Copy?”
“Copy.”
“And Cait—” Rhea hesitated. “If you feel something off, you box immediately. No heroics.”
Caitlyn gave a small nod. The irony almost made her smile.
---
Out on track, the cars screamed against the concrete walls. The crowd was only half awake but already deafening. Vi’s Red Bull darted through the first chicane, blue and gold flashing like a heartbeat. Caitlyn followed a few corners behind, her telemetry perfect, every sector clean.
Until Lap 6.
Rhea’s voice crackled through. “Caitlyn, confirm you’re seeing this? RPM fluctuation?”
“I’m stable,” she said, scanning the dash. “No error.”
“Telemetry shows a spike—looks like external interference again.”
Caitlyn’s stomach went cold. “Source?”
“We’re tracing it, but it’s coming through the live stream network. Not internal.”
Of course it wasn’t. Ambessa wouldn’t be sloppy. She’d make it look like the weather, like fate.
Then another voice bled through—Vi’s open channel, a flash of static, half a curse:
“Throttle lag again! What the hell—”
The radio cut.
Caitlyn’s vision tunneled. She wanted to answer, to tell her she knew, to tell her to stop pushing. But she couldn’t. Wrong team. Wrong world.
Instead she pushed harder, her car slicing through Sector 2, shaving milliseconds like she could carve the problem out of reality.
By the time the checkered flag waved, Vi had managed only eight clean laps. Her car coasted to a stop before pit entry, steam ghosting off the brakes.
Caitlyn brought hers back into the garage, the roar of the crowd fading into silence the moment she removed her helmet. Rhea’s face said enough — confusion, worry, suspicion.
Vi walked past, her own helmet still on, fists clenched around the gloves. “Something’s screwing with my car,” she muttered to Ekko. “Feels like it’s fighting me.”
Caitlyn watched, silent, as Red Bull mechanics swarmed Vi’s car. She saw the dark smudge of heat across Vi’s collarbone where her suit had pressed too tight, the exhaustion under her eyes.
She forced herself to look away.
Back in Mercedes briefing, the engineers rattled through data. Caitlyn barely heard them. Her mind was replaying Ambessa’s voice from the other night — that quiet, amused tone that made everything sound like a game.
You work too much when you’re anxious.
Ambessa knew. Of course she did. Every spike in telemetry, every whisper in the paddock, every “coincidence.” It was all a lesson. Pressure disguised as mentorship.
Rhea’s hand touched her shoulder lightly. “You with us?”
Caitlyn blinked. “Yes. Sorry.”
“Telemetry interference’s external again,” Rhea said. “FIA’s been alerted, but no source identified.”
Caitlyn’s mouth curved in something like a smile. “They won’t find one.”
When the meeting ended, she stayed behind. The room emptied, the noise faded, and the hum of the screens filled the silence.
She turned off the overhead light, letting the glow of the monitors paint her face. The blue light made her eyes look colder than she felt.
She traced the data stream with her fingertip — each dip, each pulse.
They aligned perfectly with one thing: Mercedes’ own broadcast pings.
Ambessa’s signature wasn’t in code. It was in rhythm.
The same rhythm Caitlyn had once been taught to use — when she’d learned how to mask engine tampering during her first training year. Back then, Ambessa had called it discipline disguised as chaos.
Caitlyn sat back in her chair, heartbeat steadying, breath long and slow.
It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a rival team.
It was Ambessa, reminding her who held the strings.
A lesson written in interference. A warning wrapped in data.
Protect her, and you’ll pay for it in silence.
Caitlyn closed her eyes, letting the truth settle like ash.
Then she opened them again, calm, precise, unreadable.
Outside, the noise of the paddock rose and fell — interviews, laughter, life continuing as if nothing was wrong.
Vi was probably out there somewhere, joking with Ekko, shaking her head at whatever new “curse” haunted her car. Still smiling. Still alive.
Caitlyn allowed herself one quiet thought, not even a whisper.
Stay that way.
Night came to the paddock like a curtain falling.
The grandstands emptied first, then the cameras, then the laughter. The floodlights hummed above the track, painting the tarmac in long bands of silver. Somewhere a compressor hissed and died; the last echo of the day exhaled into silence.
Caitlyn stayed long after the others had gone.
Her helmet sat on the workbench, visor open like an eye half-asleep. A thin film of dust had settled on its chrome. She brushed it away with the back of her glove, as if the gesture could erase the last twelve hours.
Her body ached with the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from racing — it came from thinking too much, from holding everything together while pretending nothing was wrong.
Rhea had left half an hour ago after trying — and failing — to convince her to go rest.
Caitlyn had promised she would. She lied.
The data screens glowed in the dark.
Every line of code she’d studied was now a confession.
Every glitch had Ambessa’s rhythm stamped into it.
Even the intervals between spikes matched the cadence of old telemetry drills — the same lesson, replayed with surgical cruelty.
Ambessa wasn’t trying to ruin Vi’s race.
She was showing Caitlyn how easily she could.
The door hissed open behind her, and for a moment her shoulders went rigid — expecting her.
But it was only Vi.
She still wore her hoodie from media duties, half-zipped, eyes bright with exhaustion. A small bruise shaped like a seat belt burned on her collarbone. “Thought I’d find you here,” Vi said softly, stepping in. “You never know when to quit, do you?”
Caitlyn’s mouth curved faintly. “Neither do you.”
“Touché.” Vi leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “FP3 sucked. Feels like my car’s allergic to straight lines.”
Caitlyn let out the smallest breath of laughter. “You’ll adjust. You always do.”
Vi tilted her head, studying her. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been weirdly… quiet.”
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn said automatically, the practiced line smooth as glass.
Then she added, softer: “Just focused.”
Vi smiled, but there was concern under it. “You don’t have to hold your breath all the time, you know. It’s okay to breathe when no one’s watching.”
Caitlyn met her eyes then — too long, too steady. Something unspoken flickered there, something Vi didn’t have the language for.
When she finally looked away, Vi’s grin returned, nervous and bright. “Anyway… dinner? Ekko’s ordering tacos for everyone.”
“I have to finish a report.”
“Boring.” Vi pushed off the wall. “Don’t overthink the whole universe before qualy, yeah? Let the rest of us have a chance.”
Caitlyn’s reply was a small, dry smile. “No promises.”
“Didn’t think so.” Vi gave a lazy salute and left, the door sliding shut behind her.
Her footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the hum of cooling machines
Caitlyn exhaled, slow.
The room felt emptier without Vi in it — too big, too clean, too quiet.
Her reflection in the screen looked like a stranger wearing her face.
She replayed the last telemetry burst from FP3: the interference spike timed exactly with Mercedes’ encrypted network handshake. A signature, deliberate and unmistakable.
Ambessa didn’t need to send threats. The message was already inside the system.
Caitlyn’s hands hovered over the keyboard, then dropped to her lap.
For the first time all weekend, her composure slipped — not visibly, but inside, where no camera could see. A flicker of heat behind her eyes, a pulse of something that might’ve been anger, or grief, or both.
Ambessa had chosen her lesson well: precision versus mercy, loyalty versus silence.
And Caitlyn had failed before it even began — because she cared. Because she couldn’t stop.
Outside, the wind picked up again, carrying faint music from the city.
Caitlyn closed the laptop, gathered her helmet, and turned off the lights.
For a moment she stood by the open door, looking out at the dark track — empty, waiting.
The air smelled of ozone and metal, the ghosts of speed still clinging to it.
Somewhere out there, Vi was laughing with the crew, oblivious, safe for now.
Caitlyn felt the thought rise and settle in her chest like a vow:
Whatever she breaks to reach you, I’ll break twice to keep you whole.
She left the garage without a sound.
Behind her, the data screens flickered once — a tiny pulse of purple static, gone before it could become a warning.
The heat hadn’t left the circuit, it had just gone thin. Mexico did that — the sun dropped, the shadows got longer, but the air still sat on your skin like a hand. Down the main straight the drums were still going, fans still shouting names, engines cooling in the garages with that ticking, metallic breath. On paper it was just qualifying day. On paper it was clean.
On Caitlyn’s screen it was anything but.
She sat in the small telemetry room Mercedes carved out behind the garage — dark, cool, humming with data. Three runs from FP3 hovered in front of her, lines of speed, throttle, ERS deployment, and there it was again: the pulse. A stuttering hiccup nowhere in the car’s mechanical record and everywhere in the network log. It was timed, not random. A whisper shoved into the feed right when Red Bull uploaded their live lap.
Right when Vi uploaded hers.
Caitlyn zoomed in, jaw tight. She could hear Ambessa’s voice from two nights ago, velvet around steel: You work too much when you’re anxious. It wasn’t anxiety. It was math. Someone with access to Mercedes’ uplink was sending out a small, deniable disruption aimed at another team. Not enough to blow an engine. Enough to make a lap disappear.
Enough to ruin a weekend.
“Still haunting the data?”
Rhea’s voice came from the doorway. She held two cups, hair tied back, sleeves rolled to the elbow. She looked tired, but she always looked tired during triple-header stretches.
Caitlyn straightened in the chair. “Just confirming.”
“I already sent the FIA the logs.”
“They won’t see it.”
“Then what are you looking for?” Rhea stepped in, set a cup by her elbow. “Reassurance?”
“Pattern,” Caitlyn said.
Rhea watched her for a second. “You’re wound tight,” she said softly. “More than usual.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re hiding something.”
Caitlyn finally looked up at her. Calm, eyes cool. “I’m driving for pole.”
Rhea let out a breath through her nose. “Alright. Then drive for pole. Let the rest of us hunt ghosts.”
Caitlyn didn’t point out that this particular ghost lived in their own walls.
When Rhea left, Caitlyn ran the feed again. Same pulse, same interval. It rode the same timing cadence Ambessa had taught her years ago — the one meant to mask illegal setup tests during private sessions. Not code. Rhythm. Exactly the kind of lesson Ambessa liked: invisible, specific, punishable.
She sat back. There were no good options. She couldn’t confront Ambessa in the open; that would make it real. She couldn’t tell Vi; that would pull her into a game she couldn’t win. And she couldn’t let it keep happening.
So she decided the same way she decided on track — fast, clean, irreversible.
If Ambessa wanted to hit Red Bull through the network, she’d have to hit Caitlyn first.
—
Qualifying built itself around them like a cage. The sun started falling, the stands filled, the altitude gnawed at everyone’s lungs. Mechanics moved faster. Drivers put on their media smiles. The cars sat in their boxes like coiled animals.
Vi was buzzing.
She loved Saturdays — all pressure, no points, just the thrill of making a car do something perfect for one minute. She hopped up onto the Red Bull pit wall, still half in her suit, helmet under her arm, watching cars go by.
Nadia was running through the plan with her. “Two runs in Q1, one in Q2 if we’re safe, two in Q3. Track’s rubbering in well. We can go last for the tow.”
“Cool,” Vi said, eyes tracking the silver Mercedes across the lane. “That mean I get to embarrass royalty?”
“Please don’t say that into a microphone.”
“Come on, they love when I talk.”
“Exactly.”
Vi grinned.
Caitlyn came out of the Mercedes hospitality just then. Suit pristine, collar straight, hair braided back, visor dangling from her fingers. She walked like she was gliding — like the ground moved around her, not the other way. She didn’t look toward Red Bull, not even when Ekko shouted something dumb from the Ferrari end. Not even when Vi’s laugh cut through the noise.
Vi rolled her eyes. “She’s in murder mode.”
“Good,” Nadia said. “Means you’ll get a proper lap.”
—
Q1 was nothing. Traffic, warmup, get through, don’t scrape the floor. Both of them sailed in. Q2 tightened — temperatures, strategy, tow games. Vi stayed light, joked over radio, sang two notes off-key. Caitlyn stayed silent, giving only what was necessary.
Then came Q3.
Ten minutes. Two laps that mattered. That thin Mexico light turning everything orange and making the halo bars glow.
Mercedes sent Caitlyn first.
“Gap behind?” she asked.
“Clear for now,” Rhea said. “You can take the lap. Don’t over push in the stadium.”
“Copy.”
She rolled down the pit lane, the roar of the crowd pulsing through her bones. The car came alive under her hands, power unit delivering clean. This was the part she was built for — not politics, not boardrooms, not Ambessa. This: a circuit, a car, and a single objective.
She took the first flyer. Strong, solid, provisional P1.
Vi watched it on the screen in the Red Bull garage and whistled. “She’s quick.”
“You can be quicker,” Nadia said. “You always are when you want to show off.”
“Who says I want to show off?”
“Your entire personality,” Ekko said, passing by.
Vi shoved his shoulder. “Go drive your tractor.”
Her turn.
She rolled out later, aiming for the cooler track. The team slotted her into space. Nadia’s voice softened on radio. “You’re clear. Just you and the lap.”
“Alright,” Vi muttered, visor down. “Let’s dance.”
She was midway through her out lap when Caitlyn saw it.
She was back in the garage, helmet off, watching the live data feed over the engineer’s shoulder. Cars blipped onscreen as streams of numbers. In the background, Mercedes’ own uplink pinged the FIA server.
And right on cue, just as Vi was building for her push lap, that extra pulse hit the shared channel.
Same signature. Same timing. Same lesson.
If it got through, Vi’s ERS deployment would dip for half a second on the main straight. Not catastrophic. But at Mexico, where air was thin and every kilowatt mattered, half a second was the difference between front row and nowhere.
Caitlyn didn’t even speak. She grabbed her helmet, snapped it on, and slid back into the car that was still warm from her last run.
“Cait?” Rhea sounded startled. “What are you doing?”
“Going again.”
“We don’t need another lap, you’re already—”
“Going again,” Caitlyn repeated, voice so calm it brooked no argument. “Send me.”
There was a half second of comm chatter, confused engineers in the background. Then the lollipop lifted. The Mercedes rolled.
On track, Vi was in final corners, building heat in the tires, ready to launch.
In the Mercedes, Caitlyn flicked to systems page and did the thing she was absolutely not supposed to do: she changed her car’s broadcast ID to mirror Red Bull’s. To the network, she was now Vi.
The interference hit instantly.
Her dash flickered. ERS deployment cut by a third. Power dropped.
“Caitlyn, you just lost hybrid—” Rhea’s voice shot up. “Box, box, box—”
“Negative,” Caitlyn said, already moving off line. “I’ll clear the line.”
Yellow flags came out in the sector. The cameras caught it: the silver car slowing unexpectedly on its build lap.
But Vi was already past the trigger point.
“Track clear,” Nadia said. “Push now!”
Vi did.
The lap was beautiful, the kind people replayed later just to feel something. Late turn-in, heavy on the brakes, perfect stadium section. The crowd rose as she came through, her Red Bull carving through the final esses. Across the line.
P1.
“YES!” Vi yelled, voice cracking. “Tell me that’s pole, tell me that’s—”
“It’s pole,” Nadia laughed. “By two tenths. You did it.”
Red Bull erupted. Ekko clapped from Ferrari. Fans lost it.
Back at Mercedes, there was no eruption. Just radios, instructions, debrief notes. Caitlyn brought the car back in, system still in fault, face perfectly calm under the helmet.
Rhea met her the second the car stopped. “What was that?”
“System interference,” Caitlyn said, pulling off her gloves. “Same as this morning.”
“So you went back out?”
“I wanted to see if it would repeat.”
“And it did,” Rhea said, eyes narrowing. “On you.”
“Yes.”
Rhea stared at her. She wasn’t stupid. Her gaze flicked to the Red Bull garage, to the cheering, to the timing screen. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “We’ll… talk about that later.”
“Of course.”
They both turned toward the monitors as Vi climbed out of her car, helmet off, face flushed, grin wild.
Caitlyn’s chest ached.
She’d done what she set out to do. She’d pulled the strike onto herself. And Vi would never know.
—
The interviews were fast, bright, shallow. The three of them sat behind the desk — Vi, Caitlyn, Ekko — with the sponsor wall behind them and microphones in front. The cameras loved Vi, obviously. Loved the way she laughed, the way she gestured, the way she spoke like the sport belonged to her.
“Vi, incredible lap. Looks like the car finally cooperated.”
“Guess she decided to be nice to me today,” Vi said, smirking. “Or maybe I’m just that good.”
Laughter.
“Caitlyn, a rare power issue from Mercedes. Any concerns for the race?”
“No,” Caitlyn said, smooth, unbothered. “We identified it. We’ll fix it. The team is strong.”
“And what you said earlier this week about ‘different pressures’ — does that still apply coming into Sunday?”
There it was. The opening.
This was for Ambessa. Not for Vi. Not for the media. For the woman who watched every word she said.
Caitlyn folded her hands, expression serene. “Motorsport isn’t just about speed,” she said. “Some of us race with… additional considerations. That’s all.”
It was mild. It was nothing. The journalists accepted it and moved on.
Vi did not.
She looked sideways at Caitlyn, eyes narrowing just a fraction. Additional considerations? What was that supposed to mean? That Vi didn’t have them? That Caitlyn was carrying some noble burden the rest of them weren’t? That her P1 was… what, charity?
She didn’t say anything on stage. She smiled. She joked. She did the job.
But it needled.
Later, when the paddock was darkening and the fans had finally been pushed out, she found Caitlyn in one of the service corridors between hospitality units. The kind of place drivers cut through to avoid cameras. The air smelled like cleaning fluid and hot concrete. Caitlyn was alone, tablet in hand, reading.
“Hey.”
Caitlyn looked up. Her face softened a millimeter. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Vi shoved her hands into her pockets. “You gonna tell me what that was?”
“What what was?”
“In quali.” Vi stepped closer. “You had a power issue. Out of nowhere. Same sector I was about to go through.”
“We share a track,” Caitlyn said. “Coincidences happen.”
“Not to you.”
Caitlyn said nothing.
Vi exhaled, shook her head. “And then the interview. ‘Some of us race with additional considerations.’ What’s that, huh? You calling me selfish? Saying I don’t think beyond the car?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what it sounded like.”
“It’s what you heard,” Caitlyn corrected, tone still soft, still maddeningly calm.
Vi stared at her like she was trying to peel her open. “You always do this,” she said, frustration simmering. “You say things like you’re talking to someone else. Like you’re answering a question I didn’t hear.”
Caitlyn’s throat tightened. “Maybe I am.”
“Yeah?” Vi folded her arms. “Then who was it for?”
Silence.
Caitlyn could have said it. Could have whispered, it was for Ambessa, she’s been using our uplink to mess with your car, I pulled it onto mine. She could have watched Vi’s eyes go wide with fury, watched her storm off to Red Bull and blow the whole thing open.
And then what? Mercedes would lock down. Ambessa would retaliate. Vi would be pulled into Piltover politics she couldn’t fight. She’d get investigated, doubted, maybe suspended, all because Caitlyn couldn’t keep her mouth shut.
So Caitlyn did what hurt.
She lied with grace.
“It was a general statement,” she said. “Nothing to do with you.”
Vi laughed once, bitter, surprised at herself. “Right. Of course. Because nothing’s ever about me with you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Feels true,” Vi said. “Feels like you’re always two steps away. On track, off track. Like you like me most when I’m on the other side of pit lane.”
“Maybe I like you most when you’re not in danger,” Caitlyn said before she could stop herself.
Vi blinked, thrown. “Danger?”
Caitlyn set her jaw. “Forget it.”
“No.” Vi stepped in, now close enough that Caitlyn could smell sweat and engine oil and the faint citrus of her soap. “You don’t get to drop that and walk away. What danger?”
Caitlyn looked at her — really looked. At the damp hair stuck to her temple. At the eyes still sparkling from pole. At the mouth still curved from adrenaline. She wanted to tell her everything.
She shook her head instead. “Just… be happy you got pole.”
Vi stared at her for another heartbeat, hurt flickering across her face like a shadow. “You make it really hard to be mad at you,” she muttered. “Because I never know what you’re actually fighting.”
“Then don’t be mad,” Caitlyn said. It came out too soft.
Vi didn’t answer. She just stepped back. “Get some sleep, Princess. You looked tired even while you were perfect.”
Then she left, boots thudding down the corridor, shoulders squared like she was walking into a fight she understood. Caitlyn stood there, every muscle held too tightly, until the door swung shut behind her.
Only then did she let herself exhale.
—
Ambessa was waiting for her.
Not in the corridor, not in the garage — in the quiet, glass-walled briefing room upstairs where Mercedes kept their high-level meetings. A place of polished wood, recessed lights, and the smell of expensive machines. The city glittered beyond the window, Mexico spread out like spilled jewels.
“You did well,” Ambessa said without preamble. “Even under pressure.”
Caitlyn closed the door behind her. “You saw.”
“Of course I saw.” Ambessa’s eyes gleamed. “You moved the strike. Onto yourself.”
“You were endangering another team.”
“I was testing you,” Ambessa said. “You passed.”
“I wasn’t trying to impress you.”
“No,” Ambessa said, amused. “You were trying to protect her.”
Caitlyn’s fingers curled at her sides. “You said I needed distance.”
“And you still haven’t learned it.” Ambessa paced slowly, hands clasped behind her back. “So I gave you a choice. Watch her lose time in front of the whole world… or carry it yourself. You chose yourself. Admirable. Predictable.”
“You forced me to.”
“I showed you what leverage looks like.”
Caitlyn met her gaze, calm and cold. “She thinks I was talking about her in that interview.”
“I know.”
“You wanted that.”
Ambessa inclined her head. “Separation is useful. She’ll lean on her team, not on you. You’ll lean on me.” A pause. “We return to the correct hierarchy.”
Caitlyn’s chest burned. “She did nothing wrong.”
“She existed in your blind spot,” Ambessa said, as if explaining gravity. “And that makes her a factor. I will not let a Zaun-born driver compromise the face of Mercedes.”
“She’s not compromising anything.”
“She’s compromising you.”
There it was. The naked part of it.
Ambessa softened her voice, which somehow made it worse. “Caitlyn. You are brilliant. But you are not untouchable. You drive at my pleasure. You enjoy this sport at Piltover’s pleasure. You do not get to attach yourself to danger born of the Undercity and pretend there is no price.”
“She is not danger.”
“She is danger,” Ambessa corrected. “Her sister is a problem. Her city is a problem. Her image, should it be exposed, will be a problem. And you insist on placing yourself between her and the consequences.” Ambessa’s eyes flashed. “That is not strategy. That is sentiment.”
Caitlyn swallowed. “So your answer is to sabotage her?”
“My answer,” Ambessa said, voice velvety, “is to remind you that I can. So you stop making me want to.”
“Then stop.”
“You first.”
They stared at each other, glass and gold and tension between them.
Finally Caitlyn spoke, very quietly. “If you keep targeting her car, I will keep diverting it.”
Ambessa’s brow arched. “At the cost of your own grid position?”
“At the cost of whatever it takes.”
Ambessa studied her then, really studied her, like she was reassessing the weapon she’d forged. “You Kiramman women,” she murmured. “So polite. So stubborn.”
Ambessa moved closer until she was just inside Caitlyn’s space. “This is the last time I tolerate it,” she said, low. “Because if I cannot discipline you through your machinery, I will discipline you through your contract. And if that fails… I will discipline her through her team.”
Caitlyn’s blood went cold.
“Leave her out of it,” she said, still calm, only her eyes betraying the crack. “She doesn’t even know.”
“Exactly,” Ambessa said. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
The message was clear. So was the threat.
When Ambessa left, the room felt bigger but colder. The city still sparkled outside. Down below, in the paddock, Vi was probably still talking with her team, laughing, replaying her lap. Thinking it was just an ordinary fight between rivals. Thinking Caitlyn’s strange line in the interview had just been a dig.
She didn’t know it had been a shield.
Caitlyn stood by the glass awhile, fingers resting against the cool pane, watching the circuit lights dim one by one. The hurt from Vi’s earlier look — that flash of why won’t you just be normal with me? — sat in her chest like a weight.
She could take sabotage. She could take Ambessa. She could take the board. She’d been trained for that.
Vi’s disappointment cut deeper.
But she swallowed it, the way she swallowed everything, and when she finally turned off the lights and left the room, her face was the same cool, immaculate composure everyone expected from Caitlyn Kiramman — the woman no one knew had just taken a hit for a rival who thought she was the enemy.
The morning of the driver parade broke clear and loud. The circuit glittered in sun and flags, brass horns clattering over the sound of engines idling. Caitlyn rode in the back of a slow-moving flatbed, waving as the grandstands chanted her name in uneven rhythm. It should have felt easy—the pre-race ritual, the half hour where everyone pretended to be ordinary people. But she could still feel the bruise of last night’s talk with Ambessa, and the heavier bruise of Vi’s words.
Vi was two cars ahead on her own truck, laughing with Ekko, tossing a flag back to the crowd. When she turned, the sunlight caught the streaks of red in her hair. Caitlyn caught herself watching too long.
When the vehicles rolled to a stop for the last stretch, Caitlyn stepped down and crossed the narrow gap between them. “Thought you’d try to sneak through the parade without saying hello,” she said lightly.
Vi looked over, surprised. Her smile faltered but didn’t vanish. “Didn’t think you’d want to.”
“I always want to,” Caitlyn said, tone almost teasing, like she was trying to smooth the air. “How’s the wrist? You clipped the curb yesterday.”
“It’s fine.” Vi hesitated, then added, quieter, “You sure you’re fine? After quali?”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
Vi’s eyes narrowed a little. “You don’t look fine. You look like you’ve got a storm locked behind your eyes.”
Caitlyn smiled the way she did for cameras—small, precise. “Must be the sunglasses.”
“Cut the act, Cait.” Vi stepped closer, the crowd noise a dull roar around them. “If something’s wrong, you can just tell me.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“Bullshit.” Vi’s voice was still low, but the word had weight. “You’ve been… off. Since Austin, since whatever that thing was in FP3. You keep acting like you’re protecting some secret, and I’m starting to think it’s about me.”
Caitlyn froze, her practiced composure bending for a breath.
Vi saw it. “It is about me, isn’t it?” Her tone softened. “Is this about my sister? Did someone—"
Caitlyn shook her head quickly. “No. It’s not about her. It’s not—” She stopped herself, forcing the words down. “Vi, please. Don’t twist yourself up over this. You’ve got a race to think about.”
Vi frowned, the fight leaving her shoulders but not her eyes. “You’re not telling me something.”
“Because I can’t,” Caitlyn said quietly. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”
That landed between them like static.
Caitlyn reached out, touched Vi’s wrist—barely, a whisper of contact. “Just… believe me when I tell you that nothing I’ve done is meant to hurt you.”
Vi blinked, startled by the honesty in her voice. “Then what’s it meant to do?”
Caitlyn’s mouth curved, sad and fond all at once. “Keep you safe. Even if it makes you hate me.”
Vi stared at her, caught somewhere between confusion and something else entirely. “I could never—”
The parade car behind them honked, a sharp warning. They both turned. Cameras swung their way. The crowd roared, sensing something even if they didn’t know what.
For one suspended second, the two of them just looked at each other. The kind of look that carried too much—worry, longing, questions neither could afford to answer. Caitlyn’s hand still rested against Vi’s wrist; Vi’s fingers twitched, almost catching hers before she pulled away.
Flashes went off. Photographers caught it perfectly: the Mercedes driver leaning close to her Red Bull rival, the gentle touch, the gaze that could be read a dozen ways.
By the time they climbed back onto their trucks, social media was already exploding.
> @GrandPrixFeed
Did we just witness a moment between Caitlyn Kiramman and Vi on the parade lap?? 👀🔥
#F1Mexico #Kiramman #Vi
> @PaddockTea
THE HAND. THE LOOK. SOMEBODY STOP THEM.
> @RaceRivals
enemies to lovers arc in 4K confirmed.
Vi scrolled through the posts later in the paddock tunnel, half laughing, half bewildered. “They think we’re—” she started, then stopped when she saw Caitlyn coming down the corridor toward the Mercedes suite, head high, expression unreadable.
For once, Vi didn’t chase after her. She just watched, realizing she still didn’t know which version of Caitlyn Kiramman was real—the one who’d smiled in the parade sun, or the one walking away now, carrying a secret too heavy for two hands.
The heat over Mexico didn’t just sit — it pressed.
It pressed on the cars, on the marshals, on the grandstands, on the nerves of anyone who knew what it meant for two drivers to run this close for this long. The sky was a hard, pale blue, the kind that made everything look sharper. Down on track, the air was thinner than it had any right to be; every engine was working harder, every driver breathing just a little faster.
At the front, it was the two of them. Of course it was.
Vi — reckless, alive, her Red Bull flicking through the first sector like she owned the place.
Caitlyn — precise, relentless, her Mercedes glued to her gearbox like a second heartbeat.
From the stands, it looked like joy. A duel. The kind of racing people post everywhere. But under the helmets, it was work — real, brutal, thinking-three-corners-ahead work.
“Gap point eight,” Rhea said in Caitlyn’s ear, stable as ever. “You’ve got DRS.”
“Copy,” Caitlyn answered, voice smooth, controlled.
She opened the flap. The Mercedes surged. The delta ticked down. But she didn’t send it. Didn’t divebomb. Didn’t do what she’s done a hundred times: force, feint, pass.
She sat there.
Watching.
Because she wasn’t just chasing Vi — she was waiting for the thing she knew was coming.
It came on Lap 11.
Not loud, not obvious. Just a tiny hitch on the shared FIA data relay, the one that sat parallel to the team channels. A short, ugly pulse riding right where Red Bull Car 5’s telemetry lived.
Her stomach tightened.
“Rhea,” she said calmly, “we have external traffic on Red Bull.”
“We’re not seeing it,” Rhea said, squinting at data she couldn’t see. “Repeat — we don’t have that on our side.”
“It’s there.”
No one in the grandstands saw it. No commentator called it. To the outside world, it was just another lap in a good race.
To Caitlyn Kiramman, it was Ambessa reaching into her world again.
She had seconds to decide.
Do nothing — let the interference hit Vi mid-engine-mode and watch her stumble, lose time, maybe lose the race, maybe look “inconsistent” again — and afterwards it would just be whispered about: thin air, Red Bull gremlins, can the Zaun girl handle pressure?
Or take it.
Her hands tightened on the wheel.
Ahead, Vi threw the car through Turn 6, the Red Bull skimming over the kerb, dust puffing. You didn’t interrupt someone driving with that kind of joy. You didn’t let someone knock them down for it, either.
Caitlyn exhaled slowly.
Then she did something stupid.
She flicked through her steering menu at 240 km/h, overrode her car’s broadcast ID so, for one fragile blink, her system pretended to be Vi’s.
The interference hit her car instead.
It was instant.
Her dash went from neat greens to angry red.
> PWR UNIT PROTECT
ERS DEPLOY ERROR
TORQUE MAP INVALID
REDUCE SPEED IMMEDIATELY
The power unit choked. Power dropped. The car pitched forward. The rear went light.
“Caitlyn?” Rhea’s voice snapped, suddenly higher. “We see a massive drop — say status, say status—”
But Turn 11 was already there.
Under normal power, it was a beautiful corner — fast, committed. Under chopped, late, glitching power, it was a knife.
She turned in, already compensating.
The rear stepped out.
She caught it — fast hands, years of training. Tires screamed.
Then the protection system, panicking, sent the torque late.
The car snapped the other way.
This time, it didn’t come back.
The Mercedes spun sideways across the track, nose swinging toward the concrete. Sparks showered. The crowd gasped.
Caitlyn saw the wall.
Not in a panicked, oh-gods way. In a clear, resigned way.
At least it’s me.
Then she hit.
The impact was violent in a way screens never show.
The front of the car crumpled like folded paper. Carbon splintered, a dark explosion. The nose went under, the front-right suspension snapped, and the whole chassis shuddered with the energy of it. The belts yanked tight across her chest — hard, punishing. Pain flared across her ribs. Her head slammed back into the padding. Her teeth clicked hard enough to taste blood.
Sound collapsed.
For a split second there was no crowd, no engine, no radio — just a deep, heavy WHUMP and then ringing.
Her vision blew out white.
Then it started to fade.
Not the gentle fade of getting tired. The heavy, sinking kind — like being pulled backward through water.
She tried to breathe.
Air came halfway and got stuck. Her ribs protested. Her lungs didn’t want to expand.
She tried to lift her hand to find the radio.
Her hand didn’t move.
She tried to say “copy.”
Nothing came.
Her body was still in the car, strapped and smoking.
Her mind had already stepped back.
—
From Vi’s cockpit, it looked wrong immediately.
She’d been watching her — she always watched her — just little glances in the mirror on the straights, where Caitlyn sat that perfect half-second behind. And she saw the silver car twitch.
Not a racing twitch. Not dirty air. Not even oversteer.
A wrong twitch. Like someone had tugged on the car from the outside.
“Cait?” Vi said, uselessly, because they weren’t on the same channel.
Then, before she could blink, the Mercedes was sideways.
“Shit.”
It slid, all four tires screaming, smoke coming off the rears. It hit the kerb, bounced, and then the nose speared straight into the barrier.
The sound hit Vi a split second later, even over her engine.
“Red flag, red flag, red flag!” race control shouted. “Session stopped!”
Vi lifted off at once, instincts taking over, eyes glued to the wreck. The grandstand noise dropped — thousands of people all gasping at once. Marshals were already moving. Smoke drifted, white from fire extinguishers, black from scorched carbon.
“Is she okay?!” Vi shouted. “Someone answer me — is she okay?!”
“Car 19 has had a heavy impact,” the neutral voice of race control said. “Medical car on the way.”
“That’s not what I asked!” Vi’s voice broke. “Is she TALKING?”
No answer.
Her heart started beating too fast, too hard.
“Vi, bring the car back to pitlane,” Nadia said gently. “We’re under red.”
“I’m not moving until—”
“Vi.”
Her jaw clenched. “Fine,” she snapped, but she crawled, not taking her eyes off the smashed Mercedes.
On the big screens, they were already playing the replay. Vi was P1. Caitlyn behind. The twitch. The snap. The wall. Slow motion made it worse.
Vi looked away.
Her eyes burned. Sweat or something else — she couldn’t tell.
She pulled into the lane, stopped the car, ripped off her helmet like it was choking her. The air wasn’t cooler out here. She still couldn’t breathe.
“Talk to me,” she said, not caring if the mic was on. “Tell me she’s conscious.”
“Medical is with her,” Nadia said. “We’ll get an update.”
“I don’t want an update,” Vi said. “I want Caitlyn.”÷÷
—
Caitlyn didn’t move.
The car sat smoking, nose buried, foam already hissing across the front. The cockpit was intact — the halo had done its job — but the driver inside was still.
“Driver not exiting,” a marshal reported.
“Copy,” came the reply. “Proceed extraction.”
They were on her in seconds. Orange overalls. Cutters. Extinguishers. One of them put a hand on her helmet.
“Driver?”
No response.
“Driver is unconscious.”
That was when the paddock really went silent.
Because drivers crash. Drivers get out. Drivers wave.
Drivers lying still — that’s different.
“Neck brace,” the medic said. “Watch the ribs, front end is crushed.”
Her head lolled slightly as they steadied her. Her face, under the visor, was too pale. There was a thin smear of blood at her lip where her teeth had hit. The belts had dug deep into her shoulders, already reddening. Her left arm didn’t look right — not broken, but slack, like the shoulder had taken too much.
Her chest rose and fell — shallow, but moving.
“Breathing?”
“Yeah. Shallow.”
“Okay. We’ve got her.”
They cut the wheel free, pulled the cockpit padding, stabilized her head. Every move was careful. This wasn’t a “get her out quick and pat her on the back.” This was “this could have been worse.”
In the stands, the crowd started a low, hopeful applause — the kind people do when they can see activity but not outcome.
Down the lane, drivers were out of their cars now, watching. Ekko stood with his arms folded tight, mouth a hard line. Maddie had a hand over her lips. Rhea was on the Mercedes pit wall with both hands on her headset, eyes wide, knuckles white.
And on the highest level, behind glass, Ambessa Medarda stood perfectly still, watching as they lifted the woman she’d raised into this world out of the wreck her decisions had helped cause.
Her face didn’t change.
Not once.
—
Vi watched the screen like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground.
“Why isn’t she waking up?” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “She always says something. She always—”
“Big impact,” Nadia said softly. “She could’ve blacked out.”
Vi swallowed. Her throat hurt. “I should be there.”
“You will,” Nadia said. “As soon as they clear you.”
“It was for me,” Vi whispered, voice raw. “I know it was. My car should’ve glitched. I felt it. I felt that jolt.”
Nadia didn’t say anything.
“What is she doing,” Vi said, shaking her head, angry at herself, at Caitlyn, at whoever was pulling strings. “What is she doing, throwing herself in front—”
On the screen, they were lifting Caitlyn out now.
That was when it really hit.
Because up until then Vi could tell herself she’s shaken, she’s dazed, she’ll wave. Drivers always waved.
But Caitlyn didn’t wave.
She didn’t move at all.
Her arms were strapped to her sides. Her head was locked in a brace. Her eyes were closed. The oxygen mask was already on her face. Her suit — usually immaculate — was smudged with extinguisher dust and streaked where the belts had dug in.
She looked small.
And Caitlyn never looked small.
Vi’s chest tightened so hard she had to take a step back.
“Hey,” Ekko said, suddenly at her shoulder. “Breathe.”
“She’s not waking up.”
“She’s breathing.”
“She’s not waking up.”
“That happens,” he said. “I’ve seen worse. They knock you out, you wake up later. That’s what this is.”
He was trying. She knew he was trying. But his eyes kept going to the screen, too.
They slid the stretcher into the medical car. The door shut. Siren on. It pulled away.
The crowd cheered — relieved, grateful.
Vi didn’t.
She just stared at the spot where the car had been.
“Vi,” Nadia said quietly. “She’s unconscious. They’re taking her to the medical center. That’s good. That’s where she needs to be.”
“She shouldn’t have to be,” Vi snapped, tears hot now because the adrenaline was fading and terror was taking its place. “She shouldn’t have to take it for me.”
Nadia hesitated. “You’re sure that’s what happened.”
“Yes,” Vi said without a second of doubt. “I felt it. My car was about to glitch. Then hers did.”
“That’s… not an accident,” Nadia said.
“Yeah,” Vi said, jaw tight. “No kidding.”
She wiped at her face furiously, angry at the tears. Cameras were still rolling. She tried to tip her cap down to hide it.
Fans online — if they’d seen that moment — would say, oh, look, Vi’s emotional for her rival. Cute. Ship it.
They wouldn’t have heard the way her voice broke when she said Caitlyn’s name.
They wouldn’t have seen the way her hand shook when she took her helmet off.
They wouldn’t have seen the way she stared at the empty track like someone had carved something out of her.
—
Caitlyn didn’t wake up.
Not in the car.
Not on the way.
She lay strapped to the stretcher, collar in place, oxygen mask fogging with each shallow breath. Her lashes didn’t flicker. Her fingers didn’t twitch. The medic rode with one hand on her shoulder, eyes flicking between her and the monitors.
“BP’s low but holding,” he said into his mic. “Driver is unconscious. Breathing unaided. Suspected rib fracture, suspected concussion, possible shoulder strain.”
“Understood. Proceed.”
The medical car sped along the service road, siren wailing, the circuit blurring by outside.
Back on the pit wall, Rhea sagged forward, one hand over her mouth. She’d heard drivers go quiet before. She’d heard worse. But this was Caitlyn — the one who never cracked on radio, never let pain into her voice, never made work for them.
Now she was making work.
On the top floor, Ambessa finally let out a breath. Just one. Small, controlled. Relief, yes — but threaded with fury.
Because Caitlyn had understood the message.
And answered with one of her own.
And because of that, Ambessa had just watched the heir she was grooming to be unbreakable get pulled out of a wreck unconscious in front of the whole world — because she’d chosen to bleed for a girl from Zaun.
Down below, Vi stood in the lane, helmet dangling from her fingers, staring after the disappearing medical car like she could will it to turn around.
“Please wake up,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please, please wake up, Cupcake.”
But Caitlyn didn’t.
Not this time.
Notes:
I know, I know — what a cliffhanger. 😭
I’m sorry for leaving you all hanging like that, but I promise it was worth it. Writing this chapter took everything — the tension, the emotion, the fear — and your comments are what keep me going.
Let me know what you thought — your favorite moment, what broke you the most, or what you think happens next. I’ll drop the next chapter after we hit 7 comments 👀
Chapter 12: Chapter 12
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The siren wailed through the wet night, cutting against the city lights. The ambulance tore down the service lane toward the hospital, every bump sending a jolt through the body strapped to the gurney.
Caitlyn Kiramman lay still beneath the hard white glow of the ceiling lights, her skin drained of color, lips parted slightly as the oxygen mask fogged and cleared. Her hair was matted with blood where the helmet had split at the base, a dark streak trailing across her temple. The monitors around her flickered—green lines jittering, red numbers falling.
“Pressure’s dropping again—seventy over forty and falling!”
The medic at her side pressed a palm hard against the wound below her ribs, where blood had soaked through the race suit and pooled against the straps. “She’s losing too much—start the line!”
Saline and plasma bags swung from hooks above, the fluid dripping too slow. Another medic adjusted the airway, voice low but urgent. “She’s tachy, we’re losing volume—keep compressing that side—collapsed lung, get the chest kit ready!”
The smell of metal filled the compartment, sharp and hot. One of them cut away the upper part of the suit to reveal the bruising spreading along her collarbone, darkening by the second. Her chest barely rose under the mask.
“Heart rate irregular—forty… thirty-six—!”
“Come on, stay with me—charge at two hundred!”
The paddles pressed against her sternum. “Clear!”
The jolt snapped her upward, ribs straining against the restraints, then she fell back limply. A single tone stretched through the ambulance, high and unbroken.
“Flatline!”
The medic’s jaw tightened. “Charging again—three hundred. Clear!”
Her body jerked. The tone continued. A streak of blood slid from the corner of her mouth, caught by a gloved hand as someone tilted her head aside.
“Nothing,” one said, voice low.
“Again. Don’t stop. She’s got a pulse somewhere, I know it—come on, Caitlyn, come on—”
Another jolt. The flatline wavered, stuttered, then caught—weak spikes appeared on the screen. A fragile rhythm.
“There! We’ve got her back! She’s back—keep her breathing steady!”
The driver shouted from the front, “ETA two minutes!”
“Then keep pressure! She’s lost almost two liters—keep that IV running!”
They worked in silence except for the sound of gloves slapping against metal, the hiss of oxygen, and the soft rattle of wheels over uneven pavement. The medic leaned close to check her pupils—uneven, sluggish. “Concussion’s bad—broken ribs too. She’s barely holding on.”
The second medic checked the mask. “O2 saturation at sixty-five—she’s fading again!”
The first one grabbed the defibrillator pads once more, muttering under his breath, “Not now, not again, come on."
The screen beeped erratically. Then, for a heartbeat, it steadied—weak, but there.
“She’s hanging in,” the medic said, voice hoarse. “Tell them to prep the OR. She needs surgery now.”
When the ambulance doors burst open, the world outside hit them with floodlights, rain, and voices shouting. Orderlies waited with a gurney. Hands reached in to pull the stretcher free, the blanket over her chest already soaked through.
Her arm slipped off the side for a second as they moved, skin cold, blood running down to her fingertips before a nurse caught it and tucked it back under the sheet.
“Patient Kiramman, Caitlyn, blunt trauma, pneumothorax, massive blood loss,” the lead medic rattled off as they rushed through the doors. “Flatlined twice en route, revived both times. Pulse weak, pressure critical—get cardio and trauma on standby!”
They vanished into the white corridor, the echo of the stretcher wheels fading toward the operating room. Behind them, a single crimson streak marked the floor where her blood had dripped, quickly swallowed by the rain and the sound of the closing doors.
The siren outside died into silence.
The emergency doors closed behind the trauma team, leaving only the echo of running feet and the metallic click of wheels fading down the corridor. The red line on the floor led toward surgery, slick with a trail of diluted blood.
Outside, the world had erupted—press lights flashing like lightning through the hospital glass—but in the waiting area, everything was painfully still.
Rhea sat rigid, her fireproof jacket still on, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were bone white. Jayce kept pacing, arguing under his breath with a hospital staffer who could only repeat, “She’s still in surgery, sir.” Ekko hovered by the vending machine, staring blankly at the can in his hand.
And Vi—Vi hadn’t spoken since she stepped inside.
She was slouched forward, elbows on her knees, Caitlyn’s team cap crushed between her hands. Her hair was still wet from the rain; streaks of mud ran down her arm from where she’d fallen rushing through the paddock. Every sound—the hum of fluorescent lights, the soft static of the TV replaying the crash—made her jaw clench tighter.
She could see it replayed over and over: Caitlyn’s car clipping the inside kerb, the tail snapping, the impact so violent that even through the barriers the shock had made the pit lane fall silent.
The camera had cut just as the car stopped moving.
She didn’t remember running out, didn’t remember screaming into the radio. Only the silence afterward.
Rhea tried to speak first. “She’s… she’s strong, Vi. You know Cait. She’ll fight her way out.”
Vi didn’t answer.
Jayce ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “She’s done this sport longer than any of us. If anyone walks out of that room, it’s her.”
Still nothing.
Ekko came over finally, sitting beside her. “Hey,” he said quietly, “she’s gonna be okay. You know how stubborn she is. Probably yelling at the doctors right now.”
The silence stretched. Then Vi whispered, “She saved me.”
Rhea looked up sharply. “What?”
Vi’s fingers twisted the cap. “I saw it on the telemetry right before the crash. My car… it glitched first. Same signature as before. She noticed. She—” Vi’s voice cracked.
Jayce froze mid-step.
Rhea’s throat worked, but no sound came out.
The doctor appeared hours later, coat streaked with crimson under the sleeves, exhaustion written across his face. They all stood at once.
“Is she—?” Rhea’s voice broke halfway through.
“She’s alive,” the doctor said, steady but grim. “But she’s critical.”
The word critical hung like lead.
He flipped through the chart. “Concussion. Two broken ribs—one punctured a lung, caused a pneumothorax. Dislocated shoulder. Severe internal bruising. She lost a significant amount of blood on the way here.”
Jayce swallowed. “But she’ll recover?”
The doctor hesitated. “She flatlined in the ambulance. Twice. We got her back, but her body’s under immense stress. She’s stable for now, but her season… her season is over. Recovery will take months.”
Vi’s vision tunneled. The sound of her heartbeat filled her ears—louder, faster, erratic.
“She flatlined?” she whispered.
The doctor nodded, voice softer. “She’s strong. We’re doing everything we can. But the next twenty-four hours will tell us if she pulls through without complications.”
No one moved.
Rhea turned away first, covering her face. Jayce muttered something about calling the team principal. Ekko reached for Vi’s shoulder, but she stood up before he could touch her.
Her hands were trembling.
The corridor past the waiting area was quiet, lined with glass rooms and dim lights. Nurses passed with soft footsteps. Vi followed the faint sound of machines until she reached the observation window that looked into the ICU.
There she was.
Caitlyn lay motionless under the white sheets, her face half-covered by oxygen tubing, chest wrapped in thick gauze. The faint rise and fall of her breathing was mechanical, guided by the ventilator.
Vi pressed a hand to the glass.
This was the woman who had scolded her for reckless overtakes, who smiled only when she thought no one was watching, who had somehow made chaos look composed. And now she was just… still.
The announcers’ voices echoed in her head— “A massive crash for Kiramman—no movement from the car yet—”
Vi’s knees nearly gave out.
“She saved me,” she whispered again, tears finally spilling.
No one answered.
Behind the glass, a machine beeped in rhythm with Caitlyn’s heartbeat—steady, fragile, human.
And for the first time since the sirens started, Vi closed her eyes and let herself break.
The room was too white. Too cold. The kind of cold that crept into your bones and made you feel like the world had already moved on without you.
Vi stood just inside the door, her hand still on the frame, staring at Caitlyn.
She didn’t recognize her at first. Not like this.
Caitlyn had always been motion — the sharp pivot of her shoulders when she walked, the flick of her wrist when she aimed, the quiet fire behind every look she gave. Even when she was calm, there was life under it — control, power, something that moved.
Now she was still.
Too still.
Vi’s throat burned.
The machines hummed and hissed, lights blinking in rhythm with the monitors. Someone had brushed Caitlyn’s hair back neatly, like that mattered. There was a bandage along her temple, bruises shadowing her jaw. Her arm was wrapped up to the elbow, her hand pale against the hospital sheets.
Vi took a slow step forward. Then another.
“You look like hell, cupcake.” she said, but her voice came out wrong — soft, shaky, breaking in the middle.
Nothing.
No twitch of a smile, no sarcastic reply. Just the steady beep of a machine that didn’t give a damn what it was keeping alive.
Vi dragged a chair over and sat beside her. The scrape of the metal legs against the tile made her flinch. She pressed her elbows to her knees, palms covering her mouth, breathing hard through her nose.
“You should’ve let me handle it,” she muttered. “Whatever the hell you thought you were doin’, you didn’t have to take the hit for me.”
Her jaw locked tight. “You knew my car was screwed. You knew. And instead of tellin’ me, you… you just—”
Her voice caught.
She leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, her eyes glassy.
“I didn’t need saving, Cait. Not from you. Not like that.”
Silence swallowed her again.
Vi rubbed her hands together, restless. She wasn’t good at this — sitting still, waiting, not fighting. Waiting made her skin crawl. It made her feel helpless, like she was sixteen again and watching the world fall apart.
“Y’know, you always called me reckless,” she said after a while. “Guess the joke’s on you now, huh?”
Her attempt at a smile failed halfway through.
“You—” she started, then stopped, dragging a hand down her face. “You told me once that you drive for control. That it makes sense to you — all the noise and chaos turning into something clean.”
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees again. “What the hell were you trying to control this time?”
Still nothing.
Her chest tightened.
Vi’s hand found Caitlyn’s, her thumb brushing against the back of it. The skin was cold. The small scar across Caitlyn’s knuckle — the one she got from their first wheel-to-wheel contact — stood out pale against the bruises.
“Cait,” she whispered. “You gotta wake up, okay? You can’t just leave me sitting here like an idiot talking to myself.”
Her throat hurt. “You’re supposed to be telling me I’m driving too hot. You’re supposed to be calling me out when I mouth off in press. You’re supposed to be—”
Her voice cracked, and she looked away, biting hard on her lip to keep it together.
“Damn it, Caitlyn. You can’t do this.”
The tears came before she could stop them — quiet, angry, hot. They slid down her cheeks, landing on the white sheet.
She wiped at her face with the heel of her palm, muttering under her breath, “Get it together, Vi. Come on. She’s tough. She’s tougher than this.”
But the longer Caitlyn stayed silent, the harder it got to believe her own words.
She thought of all the little things — Caitlyn’s stupidly calm voice over the radio, the way she always said copy like it meant trust me.
The way she looked at Vi before every race — steady, certain — like she knew Vi would try something stupid and loved her anyway.
And Vi realized, with a sick twist in her chest, that Caitlyn knew.
She knew the sabotage, the danger, the risk — all of it.
She didn’t just take the hit. She chose it.
Vi clenched her jaw until it hurt.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You think this is how you keep me safe? You think dying for me makes it better?”
Her hand was shaking now, gripping Caitlyn’s so tight the monitor started to whine. She eased her hold, breathing hard.
“I can’t lose you, Cait,” she whispered. “Not after everything. Not now.”
The room blurred again, her tears falling unchecked this time. She leaned closer, forehead resting against Caitlyn’s arm.
“Just… wake up, alright?” she murmured. “Tell me what the hell you were thinkin’. Yell at me. Anything. Just—don’t make me sit here and wonder if you’re coming back.”
The machines hummed. The city outside went quiet.
Vi stayed there, breathing in the antiseptic, the cold, the fading trace of Caitlyn’s scent on her skin.
“Next time,” she whispered, voice breaking, “you let me protect you too.”
Then she fell silent again — head bowed, hand wrapped tight around Caitlyn’s — waiting, as if sheer stubbornness could drag her back from wherever she’d gone.
And if anyone had looked through the glass, they would have seen Vi — the fighter, the loudmouth, the one who never stopped moving — sitting perfectly still for the first time in her life, tears running down her face, refusing to let go.
The world had narrowed to four walls, the hum of a monitor, and the uneven sound of Vi’s breathing.
The reporters were still camped outside, their lights washing over the hospital windows every night. The fans had made the sidewalk a sea of candles and posters. Every hour someone online claimed to have an inside source, and every hour the hospital’s silence became heavier.
Inside, Vi stayed in the same chair by Caitlyn’s bed. She hadn’t changed her clothes. Her knuckles were still scratched from the crash, but she hadn’t noticed. She just sat there, chin resting on her hands, eyes on Caitlyn’s face.
The bruises had darkened to deep violet, a cruel echo of Vi’s name. Caitlyn looked fragile in a way Vi had never seen before—pale skin against the stark white sheets, hair falling across her cheek.
Rhea came and went, Jayce dropped off coffee, Ekko tried to make her rest. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Every time someone suggested she go home, her chest tightened.
Caitlyn had been the calm in the chaos for as long as Vi could remember. Her anchor, her center, her reason to stop punching the world. Seeing her like this—silent, still—felt wrong in a way Vi didn’t have words for.
She reached out, brushing the back of Caitlyn’s hand with her thumb. “You’d hate this,” she whispered. “Me sitting still, you being quiet. The press outside waiting for news. You’d roll your eyes and tell me to stand up straight, to breathe.”
The monitor beeped softly in rhythm. Vi stared at it until her vision blurred. “So do it. Breathe.”
The hospital in Mexico City never really slept, but by the third night the noise changed.
The first night after the crash had been sirens and running feet and reporters trying to angle themselves into the lobby. The second had been constant footsteps, doctors, scans, machines, the soft bilingual rhythm of medical staff doing their best to keep a famous driver alive.
By the third, it was quieter. Not calm — hospitals never are — but thinner, stretched. People stopped asking “is she alive?” and started asking “has she woken up yet?”
The answer stayed no.
Three days. Then four.
Caitlyn lay in the same bed, in the same position, under the same too-white light. Her bruises darkened and spread — purples, yellows, a cruel necklace of restraint marks along her collarbone where the belts had saved her and hurt her at the same time. Her hair had been brushed back neatly by a nurse, IV taped carefully over the curve of her hand. Oxygen cannula at her nose now, not a mask. Monitors steady. Body fighting.
Mind nowhere.
Outside her room, people waited in shifts.
Rhea had commandeered two plastic chairs and a metal side table, turned it into a makeshift Mercedes outpost, watched every doctor who walked past like she was reading lap times. Jayce — tall, tired, in a shirt he hadn’t ironed for once — was on the phone every couple of hours with Piltover, with the Kiramman staff, with the team. Ekko dropped in and out, sometimes just standing in the hallway, arms folded, jaw tight, not saying anything because there was nothing to say.
Cassandra wasn’t even in the country yet.
Her plane had been over the Atlantic when Caitlyn hit the wall. By the time she landed in Brazil for her meetings, everyone knew. A driver down in Mexico, heavy impact, unconscious. But not just any driver. Her daughter.
She called before she even left the airport.
The doctors took the call in the small consultation room beside ICU, screen propped in front of them, connection flickering between Mexico and the polished wood of a private Brazilian lounge. Cassandra’s hair was immaculate, even in travel. Tobias stood behind her, both hands on the back of her chair, face gray with worry.
“She needs to be flown to Piltover,” Cassandra said in the first twenty seconds. “I want her in our hospital. I want her in her own bed. We can move her directly to the estate if necessary—”
“Councilor Kiramman,” the Mexican doctor said, as carefully as if he were handling glass, “I understand. But at this stage, long-distance transfer would be extremely risky.”
“Why?” Cassandra’s voice was velvet, but there was steel under it. “You said she’s stable.”
“Stable does not mean strong,” he said gently. “She suffered blunt thoracic trauma. Two ribs fractured here, and here. There was a pneumothorax — collapsed lung — we placed a chest tube. She also has a concussion. She has not regained consciousness yet, but her brain scans are reassuring. Her body is recovering, but the pressurization changes of transport could compromise the lung again.”
“So she’s… just supposed to lie there?” Cassandra’s composure trembled. “In a foreign hospital? Away from her family?”
“Only for a few days,” he said. “Let the lung seal. Let the swelling go down. Once she is fully stable, we will help you coordinate transfer to Piltover. But right now, moving her is more dangerous than leaving her.”
Cassandra’s jaw worked. Her eyes glossed. Tobias touched her shoulder, grounding. “We’ll come to Mexico,” he said. “We’re already rerouting. We’ll be there in hours.”
“Your daughter is safe,” the doctor said. “Her vitals are improving. Her body is doing what it needs to do.”
“She hasn’t woken up.” Cassandra’s voice actually cracked there — the way it never did in council chambers. “Three days and she hasn’t woken up.”
“Some brains sleep longer after big impacts,” the doctor said. “The important thing is that nothing is getting worse.”
When the call ended, Cassandra covered her mouth with her hand and bowed her head. Jayce was already in the hallway, waiting like a buffer when she arrived. When she stepped out of the elevator, wrapped in travel clothes far too expensive for the white corridor, he didn’t say anything. Just let her lean into him for a second, a rare, un-Kiramman second where the perfect mother dropped and she was just a woman whose kid almost died.
“She is strong,” Jayce said. “She’ll wake up.”
“She was supposed to be safe,” Cassandra whispered. “We built her a life where she would be safe.”
Jayce didn’t say what they were all thinking: she chose a life where she wasn’t.
Inside the room, none of that touched Caitlyn.
She looked like she was sleeping. That was the worst part. Not tubes everywhere, not broken beyond recognition. Just… sleeping. Like someone who’d pushed too hard all season and needed one long rest. Except she didn’t wake up when the door opened. Didn’t twitch when monitors beeped. Didn’t smirk when Rhea said something dry. Didn’t even react when Tobias touched her hair, eyes bright behind his glasses.
On day four, Vi came at night.
It was easier that way — less media, fewer Mercedes people hovering. She still had her FIA band on her wrist, still smelled faintly of fuel and hotel soap. The guards already knew her by then; they’d seen her face when she’d first arrived after the crash. Nobody wanted to be the one to tell the red-haired race winner she couldn’t see the woman in the bed.
She slipped inside, closed the door quietly behind her.
The room was dim. City lights leaked in through the blind slits, painting the floor in thin silver. Machines glowed in green and orange. Caitlyn lay on her back, shoulder elevated, chest bandaged under the hospital gown, hair dark against the pillow.
“You’re still out,” Vi muttered, pulling the chair up. “Of course you are. You never make things easy.”
She sat. Let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
All day she’d been holding it together — because reporters were asking, because Red Bull wanted statements, because social media was wild with #PrayForCaitlyn and #GetWellKiramman and edits of her and Cait from the podium like any of that would mean anything if Caitlyn didn’t open her eyes.
But here? At night? In this room?
She could finally look.
She reached out, fingers hovering over Caitlyn’s hand before she actually touched. There were bruises on her knuckles too — from the belts, from the wheel. Vi swallowed and curved her fingers around hers, careful not to pull on the IV.
“You know, they said your lungs are being little jerks,” she said, voice low. “Collapsed. That’s what they called it. Like your body just went ‘nope’ and folded.” She tried to smile. “They said you’re recovering, though. That you’re stubborn even while you’re sleeping. Figures.”
Caitlyn didn’t move.
Vi winced. “Guess I gotta do the talking, huh?”
She leaned back, looked at the ceiling. “It’s been four days, Cait. Four. I’ve replayed that crash like twenty times. Ekko says I gotta stop watching it, but I can’t. ’Cause I can see it now. I can see it real clear. That spike? That glitch? It was meant for me.”
Her thumb rubbed over Caitlyn’s hand, slow, absent. “You stole it. You actually reached into whatever sick game someone’s playing and just— took it. Like you do. Like it’s nothing.” Her voice dropped, hoarse. “But it wasn’t nothing.”
Silence. Machines. The faint hiss of oxygen.
“I don’t even know what's going on,” Vi whispered. “You keep saying ‘I’ll keep you safe’ like that’s just— like that’s normal. Like that’s not crazy. You don’t tell me who from, or why, or how many times they tried before. You just… take it.”
Her eyes burned. She blinked hard.
“I’m from Zaun,” she said. “You know that. I’m used to getting hit. I’m used to things going wrong. I don’t need you takin’ hits for me in your fancy silver car. I don’t need you bleeding for me. I just…” Her jaw clenched. “I need you awake.”
She looked at Caitlyn’s face — slack, peaceful, too pale.
“Cassandra wants to take you home,” she said. “Back to Piltover. To your big glass house and a bed that costs more than most people make in a year.” There was no mockery in it — just tired fondness. “Doctor said ‘no’ though. Said you gotta stay put ’til your lung behaves.”
She laughed, watery. “Even unconscious, you’re still making your mom argue with doctors. Kinda impressive.”
The laugh broke in the middle.
Vi bent forward, elbows on the bed, forehead resting just beside Caitlyn’s hand.
She was quiet for a long time.
When she spoke again, it was softer. Not pleading exactly — Vi didn’t beg. But close. The way she sounded when she’d found Caitlyn bleeding in the Undercity, years ago. The way she’d sounded when she’d seen Powder on that screen. A crack in the armor.
“Hey,” she murmured. “Cupcake. Wake up.”
Nothing.
“You made me promise I’d stay alive, remember?” Her mouth quirked. “Your turn.”
The monitor kept beeping, steady, uncaring.
Vi squeezed her hand, finally letting the tears fall because no one was there to see. “You almost had your sixth,” she whispered. “You were right there. Everything perfect. Everything lined up. And you threw it away. For me.”
That was the part that actually hurt. Not the crash, not the blood. The choice.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to be okay with that,” Vi said. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to just— race. Smile. Stand on podiums. When I know you should’ve been there. When I know you chose me over everything you’ve been workin’ for your whole damn life.”
She sniffed, wiped her face with the heel of her hand, angry with herself. “I ain’t mad. I’m just—” She laughed once, broken. “I’m mad. But not at you. At whoever made you think that was the only way.”
She looked back at the door, half-expecting Ambessa to be standing there. She wasn’t. Good. Because Vi wasn’t sure what she’d do if she was.
She turned back to Caitlyn, voice rough. “You can tell me it’s not my business. You can do that thing where you look all calm and say ‘you don’t need to know, Violet.’ You can do that when you wake up. I’ll let you. I swear.” She swallowed. “Just wake up.”
She sat like that a long time — hand in hand, head bowed, the city lights spilling over the floor.
Out in the hall, Cassandra cornered the doctor again, voice low but not calm anymore. “You said she was improving.”
“She is.”
“She has not opened her eyes.”
“Her brain needs time, Councilor.”
“How much time?”
“A day. Maybe two. She’s young, she’s fit, there is no bleed, no swelling. Her body is telling us she is resting.”
“She is not resting, she is trapped,” Cassandra snapped, then covered her face, eyes glittering. “I want her home.”
“I know.” The doctor softened. “Give her two more days. Then we talk about transfer.”
Cassandra nodded once, brittle. Tobias pulled her into a hug she did not refuse.
Inside, Vi brushed a thumb over Caitlyn’s knuckles again. “You better wake up before they move you back to Piltover,” she muttered. “’Cause if they take you away and I still don’t know what’s going on, I’m gonna burn through every secret door in that city to find out.”
She leaned forward, pressed her forehead lightly to Caitlyn’s arm — careful of the bruises, careful of the tubes.
“I’m not lettin’ you do this alone,” she whispered. “So hurry up and come back. I’m gettin’ real tired of talkin’ to you when you can’t roll your eyes at me.”
The machines kept time.
Caitlyn didn’t stir.
But Vi stayed anyway.
Five days.
By day five, even the hospital staff started recognizing the pattern: tall redhead in a team hoodie coming in late, sitting for hours, talking to a woman who didn’t answer. Mercedes engineers hovering. A councilor from Piltover on calls. Security outside the door. No visitors besides that circle.
And still no movement from the bed.
The world outside didn’t stay quiet, though. It never does.
By the morning of day five, Mercedes had to say something.
They posted it mid-afternoon, neat and corporate, blue-and-silver graphic:
> TEAM STATEMENT
Following her accident at the Mexico City Grand Prix, driver Caitlyn Kiramman remains in stable condition at Hospital Ángeles.
She is receiving excellent care and is surrounded by family and team personnel.
Due to the nature of her injuries, Caitlyn will not take part in the upcoming Brazilian Grand Prix.
Reserve driver Maddie Feng will race in her place.
We ask fans and media to respect Caitlyn’s privacy during her recovery.
It was simple. Controlled. No drama.
The internet did the rest.
#GetWellCait started trending again. Clips of her last race win. Clips of her champagne fight with Vi. Clips of their slow-mo podium glances. Fans in Mexico posting pictures of candles outside the hospital. Brazilian fans posting “we’ll cheer for you anyway”. Racing accounts pretending to be calm while zooming in on the words “will not take part.”
Some noticed what wasn’t written.
Not “she will return”. Not “she is expected to race again this season.”
Just: she will not take part.
Vi herself was running on fumes. She was relieved — furious to admit it — that there wasn’t a race that weekend. That she didn’t have to get into a car and pretend she wasn’t replaying the crash. That she didn’t have to sit in a press conference and answer questions about “your rivalry with Caitlyn” while Caitlyn lay in a hospital bed not breathing on her own depth.
Instead, she sat. And paced. And sat again.
The fifth day was when the doctors finally said the word everyone had been waiting for:
“She’s stable enough to transport.”
That brought the whole Kiramman operation to life.
Cassandra and Tobias had already been planning like they owned the building — talking to Piltover, to private medical carriers, to the council’s medical branch. They didn’t want their daughter in an unfamiliar hospital any longer than she had to be. They wanted her under Piltover care, where every instrument was calibrated to their standards, where every doctor knew exactly who she was.
So when the physician-in-charge came in — calm, dark-eyed, hands folded — and said, “Her vitals have held steady for 48 hours. The lung is expanded. The drain can stay in during transport. If you have a pressurized aircraft equipped for ICU support, we can transfer her tomorrow,” Cassandra actually sat down.
“Thank you,” she said — not as a councilor. As a mother.
Jayce was there too, arms folded, already pulling up schedules. Rhea, exhausted but sharp, was asking for medical notes to send to the team doctor. Ekko stuck his head in, got the gist, and nodded — relieved in the way people get relieved when things start moving again.
Vi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set.
She let them talk for a minute. Then she pushed off. “I’m coming.”
Three heads turned toward her.
Cassandra’s eyes flicked over her — travel pants, oversized hoodie, hair pulled back messy, Red Bull logo on the chest. “I’m sorry?” she said, polite but confused. “And you are…?”
Jayce opened his mouth — “Cassandra, this is—”
But Cassandra’s eyes widened in recognition first. “Oh. You’re her… rival.”
Vi blinked. “That’s… one word.”
“The girl from Zaun,” Cassandra said slowly, remembering headlines. “The one always on the podium with her.”
Vi’s chin tipped up just a little. “Yeah. That one.”
Cassandra looked between her and the bed, brain assembling things. “You want to join us on the flight to Piltover?”
“I wanna make sure she’s fine,” Vi said, not defensive, just stubborn. “I’m not leaving her here.”
“You have a team,” Cassandra said. Not unkindly. Just… structured. “This is a family transfer. It will be a medical aircraft. Space will be limited.”
“Then I’ll sit on the floor,” Vi shot back. “You can strap me to the wall, I don’t care.”
“Vi,” Jayce said gently, stepping in like a referee. “Let me talk to the pilot.”
“It’s fine,” Vi said, eyes still on Cassandra. “I’m not getting off this fight. You can yell at me when we land.”
For a heartbeat, it looked like Cassandra might say no. Might lay down the soft, lethal kind of class boundary Piltover was so good at.
Then she looked at her daughter in the bed. Saw the way Vi was standing — defensive, worn-down, eyes rimmed red from too many nights in plastic chairs. And something in her expression eased.
“She would… like that,” Cassandra said at last. “To wake up and find you there.”
Vi’s throat got tight for a second. “Then let me be there.”
Cassandra nodded once. “Very well. Your team will need to clear your travel.”
Already done, Vi thought. She’d texted Nadia three hours ago.
“Departure in the morning,” the doctor said. “We’ll sedate her lightly for the transfer so she doesn’t fight the ventilatory support. She should tolerate it.”
“She better,” Vi muttered under her breath. “I still gotta yell at her.”
They didn’t ask what for.
The plane was ridiculous.
Piltover ridiculous — not “rich F1 team” ridiculous. It was a medical transport but it was still polished, still sleek, still had the crest of the council on the tail. Inside, the cabin had been converted — two doctors, a nurse, an ICU pod that looked like it had been designed by people who hated death and loved clean lines.
Caitlyn was wheeled in with quiet efficiency. Oxygen in place. Monitors humming. Hair braided back by a nurse so it wouldn’t tangle. She didn’t stir.
Cassandra and Tobias sat together, hands clasped. Jayce ended up in one of the side seats, going over logistics. Rhea sat a little apart, watching every number on the monitor even though she wasn’t in charge here.
Vi squeezed in near the back, close enough to see Caitlyn, not close enough to get in the way. The nurse almost told her to move — then didn’t.
The plane lifted. Pressurization held. Caitlyn’s vitals stayed stable, just like the doctor said. It was a long flight, but Vi didn’t sleep. She watched the way Caitlyn’s chest rose, slow and even, watched the way the IV lines stayed clear, listened to every beep.
She thought, not for the first time, I should have known. I should have seen it sooner. The weird comments. The little warnings. “Some of us race with additional considerations.” She’d waved it off as Caitlyn stuff — mysterious, too Piltover, too political.
And Caitlyn had just… eaten the hit. Without ever saying why.
By the time they landed in Piltover, Vi was running on nerves alone.
Piltover’s best hospital didn’t look like a hospital. It looked like a gallery: wide glass, pale stone, quiet in that expensive way. They didn’t go through the front. They went through a private entrance, straight to a wing that barely anyone used — high-security, high-privacy, “council-grade”, whatever that meant. The floor smelled like antiseptic and orchids.
They settled Caitlyn in a big, sunlit room with a view of the bay. Machines reconnected. More scans. More whispered doctor talk that sounded good but never included the words “she’s awake.”
Vi hadn’t left her side in Mexico. She didn’t leave now.
Someone — Cassandra, probably — had a small sofa brought in. Vi used it for about an hour the first night, then gave up and just sat in the hospital chair again, boots half-off, head tipped back against the wall, eyes on Caitlyn.
She didn’t look worse.
That was the messed up part.
The bruises were fading. Swelling was down. Her breathing was stronger. Her vitals, according to every doctor in a white coat, were “reassuring”.
“Then why isn’t she up?” Vi asked the lead doctor on day six, jaw tight.
The doctor was patient; Piltover doctors always were, when dealing with very important people. “Because brains sometimes take their time,” she said. "Her labs are good. Her scans are good. There is nothing physically preventing her from waking.”
“Then why—”
“She will,” the doctor said firmly. “Any moment. Truly.”
“Today?”
“Today. Tomorrow. Very soon.”
Vi nodded. Didn’t trust herself to speak.
After the doctor left, she sat back down and looked at Caitlyn again. At the bandage under her hospital gown where the chest tube had been. At the sling supporting her shoulder. At the mess of fading violet across her ribs.
“You hear that?” Vi said, voice soft but with that Arcane edge again — the one she used in alleyways and cramped Undercity rooms. “They said ‘any moment.’ That means you can stop milkin’ it.”
No answer.
Vi blew out a slow breath and scrubbed her face.
Outside the door, she could hear Cassandra and Tobias talking quietly with Jayce — arranging schedules, follow-ups, talking about when Caitlyn could start physio, about informing the FIA properly that she was out for the rest of the season. Vi’s chest squeezed at that.
Caitlyn, the girl who never missed a session in her life, done for the year. Because she stole a hit meant for her.
Vi leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands steepled, eyes never leaving Caitlyn’s face.
“You better wake up before I have to go to Brazil,” she murmured. “’Cause if I have to leave you here like this… I don’t know if I won’t just skip the damn race.”
She reached over, took Caitlyn’s hand again — careful, always careful.
It was warm.
It squeezed nothing back.
And still, Vi held on.
By day ten, the world had gone from worried to desperate.
There were still no official updates. No photos. No statements from the Kiramman family, Mercedes, or Piltover Medical. Just silence — and silence breeds chaos.
The Press
The sports media filled the void first.
AutoSport Weekly ran a speculative headline:
> “Kiramman’s Condition Remains Unclear — Will She Ever Race Again?”
The Times of Piltover published something colder:
> “Inside the Collapse of a Champion: Sources say Caitlyn Kiramman’s recovery may stretch beyond the season, leaving Mercedes scrambling for long-term options.”
The tabloids were worse.
They ran side-by-side photos — Caitlyn laughing on the Austin podium, and Vi standing outside the Piltover hospital, eyes red, hoodie pulled low — with captions like:
> “Love or Loyalty? Red Bull’s Vi Refuses to Leave Mercedes Star’s Bedside.”
It didn’t matter that nobody close to them was talking. The press invented their own truth.
The Fans
The internet had its own rhythm — chaotic, emotional, and relentless.
Hashtags trended every night: #WakeUpCaitlyn, #ForCait, #CupcakeComeBack.
Edits flooded TikTok: old clips of her and Vi laughing between races, their podiums celebration
Someone slowed it down, layered soft music underneath, and the comments filled with broken hearts.
Fan theories spread like wildfire:
She’s in a coma, the Kiramans are covering it up.
Mercedes is silencing information.
Caitlyn tried to protect Vi — the crash wasn’t an accident.
That last one got traction.
People started posting telemetry screenshots, blurry footage from onboard cameras. Threads filled with timestamps.
Someone wrote: “Look at how Cait’s steering changed right before the impact. She was reacting — not losing control.”
Tens of thousands of likes.
No one from Mercedes commented.
Day 10
Vi hadn’t slept properly in three nights. She looked like she’d aged ten years in ten days. Dark circles, cracked knuckles from clenching her hands too tight. She’d moved her things into the corner of Caitlyn’s room — jacket draped over the chair, a duffel bag under the table.
The doctors kept repeating the same line: “Her vitals are good. Her brain is resting. She’ll wake when she’s ready.”
It was starting to sound like a script.
Vi sat there, elbows on her knees, watching the steady blip of Caitlyn’s heart monitor.
Ten days of that sound. Ten days of waiting for a twitch, a sound, anything.
She exhaled sharply, rubbed her face. “You know, they keep saying you’re ‘resting.’ I’m starting to think that’s code for ‘we have no damn clue what’s going on.’”
Nothing.
“I can’t even tell if you hear me anymore,” she said, voice breaking. “And I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.”
The guilt came in waves — quiet ones, that never quite left. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the moment Caitlyn’s car veered across her path. The smoke, the sound of metal hitting concrete.
She’d thought she was numb to fear. Turns out she wasn’t.
Rhea came in with coffee at dawn, saw the state of her and didn’t even try to talk her out of staying.
Jayce had tried two days ago. He’d gotten the look — the one that meant don’t push me — and backed off.
“Vi,” Rhea said softly now, setting the cup down beside her. “You need a break.”
Vi didn’t look up. “She’s been asleep for ten days. What if she wakes up and no one’s here?”
Rhea sighed. “Then she’ll call your name, and I’ll run to get you. You can go shower. Eat something.”
“I can’t,” Vi muttered. “Every time I walk out, I think— what if that’s when she opens her eyes?”
Rhea hesitated. “Vi… what if she doesn’t?”
Vi froze. The words hit like a punch.
Rhea winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” Vi’s voice was low, trembling, dangerous. “Don’t finish that.”
Rhea nodded, left quietly.
The door clicked shut. The machines kept beeping.
Vi leaned forward again, elbows on the bed, eyes burning. “You’re not done,” she said quietly. “You don’t get to be done, Cait. You still owe me a rematch. You still gotta tell me what the hell happened out there.”
Her thumb brushed over Caitlyn’s knuckles, the way it had a hundred times before.
“You saved me. Now you wake up and deal with it.”
She didn’t know if Caitlyn could hear her.
But somewhere — deep under all that quiet — Caitlyn’s heartbeat gave the faintest stutter.
And Vi didn’t notice.
She just kept talking.
Because it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
Inside the quiet of Caitlyn’s mind, there was no hospital, no crash, no beeping machines—just sunlight and the soft hum of engines cooling down.
She stood at the edge of the paddock, still in her race suit, the crowd’s noise fading into something warm and distant. Her hands trembled from adrenaline, but her heart felt light. She turned—and Vi was there.
Vi looked the way she always did after a win: hair messy under her cap, grin wide, eyes so bright they almost outshone the desert sunset. She held two bottles of water like trophies, one extended toward Caitlyn.
“Didn’t think you’d let me keep pole and the win,” Vi teased, stepping closer. “You getting soft on me, Cupcake?”
Caitlyn laughed, the sound echoing softly in this dream-space. “Hardly. I thought I’d let you have your moment before taking it back next week.”
“Oh yeah?” Vi tilted her head, grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “How generous.”
The air between them shimmered—heavy, electric. Caitlyn didn’t remember stepping closer, only that Vi’s breath was suddenly against her cheek, that the world had gone very still.
“I thought I lost you today,” Vi whispered. It wasn’t teasing anymore. It was raw, unguarded.
Caitlyn’s chest ached, but she smiled anyway. “You never could.”
Vi laughed, quiet and disbelieving, and Caitlyn’s hand found her jaw—careful, steady. The moment stretched, fragile as glass, until Vi leaned in and the space between them vanished.
It wasn’t a cinematic kiss. It was real—slightly clumsy, breathless, full of every word they’d never said. Caitlyn’s hands slid up to Vi’s collar, pulling her close, feeling the warmth, the solid weight of her, the thump of her heartbeat.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Caitlyn felt whole.
The world around them glowed brighter. The engines faded. The air turned gold.
And then—pain.
Sharp, crushing, real.
Her ribs burned. Her shoulder screamed. The golden light cracked like glass, the sound of heart monitors bleeding into the dream.
Caitlyn gasped, eyes fluttering, but her body wouldn’t move. Her lungs refused to work right. Every breath was heavy, like dragging air through broken glass.
“No,” she whispered—or thought she did. “Not yet.”
She tried to reach for Vi, but her fingers met only light. The dream began to pull away, Vi’s outline dissolving into shadow.
“Don’t go,” Caitlyn pleaded, voice breaking. “Please…”
Then she heard it—faint, distant, not from the dream at all.
A voice, shaking, desperate:
> “Please wake up, Cupcake. Please. I can’t— I can’t do this without you.”
It broke through everything.
Vi’s voice.
Caitlyn’s heart gave a violent jolt. The dream shattered completely, flooding her senses with white. Pain, noise, air, life—everything hit her all at once.
Her eyes fought to open, lashes trembling. She could feel the weight of a hand around hers, the warmth of skin, the hum of a machine.
The voice came again, closer, raw and trembling:
> “Please, Cait. Please wake up.”
And this time, Caitlyn moved—just enough for her fingers to twitch in Vi’s grasp.
The sound came first — a soft, broken gasp through cracked lips. Then the faintest movement: fingers twitching under Vi’s hand.
Vi froze. For a heartbeat, she thought she’d imagined it. Then Caitlyn’s hand jerked weakly again, the smallest, most beautiful proof of life.
“Cait?” Vi’s voice came out hoarse. “Hey—hey, you with me?”
Caitlyn’s lashes fluttered. The monitors beeped faster, and Vi’s heart tried to climb out of her chest. She half-stood, half-leaned over the bed.
“Come on, Cupcake, don’t mess with me like this—”
A low sound escaped Caitlyn’s throat, somewhere between a groan and a breath. Her lips parted, air catching as if her lungs had forgotten how to work. Then, painfully, her eyes opened — unfocused at first, blue but hazy, trying to anchor to something.
Vi was the first thing she saw.
Her lips twitched, voice rough like sandpaper. “You look terrible.”
Vi barked a wet laugh that cracked halfway. “You’re one to talk.”
Caitlyn blinked slowly, trying to turn her head, only to flinch as pain rippled down her side. “Everything hurts,” she muttered through a shallow breath.
“Yeah, no kidding.” Vi wiped at her face quickly, pretending it was just exhaustion, not the tears that had finally caught up. “You scared the hell outta everyone. Could’ve warned me before you decided to crash into a wall.”
Caitlyn gave her a faint, lopsided smile — the one that always meant she was deflecting. “Thought I’d try a new strategy.”
“Yeah? Hospital beds instead of podiums?”
“Less competition,” Caitlyn rasped, her voice still weak but laced with that sharp humor Vi knew too well.
Vi shook her head, a broken laugh slipping out despite herself. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ve been called worse.” Caitlyn’s eyes drifted closed for a second before she forced them open again, fighting the pull of sleep.
Vi leaned closer, softer now. “Don’t do that again. You hear me? No more hero stunts.”
Caitlyn’s brow furrowed faintly. “Wasn’t… a stunt.”
“Yeah, well, it looked like one,” Vi snapped, but the anger didn’t reach her voice — it cracked instead. “You were out for ten days, Cait. Ten. I thought—” Her throat closed up. “Just don’t ever do that again.”
Caitlyn looked at her for a long moment, studying the trembling in Vi’s hands, the exhaustion in her eyes. “I’ll try not to,” she whispered.
Vi exhaled shakily, sinking back into the chair. She reached out again, took Caitlyn’s hand — this time, Caitlyn’s fingers curled back, weak but deliberate.
The tension eased, just a little.
For a few moments, neither said anything. The room hummed quietly, the city lights casting soft blue shadows across the floor.
Then Caitlyn smirked, barely audible. “Didn’t miss the race, did I?”
Vi snorted. “you missed the entire season ” she joked.
“Damn,” Caitlyn murmured, eyes closing again. “Guess you’ll have to keep my seat warm.”
Vi squeezed her hand gently. “Yeah,” she said, voice soft. “I got you.”
The monitors steadied. Caitlyn’s breathing evened out, the pain finally dulled by exhaustion.
Vi stayed there, head bowed beside her, still holding on — as if letting go might make the world tilt back into chaos again.
“Welcome back, Cupcake,” she whispered.
The room had been chaos when Caitlyn first woke — monitors blaring, doctors shouting orders, Cassandra sobbing openly into Tobias’ shoulder. It took ten seconds for news to spread through the paddock and ten minutes for everyone who mattered to flood into the room.
Caitlyn was barely conscious of it all, blinking through the haze of morphine and pain. The ceiling light above her felt like it was burning through her eyes, her body heavy and foreign. Every movement sent jagged pain through her chest.
The doctor’s voice broke through the blur — calm, clinical, too steady for the storm he was delivering.
“Miss Kiramman,” he said, stepping closer, “I know it’s overwhelming right now, but you need to hear this.”
Caitlyn turned her head slightly, grimacing as the motion tugged at the stitches running along the side of her neck. “Go on,” she rasped.
He took a breath, glancing at his notes. “You’ve sustained multiple severe injuries. Two fractured ribs, one of which caused a partial pneumothorax — we had to reinflate your left lung. Your right shoulder is dislocated with ligament damage. You’ve also got a concussion, deep bruising across your torso and spine, and hairline fractures in your wrist and collarbone.”
Caitlyn tried to process it, but her mind felt like it was underwater. Every word sank slowly.
“You were unconscious for over ten days,” he continued gently. “That much trauma takes time. It’s a miracle you survived.”
Cassandra let out a broken sound, her fingers tightening around Caitlyn’s hand. Tobias’ jaw was locked, his other hand resting on his wife’s shoulder as if to steady them both.
Caitlyn blinked hard. “How long… recovery?”
The doctor hesitated. “Months. You’ll need respiratory therapy, physiotherapy, and careful monitoring for post-concussion symptoms. You won’t be fit to drive competitively until at least next season.”
“So…” Her voice cracked. “My season’s over.”
The silence that followed said everything.
“Yes,” the doctor said softly. “I’m afraid it is.”
Caitlyn looked down at herself—at the IV lines snaking into her arm, the bandages wrapped tight around her ribs, the sling immobilizing her shoulder. She tried to swallow but her throat burned.
The Mercedes rep, standing near the door, cleared his throat. “Maddie will be taking over your seat for the remainder of the season. The team’s already informed the press. Don’t worry about anything — we’ll handle it.”
She nodded once, small and controlled. “Of course.”
Her mother broke then, burying her face in Caitlyn’s arm. “You could have died,” Cassandra whispered. “My little girl…”
Caitlyn’s lips trembled, but she kept her composure the way she always did. “I didn’t.”
Jayce tried to lighten the air, voice warm but brittle. “We’ll save your spot, Cait. The car won’t feel right without you.”
Rhea placed a hand on Caitlyn’s leg, eyes glistening. “You scared the life out of us, Cait.”
Caitlyn managed the faintest smirk. “Not easy to get rid of me.”
But her eyes — unfocused and tired — kept drifting past them, to the corner where Vi stood, arms crossed, silent.
She hadn’t moved since walking in. She’d been the last one through the door, the one who didn’t say a word. The sight of Caitlyn awake had knocked something out of her chest, and she hadn’t managed to breathe right since.
She wanted to go to her, to say something — anything — but she didn’t trust her voice. Not with this many eyes in the room.
Eventually, the doctor ushered everyone out, reminding them that Caitlyn needed rest. Cassandra resisted, Tobias too, but Rhea gently pulled them toward the door. One by one, they filed out.
Except Vi.
When the room finally fell quiet, Caitlyn’s head turned weakly toward her.
“You’re still here,” Caitlyn murmured.
Vi swallowed. “Like hell I’m leaving.”
There was a flicker of amusement in Caitlyn’s eyes — tired, but real. “You look terrible.”
Vi huffed a laugh, voice shaky. “You should see yourself, Cupcake. You look like you fought a freight train and lost.”
“Technically, it was a barrier.” Caitlyn’s lips twitched.
Vi exhaled, the ghost of a smile fading almost instantly. “You… really scared me, Cait. Ten days. Ten days of nothing. I thought—” She stopped, voice cracking. “I thought I’d lost you.”
Caitlyn’s expression softened. “You didn’t.”
Vi shook her head. “You shouldn’t’ve taken that hit. That glitch— it was meant for me, wasn’t it?”
Caitlyn’s fingers twitched on the blanket. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it does.” Vi stepped closer, jaw tight. “Because you almost died trying to fix something I don’t even understand.”
“Vi…” Caitlyn’s voice was so quiet it barely existed. “Please.”
“What?”
“Don’t make me explain,” she said softly, eyes fluttering shut. “Not yet.”
Vi’s anger cracked, replaced by something small and raw. She exhaled shakily, her voice barely holding together. “You really think I care about the races right now?”
Caitlyn’s lips curved faintly. “You should. You’re leading the standings now.”
“Shut up,” Vi said, the words trembling between a laugh and a sob.
Caitlyn opened her eyes again, slow and deliberate, locking onto her. Even bruised and pale, even broken, there was still that fire in her — that impossible steadiness. “You have to win it,” she whispered. “For both of us.”
Vi leaned forward, resting her forehead against Caitlyn’s hand. “I don’t care about that, Cait. I just want you back.”
“I’m here.”
“You’re barely breathing.”
Caitlyn smiled weakly, a glimmer of her old wit peeking through. “Then stop yelling and let me rest.”
Vi snorted, choking on a half-laugh, half-tear. “There she is.”
For the first time since the crash, the air didn’t feel like it was collapsing around her. Caitlyn was alive — hurt, broken, stitched together — but alive.
As Caitlyn drifted back toward sleep, Vi stayed by her side, holding her hand like it was the only thing tethering either of them to the ground.
And when the machines hummed steady and Caitlyn’s breathing evened out again, Vi whispered softly, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, Cupcake.”
The room was unusually quiet — no machines beeping out of rhythm, no nurses hovering, no visitors crowding the doorway. Just the low hum of the city outside and the faint rustle of the curtains moving with the air-con.
Vi sat in the chair beside Caitlyn’s bed, her legs sprawled out, one boot bouncing against the tile. It was the first real calm they’d had since Caitlyn woke up, but it didn’t feel like peace. It felt like waiting for a storm.
Caitlyn was sitting half-upright, her good arm resting limply on the blanket. Her skin was still pale under the bruises, but her eyes were clearer now, sharp in a way that reminded Vi of the woman who used to beat her to every apex on track.
“Y’know,” Vi started, her voice careful, “you’re a pain in the ass to keep alive.”
Caitlyn’s lips twitched. “Occupational hazard.”
“Uh-huh.” Vi leaned back, arms folded. “Next time you wanna play hero, maybe give me a heads-up first.”
“I’ll consider it.”
Vi smirked, but it didn’t last. Her gaze drifted over Caitlyn’s shoulder brace, the tape on her ribs, the faint outline of stitches beneath the gown. Every mark screamed what words hadn’t — that Caitlyn had thrown herself into that crash.
The silence stretched. Vi’s voice came out quieter. “Why’d you do it?”
Caitlyn blinked. “Do what?”
“Don’t start that.” Vi’s tone sharpened. “You knew something was wrong with my car. You saw the same telemetry. Then you… you put yourself in front of me. What was that, Cait? Some kind of instinct? Or did you already know what was coming?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
She just stared at her blanket, lashes low, her expression unreadable.
“Cait,” Vi pressed, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “Talk to me.”
Still nothing. Just the slow blink of someone thinking too much, weighing every word before choosing silence.
“Don’t pull that Kiramman act with me,” Vi muttered. “You don’t get to shut down after— after this.” Her hand gestured helplessly toward Caitlyn’s bandaged chest. “You nearly died, and I still don’t know what the hell for.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. Her fingers curled around the edge of the sheet.
“Is someone behind this?” Vi’s voice dropped lower, rougher. “Was this some kind of— I don’t know, team politics crap? Money? Because if someone tried to—”
“Vi.”
Caitlyn’s voice was a whisper.
It was enough to stop her cold.
Caitlyn turned her head, meeting her eyes. There was something in them Vi had never seen before — not fear, not guilt, just a kind of exhausted resolve.
“I can’t,” Caitlyn said softly.
“Can’t what?”
“Tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’ll only make things worse.”
“For who?” Vi demanded.
“For you.”
The air went still.
Caitlyn looked away first, her eyes fixed on the IV line running into her arm. She exhaled shakily, trying to hide how much it hurt to breathe. “You have to trust me,” she said, her voice small but steady.
Vi’s chest tightened. “Trust doesn’t work one way, Cupcake.”
“I know.”
“Then talk to me.”
“I can’t.”
The words were quiet, final — a wall Vi couldn’t break through.
She stared at her for a long moment, jaw flexing, every muscle in her body coiled tight. Then she saw it — the way Caitlyn’s shoulders trembled, the color draining from her face, the faint wince she tried to hide every time she drew breath.
And suddenly, anger didn’t feel worth it anymore.
“Fine,” Vi muttered, sitting back hard in her chair. “You win. I’ll drop it.”
Caitlyn looked at her then, something like apology flickering across her face.
“Don’t,” Vi said before she could speak. “Don’t say sorry. Just… get better.”
Caitlyn nodded once. “I’m trying.”
“Good.”
Vi leaned forward again, her elbows on her knees, and stared at the faint rise and fall of Caitlyn’s chest. “Because whatever this is,” she said quietly, “I’ll figure it out myself.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer — just closed her eyes, the tension in her jaw fading into exhaustion.
When her breathing evened out again, Vi slumped back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.
She wasn’t angry anymore — just scared. And maybe that was worse.
The light in the room was soft — late afternoon sun slipping through gauzy curtains, painting everything gold. Caitlyn looked less ghostly now; color had begun to return to her skin, and her breathing was steadier. She still couldn’t move much without pain, but she was awake — and that, for Vi, was everything.
Vi sat on the edge of the chair, elbows on her knees, staring down at her hands. “Three days,” she muttered. “Three damn days and I gotta fly to Brazil.”
Caitlyn’s voice was quiet, but steady. “You don’t have to sound like it’s a death sentence.”
Vi looked up at her — tired eyes, dark circles, a small defiant spark still there. “I don’t want to go.”
“You have to,” Caitlyn said softly. “It’s the championship, Vi. You’re leading now.”
“Because you crashed.”
“Because you drove better,” Caitlyn countered. “Don’t twist it.”
Vi exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “I just… it feels wrong. You’re here, all—” she gestured vaguely at the IV lines and monitors “—broken. And I’m supposed to smile for cameras?”
Caitlyn’s lips curved faintly. “You’ve done harder things.”
“That’s not the point, Cupcake.”
“It is the point.” Caitlyn’s tone softened, warm but firm. “You’ve got three races left. Three. You could end your rookie year as champion. Don’t waste that on guilt.”
Vi hesitated. “You really think I can win it?”
Caitlyn’s gaze held hers — calm, certain, a spark of that racer’s pride lighting through her exhaustion. “You already did the impossible, Vi. Now finish the job.”
Vi swallowed, throat tight. “You know, you’re supposed to be the one chasing me on track, not coaching me from a damn hospital bed.”
Caitlyn smiled faintly. “I’ll try to be less dramatic next season.”
“Good,” Vi murmured. Her voice softened, her eyes tracing Caitlyn’s face — the small bruise under her jaw, the faint cut on her lip. Without meaning to, her hand drifted over the bedsheet, brushing Caitlyn’s fingers. “You scared the hell outta me.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught, just slightly. “You said that already.”
“I mean it,” Vi said quietly, leaning closer. “When you weren’t waking up… I kept thinking I should’ve been the one in that car.”
“Don’t,” Caitlyn whispered. “Don’t ever say that.”
Vi didn’t pull back. The air between them changed — quiet, heavy, electric. Caitlyn’s gaze flickered to Vi’s lips for a heartbeat before she looked away. “You should pack,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” Vi muttered, but didn’t move.
Caitlyn gave a weak, teasing smirk. “If you keep staring at me like that, I might start thinking you’re the one who needs a doctor.”
Vi’s grin was small, crooked. “Don’t tempt me, Kiramman.”
For a moment, neither of them moved — just the sound of the heart monitor and the faint city noise outside. Then Caitlyn blinked, a little too slowly, exhaustion pulling her down again.
“Go win, Vi,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “That’s how you make this worth it.”
Vi brushed her thumb across Caitlyn’s knuckles. “I’ll win it for you.”
Caitlyn’s lips parted, a faint whisper escaping as she drifted back to sleep. “I know.”
Vi stayed another hour before she left for the airport. She didn’t let go of Caitlyn’s hand until the last possible second.
---
Brazil — Race Weekend
By the time Vi landed in São Paulo, the air was thick with humidity and press noise. She’d slept maybe three hours in total, but the Red Bull crew met her with cheers anyway — they all knew what was at stake.
In the paddock, cameras followed her every move. She was focused, sharper than ever, but quieter too.
The interviewer caught her just before the press conference.
> “Vi, everyone’s been wondering — how’s Caitlyn Kiramman doing?”
Vi’s jaw tensed, but she kept her expression calm, professional. “She’s recovering,” she said evenly. “She’s strong — stronger than anyone I know. We’ve talked. She told me to win, so… that’s what I’m here to do.”
> “Does her absence affect your mindset at all?”
“Of course it does,” Vi said honestly. “But that’s racing. We all fight our own battles. I just want her to get better — the grid’s not the same without her.”
And that was it — clean, careful, but her voice cracked just enough on “get better” for everyone to notice.
---
Twitter / F1 Fan Reactions
> @PaddockPulse 🏎️
“Vi handled that interview like a pro — calm, focused, but you can hear how much she misses Caitlyn. 😭 #F1 #Kiramman”
> @F1TeaZone ☕
“Not me tearing up watching Vi talk about Caitlyn like she’s the sun and moon combined 😭❤️🔥 #Vi #CaitlynKiramman”
> @GrandPrixFeed
“Vi looks different. Lighter. Like the weight’s still there but she’s carrying it better. Guess knowing Cait’s awake finally let her breathe again. #F1BrazilGP”
> @RaceGossipHQ
“Her eyes literally lit up when Caitlyn’s name was mentioned. Don’t tell me that’s just ‘respect between rivals’ 😭🔥 #EnemiesToLoversSpeedrun”
> @MercedesF1
“Official: Caitlyn Kiramman continues recovery in Piltover. The team thanks fans worldwide for their messages of support. 💙 #TeamKiramman”
> @RedBullRacing
“Vi dedicating this weekend to Caitlyn 😭😤 ‘She told me to win, so I will.’ — THE EMOTION. #BrazilGP #ForCaitlyn”
That night, Vi sat in her hotel room, scrolling through the chaos online — the memes, the edits, the fan theories. Somewhere in Piltover, Caitlyn was probably doing the same, pretending she wasn’t smiling at the sight of Vi looking into the cameras and saying, “She told me to win.”
And for the first time since Mexico, both of them — an ocean apart — finally slept without fear.
Notes:
Thank you all so much for the incredible support on this story — your comments, theories, and reactions mean the world to me. 💙 Every chapter has been a wild ride to write, and seeing how much you care about these two keeps me going.
If you’ve got ideas or moments you’d love to see next, drop them in the comments — I’m always curious what you think might happen between Vi and Cait after this.
Next chapter will be posted after 7 comments, so you know what to do
Chapter 13: Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sound of engines in São Paulo wasn’t just noise — it was alive. It pulsed through the concrete, through the wet air, through Vi’s chest like another heartbeat. FP1 was underway, and the Red Bull was dancing exactly the way she wanted it to.
Every lap felt cleaner, faster. Corners bit perfectly, downforce stuck. After a week of fear and sleepless nights, the car felt alive again — and for a moment, so did she.
“Good run, Vi,” Nadia said over the radio. “P1 for now. Solid data. Bring her in easy.”
“Copy that,” Vi replied, smiling faintly as she eased off the throttle. “Feels good to finally drive instead of worry.”
When she climbed out of the car, the press were already waiting. Cameras flashed, mics outstretched, everyone hungry for the first real quote from Red Bull’s new frontrunner.
“Vi, great first practice. How does it feel racing without the championship leader on track?”
Vi wiped sweat from her temple, expression softening for a split second. “It’s strange,” she admitted. “Caitlyn’s one of the best. You get used to having her in your mirrors — or chasing her. I just hope she’s recovering quick. The sport’s quieter without her.”
The reporter nodded, but pressed further. “You’re forty-five points behind her in the standings. With four races left, if you perform well here, you could take the lead. Are you thinking about the title now?”
Vi smirked, leaning against the barrier. “I’m thinking about getting the car across the line. The points take care of themselves. Cait deserves the top spot she earned — I just plan on making her fight for it when she’s back.”
Professional. Steady. But behind the cameras, she looked toward the horizon like she could see all the way back to Piltover.
Ambessa Medarda didn’t knock when she entered Caitlyn’s room — she never did. The door hissed open, and the smell of antiseptic and cold air filled the space.
Caitlyn lay against a sea of white pillows, still pale but awake now, her left arm secured in a sling. There were faint bruises still along her neck. The monitors beeped slow, steady, maddeningly soft.
Ambessa stopped at the foot of the bed. “You look worse than the reports suggested.”
Caitlyn’s gaze flicked toward her, calm and sharp all at once. “Disappointed?”
“Relieved,” Ambessa said simply. “You’re alive. What you did was reckless. Throwing your car into a barrier like that—”
“Was necessary,” Caitlyn interrupted. “I’m still here. That’s all that matters.”
Ambessa’s eyes narrowed. “You nearly died.”
Caitlyn’s voice didn’t rise, but every word hit like steel. “Then maybe you should stop giving me reasons to.”
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of machines.
Finally, Caitlyn said, “Stay away from her.”
Ambessa exhaled through her nose — almost a laugh, but not quite. “Her. You mean the Zaun girl who keeps finding her way onto the podium beside you.”
“Vi,” Caitlyn said, steady. “Stay away from her.”
Ambessa studied her face, then sighed, folding her arms. “For now, I will. You’ve already proved your point — almost fatally, might I add. But you know this distraction can’t last forever.”
Caitlyn’s eyes darkened. “It’s not a distraction.”
“Everything’s a distraction when it threatens control,” Ambessa murmured. “And if you keep defying me, Caitlyn, I won’t need to sabotage a car to remind you what’s at stake.”
Her tone softened, dangerously. “I’ll simply tell them. Tell everyone about Vi… and her sister. The infamous one. The one who helped destroy the council chambers.”
Caitlyn’s heart stuttered. “You wouldn’t.”
Ambessa stepped closer, her shadow cutting across the sunlight. “You’ve forced my hand before, child. Don’t make me do it again.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Ambessa turned, her voice almost gentle as she left: “Recover quickly. The sport needs its darling back — and I need my weapon polished, not broken.”
The door slid shut behind her, leaving Caitlyn alone with the monitors and the sound of her own ragged breathing.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the call button — not for help, but for strength. She didn’t press it.
Instead, she whispered into the empty room:
“She’s not yours to use.”
And somewhere, half a world away under the burning Brazilian sun, Vi felt her chest tighten — like a promise had just been made.
The heat in São Paulo was a different beast—thick, almost oily, sinking into Vi’s skin the moment she stepped out of the garage. Engines screamed around her as cars blasted down the straight, but she heard none of it the way others did. Noise sharpened her; vibration steadied her pulse. She was made for this.
And today?
Today was the first time she felt clear since the crash in Mexico.
Since she watched Caitlyn go still.
Since she lost her voice screaming her name.
Vi pulled her fireproofs tighter against her ribs as she headed toward the car for FP2, jaw clenched, dark hair tied back with the kind of impatience she usually reserved for when life dealt a blow she didn’t know how to take.
The thing keeping her balanced now wasn’t the car.
It wasn’t the track.
It wasn’t the points she was about to claw back.
It was a text message from Piltover.
Caitlyn:
You slept, I hope? You sound awake in your FP1 interview.
Vi smirked. “Caught me watching,” she muttered under her breath as she typed.
Vi:
I sleep fine. Stop worrying.
A lie. She barely slept three hours.
But if Caitlyn could pretend she wasn’t in agony, Vi could pretend she wasn’t drowning in worry.
Caitlyn:
Good. You need to keep your head clear for sector 2. You can shave two tenths if you brake earlier into Turn 8.
Vi stared at the message.
Even lying in a hospital bed, patched together with metal plates and bandages, Caitlyn still coached her like she was standing at the pit wall. Vi could picture her perfectly: straight posture, sharp eyes, a tiny crease in her brow she never admitted was from stress.
The thought steadied something inside Vi.
Vi:
Alright coach. I’ll try it.
She sent it before she could regret the softness in the word “coach.”
When she climbed into the cockpit, everything clicked into place.
The wheel.
Her breathing.
The track ahead.
FP2 lit up under her hands.
Purple sector one.
Purple sector two.
Purple sector three.
She wasn’t just fast—she was flowing. Car and instinct fused, her body moving before thought could form.
“P1,” Nadia said over the radio. “Clean lap. Very clean.”
Vi grinned beneath her helmet. “Told you. Easy.”
She barely waited for her mechanics to push the car back into the garage before she tore off her gloves and grabbed her phone.
Vi:
FP2: P1.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Then—
Caitlyn:
I knew you’d do it.
Not good job.
Not congrats.
Just absolute, unwavering belief.
Vi felt something twist low in her gut, warm and dangerous.
She typed:
Vi:
You watching live?
Caitlyn:
No. Surgery follow-up. I’ll watch the replay when I’m back in bed.
Surgery follow-up.
Right.
She read the words, trying to ignore the flare of protectiveness that rose like instinct. Her jaw tightened, throat dry.
Vi:
You shouldn’t push yourself.
It took a full minute before the reply came.
Caitlyn:
I’m not.
Just… keep going. FP3 will be harder. Track temps rising.
Vi hated how her heart eased at that. As if Caitlyn’s stability anchored her own. As if Caitlyn’s attention was a lifeline she couldn’t name.
She shoved her emotions aside. “Helmet on,” she muttered. “FP3 is mine.”
---
FP3 hit like fire.
The heat rippled above the asphalt, making the world shimmer. The car felt lighter than in FP2, temp climbing faster than expected. But Vi adapted. She always did.
She attacked Turn 4 with surgical precision, brake dust blooming. Her tires gripped with ferocity, her instincts reading the track like braille.
The Red Bull danced under her.
Her body responded before thought. A breath became a shift. A pulse became a correction.
Every lap tightened into something sharper, cleaner—
“Another purple sector one.”
She almost laughed. “What’s new?”
Two more laps.
Two more purples.
One final push—
“P1 again. You’re leading all sessions.”
Vi exhaled shakily, chest tight in a way that wasn’t physical.
She climbed out of the cockpit, handing her helmet off with a nod. Her crew congratulated her, clapping her back, some joking about her “new main character arc.”
But her mind was elsewhere—already fishing her phone out of her pocket.
Before she could type anything, a message popped up.
Caitlyn:
Your FP3 exit looks strong. Your corner speed’s improved. You’re reacting faster.
Vi blinked.
She shouldn’t have been surprised.
Caitlyn noticed everything.
Vi:
You’re watching already? Thought you had appointments?
Caitlyn:
I finished early.
Vi frowned at the screen. Caitlyn never finished early. Not physiotherapy. Not respiratory reinforcement. Not any medical procedure. She was the model patient: obedient, disciplined, silent.
But she didn’t push it.
Vi:
Sector 2 felt good today. You were right about braking earlier.
Caitlyn:
I usually am.
Vi rolled her eyes, smiling despite everything.
Vi:
Try not to sound too smug, princess.
A pause.
Caitlyn:
I’ll try. No promises.
There it was—that softness only she ever heard.
A warmth folded inside steel.
And Vi felt something like oxygen fill her lungs.
---
Hours later, the sun dipped low. Mechanics packed tools. Reporters finished their segments. Fans were still chanting in the distance.
Vi sat on the pit wall alone, staring at the track glowing orange.
Her phone buzzed again.
Caitlyn:
Get some rest. Tomorrow matters.
Vi:
You resting too?
A long silence.
Then—
Caitlyn:
I’m… trying.
Something about the pause, the ellipses, the phrasing—it hit Vi like a bruise.
Something wasn’t right.
She felt it like instinct, heavy and cold.
Vi:
Cait… you’re really okay, right?
Again, a pause.
Caitlyn:
Focus on the race, Vi. Don’t worry about me.
Which was exactly the phrase people used when they were suffering alone.
Vi’s fingers tightened around the phone.
Something was wrong.
Something she wasn’t being told.
But Caitlyn’s next message came before she could push:
Caitlyn:
Win tomorrow. That’s all I need from you.
Vi let out a shaky breath.
Vi:
I’m gonna try. For you.
She regretted sending it.
She didn’t regret sending it.
Caitlyn’s reply came almost instantly.
Caitlyn:
Good.
Just that.
But Vi could read the rest between the lines:
Be safe.
Don’t get hurt.
Don’t make my choices pointless.
She exhaled, rubbed her face, and stared out at the empty track.
Tomorrow would be hell.
Tomorrow would be everything.
But right now, all she could think about was Caitlyn—thousands of miles away—watching her through a screen, hiding pain behind that familiar, perfect composure.
And Vi felt her chest twist.
Not from racing.
Not from pressure.
But from knowing that Caitlyn was fighting a battle alone, and she didn’t know how to reach her yet.
The days blurred, bleeding into each other like watercolors left out in the rain.
Morning and evening looked the same in the Piltover hospital wing—sterile white light, slow-moving shadows, the quiet hum of the vitals monitor measuring her pulse with cold, unyielding precision. A rhythm too fragile. Too uneven.
Caitlyn Kiramman sat upright in her bed, posture perfect, chin lifted, back straight, every muscle sculpted into obedience no matter how much effort it cost her.
Her body felt foreign.
Not broken—she refused to use the word—but unfamiliar, like a weapon mishandled and bent out of alignment.
She never let anyone see it.
Not the nurses.
Not the physiotherapists.
Not even her mother, who had flown in with a face carved from polished marble, hiding fear beneath every line of aristocratic composure.
Caitlyn matched her expression flawlessly.
“Your vitals are stable,” the doctor said that morning, glancing at her chart. “But recovery will take time.”
“I understand,” she answered, voice steady, clipped, professional.
As if the act of speaking didn’t tug painfully beneath her ribs.
As if sitting didn’t make fire thread up her spine.
As if every breath didn’t feel like she was inhaling shards of glass.
None of it showed on her face.
She had long ago mastered the art of not flinching.
---
Physiotherapy was the closest thing to torture she had ever willingly endured.
They came twice a day.
She never refused.
The therapist—a gentle-voiced man who seemed terrified of causing her pain—guided her carefully.
“Lift your arm as high as you can,” he instructed.
Her left shoulder, the one dislocated in the crash, screamed. A white-hot spike. Her vision flickered black at the edges. Sweat beaded at her hairline despite the cool room.
She lifted it thirty degrees.
No expression.
The therapist swallowed. “We can stop—”
“No,” she said softly, firmly. “Again.”
Her hand trembled.
She curled it into a fist to hide it.
They worked on breathing next—slow inhalations meant to re-expand the partially healed lung. The scar tissue tugged horribly. Air caught halfway, refusing to fill her chest.
Her lips parted with the smallest, nearly inaudible gasp.
But she didn’t break rhythm.
The therapist pretended not to notice.
She pretended not to care that he saw.
Fifteen minutes later, she was shaking.
Not visibly—only along her ribs, deep inside where her control couldn’t reach.
“Enough for today,” he said quietly.
Caitlyn nodded once. “Thank you.”
He left.
She kept her posture straight until the door clicked shut.
Only then did she let her back touch the pillows.
And only for a moment.
Because leaning back reminded her how much her body hurt.
How much she had lost.
How much she had chosen to lose.
She thought about the crash more than she allowed herself to admit.
Not the moment of impact—
that rolling violence, the metallic scream, the shattering pain.
Not the seconds afterward—
when she tasted blood, when everything went blurry, when Rhea’s voice faded like someone turning down the radio.
Not even when her name echoed through Vi’s voice over the open channel—
raw, frantic, breaking.
No.
She thought about the two seconds before.
When she saw the telemetry shift.
A pattern too familiar.
The same pattern she had seen twice before.
The same one she knew wasn’t coincidence.
The same one she would burn her career for if it meant keeping Vi alive.
She’d made her choice instantly.
A quick swerve.
A deliberate line.
A sacrifice.
And she felt the consequences in every breath she took now.
She never regretted it.
But she felt it.
What she hadn’t expected—what nothing prepared her for—was the quiet.
The constant, unending quiet of recovery.
No engines.
No team radio.
No telemetry graphs.
No split times.
No Vi’s voice in her ears.
Just silence, so thick she sometimes felt she was drowning in it.
Her mind didn’t like silence.
Silence left room for thoughts.
Thoughts left room for memories.
Memories left room for emotions she spent years learning to bury.
She distracted herself with the only thing that made the quiet tolerable:
Watching Vi.
She pulled up FP2 footage the moment the room emptied.
She watched Vi’s lap three times.
Then six.
Then more.
Every turn.
Every correction.
Every instinctive movement Vi made behind the wheel.
It steadied her in a way the medication didn’t.
By the time FP3 replayed, Vi’s confidence on track eased the knot that had been lodged in Caitlyn’s lungs since Mexico.
Her lips didn’t smile, but her eyes softened.
If Ambessa was stepping back—temporarily, cautiously—it meant Vi was safe for now.
And that alone made the pain bearable.
Caitlyn exhaled shakily and closed her eyes.
The crash stole her season.
Her body.
Her control.
Her identity, almost.
But Vi was alive.
And racing.
And flying.
That mattered more.
She drifted off against the pillows, her breaths shallow but steady.
And woke a few minutes later to her phone buzzing.
---
Vi:
Qualifying done. Guess who's still P1?
Caitlyn’s chest tightened.
Not from pain.
From relief.
She typed slowly, fingers steady despite the tremor she had to force still.
Caitlyn:
I saw. Your corner speed improved.
Another buzz. Almost instant.
Vi:
You watching already? Thought you had those hospital things.
Caitlyn hesitated.
Truth: physiotherapy had wiped her out so badly she nearly fainted in the hallway.
Truth: her ribs still burned.
Truth: she could barely keep her eyes open.
But she answered:
Caitlyn:
I couldn't miss Quali.
She would not worry her.
She would not add weight to Vi’s shoulders.
She would not let her guilt fester.
A moment later—
Vi:
Caitlyn, are you doing OK?
Caitlyn stared at the words.
Her pulse monitor beeped softly beside her, the sound too honest, too human.
She typed:
Caitlyn:
Focus on the race.
Because she couldn’t allow weakness to be the last thing Vi heard from her before stepping onto the grid.
She turned the phone face-down.
Let her hand fall to the sheets.
Closed her eyes.
And let the truth settle quietly in her chest:
She wasn’t okay.
Not even close.
But she would never let Vi see it.
Because she hadn’t survived the crash to become another weight on Vi’s shoulders.
She survived to protect her.
No matter the cost.
Night had settled over São Paulo like a heavy blanket, thick with humidity and the noise of a city that never slept. Vi sat on the balcony of her hotel room, still in her fireproof undershirt, hair damp from a rushed shower. The city lights glittered far below her like scattered shards of Piltover glass.
She hadn’t been able to shake the feeling all day—
that something was off
that Caitlyn was hiding more
that the texts were a thin curtain pulled over something much darker.
Her thumb hovered over Caitlyn’s name on her screen for a long moment.
She hated the way her heart raced just from this.
Finally—
she pressed call.
The ringing wasn’t loud, but it felt like it echoed in her bones.
Once.
Twice.
Three times—
A soft click.
Silence.
Then Caitlyn’s voice, faint but perfectly composed, slid through the speaker.
“Vi?”
Vi closed her eyes. Damn it. She always said her name like that—softened, like it was something precious, something she handled with care.
“Hey,” Vi said quietly. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” Caitlyn answered, though her voice was low, breathier than usual. “I wasn’t asleep.”
Liar.
But Caitlyn never admitted things like exhaustion. She made them sound like choices.
“You okay?” Vi asked, trying to sound casual. It came out too raw, too honest.
A pause.
Long enough to hurt.
“I’m… managing,” Caitlyn said. Her tone was smooth, even. Too even.
Vi leaned forward, elbow braced on her knee. “Managing what?”
Another pause.
A soft exhale.
A subtle hitch she tried to hide but Vi heard it—she always heard it.
“Recovery is a process,” Caitlyn said, careful, measured. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Yeah, see, you keep saying that,” Vi murmured, staring at the city lights, “and it just makes me worry more.”
A faint sound—like Caitlyn shifting in bed, maybe stifling a wince, maybe steadying herself.
“Vi,” Caitlyn said, tone firmer, “you have qualifying tomorrow. You need rest.”
“So do you,” Vi shot back softly. “But you’re not getting any, are you?”
Silence again.
Not cold.
Just… withheld.
Like Caitlyn was choosing words with surgical precision.
Vi swallowed. “I heard something in your voice earlier. During the texts. I know you’re not telling me everything.”
“Not everything is your burden to carry,” Caitlyn replied. Still calm. Still composed. But softer. Softer in a way that felt like a door cracking open.
Vi’s chest tightened. “You almost died.”
Caitlyn didn’t respond immediately. When she did, her voice had gone thinner, barely-there steel.
“I didn’t,” she said.
“Cait…”
A breath. Slow. Controlled. But Vi heard the tremor hidden deep inside it.
“You have to focus on the track,” Caitlyn said. “Please.”
The please wasn’t strategic.
It wasn’t commanding.
It was honest.
It gutted Vi.
She leaned her head back against the balcony wall, shutting her eyes. “I just— I need to hear your voice. Okay? Just for a second. That’s all.”
Another moment of quiet.
Then Caitlyn asked, quietly:
“Is that truly all?”
Vi froze.
Her pulse kicked hard under her ribs.
“…Yeah,” Vi whispered. “Yeah. For tonight.”
Caitlyn inhaled faintly, and Vi heard it—the tiniest softening, the one Caitlyn only let slip when she forgot to guard herself.
“You sounded strong today,” Caitlyn said. “In Quali. Confident. Fluid.”
Vi felt her lips curve. “You sound tired.”
“I’m fine.”
Liar.
Again.
But Vi didn’t push this time. Caitlyn’s silence wasn’t a wall—it was a shield. And shields usually meant wounds underneath.
“Hey,” Vi murmured, voice dropping, instinctively gentle. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Not right now.”
Caitlyn exhaled slowly, and the sound was soft enough that Vi felt it in her chest.
“Thank you,” Caitlyn whispered.
Two words she rarely used.
Two words Caitlyn only gave when she truly meant them.
They stayed quiet like that for a moment.
No words.
Just breath.
Just presence.
Then Caitlyn spoke, voice barely above a whisper:
“Win tomorrow.”
Vi’s throat tightened. “You want me to?”
“Yes.”
A certainty sharpened by something deeper.
“You deserve it. And… I’d like to see you on that podium.”
Vi swallowed around the knot forming in her chest.
The image of Caitlyn watching her—
bruised, exhausted, hurting—
but still watching
still proud
still choosing her
hit Vi like a blow.
“I’ll try,” Vi breathed.
“No,” Caitlyn said softly, with steel beneath every syllable. “You’ll do it.”
Their breathing synced for a moment, fragile and unguarded.
Vi closed her eyes. “Goodnight, Cait.”
Caitlyn hesitated.
Then:
“Goodnight, Violet.”
She hung up first—
the way she always did when her voice started to soften too much.
Vi stared at the dark screen long after.
And for the first time since the crash, she felt something unfamiliar ripple through her:
Hope.
The roar of São Paulo rose like a living thing, vibrating through the paddock walls and up Vi’s spine as she crossed the finish line.
P1.
The radio exploded in noise—screams, cheers, her engineer shouting something incoherent. Vi barely heard them. Her hands shook around the wheel, breath coming hard and uneven. Not from the race.
From the thought of her.
She slowed the car through the cooldown lap, adrenaline still burning hot beneath her skin. The Brazilian crowd was on their feet, waving flags, chanting her name—
Vi! Vi! Vi!
But her eyes went to the pit board her crew held over the barrier:
FOR CAITLYN.
Her throat tightened. She didn’t trust her voice enough to respond.
She parked the car, pulled off her helmet, and the humid air hit her like a wave. Cameras immediately swarmed, microphones shoved forward, lights blinding. She pushed through them all until she reached her team.
The minute her feet hit the ground, she crumpled into their arms—laughing, swearing, overwhelmed. But even then, her gaze lifted toward a sky she wished was a window looking straight into Piltover.
The interviewer lifted the mic, smiling. “Vi, congratulations. How does it feel to have another win ?”
Vi exhaled, rolling her shoulders back, sweat still dripping down her neck.
“It feels…” She paused, searching for the right words. Her jaw clenched. “…it feels heavy. And good. And weird. All at once.”
A soft laugh rippled through the crowd.
“But listen,” she continued, voice dropping into something quieter, steadier, “this one—this win—doesn’t belong to me.”
Her throat tightened, but she pushed through it.
“It’s for Caitlyn Kiramman.”
The crowd reacted immediately—gasps, cheers, a few people clutching their chests like someone had punched them with emotion.
Vi swallowed, eyes narrowing slightly as she forced herself to look straight into the camera.
“She told me to win,” Vi said. “Even from the hospital. Even after everything. And if she can fight like hell from a hospital bed…” She let out a shaky breath. “Then the least I can do is fight from the cockpit.”
A murmur of appreciation moved through the reporters.
“We all want her back,” Vi continued softly. “The grid’s not the same without her. So, Cait… this one’s yours.”
She didn’t add come back to me.
But the words pressed against her teeth, aching to be said.
Afternoon sunlight filled the private room, casting warm gold across Caitlyn’s bed. She sat half-upright, a blanket pulled carefully around her ribs, the remote in her good hand trembling slightly with exhaustion.
She’d watched every lap.
Every overtake.
Every purple sector.
Every time Vi’s name flashed across the timing tower like fire.
But when Vi’s face appeared on-screen—sweaty, flushed, eyes shining—
Caitlyn felt something loosen in her chest.
When Vi said her name, her full name, into a global broadcast—
Caitlyn’s breath caught.
And when Vi dedicated the entire win to her—
something inside her cracked open, soft and sharp all at once.
For the first time in days, real warmth touched her expression.
Not a polite Kiramman smile.
Not the composed pilot face.
A real smile.
Small. Quiet.
But real.
The nurse glanced over and froze. “Miss Kiramman—are you… smiling?”
Caitlyn blinked, then schooled her expression instantly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But she couldn’t quite hide it.
The corners of her mouth wouldn’t obey.
Her eyes softened, glowing faintly in the sunlight.
She turned her gaze back to the screen where Vi stood on the top step of the podium—champagne spraying, confetti falling, but her eyes lifted toward the camera as if searching for someone.
Searching for her.
Caitlyn touched the edge of the screen with her fingers, barely-there.
“You did it, Vi.” she whispered.
Her chest hurt—but for the first time, it wasn’t just pain.
It was something painfully close to hope.
The hospital room was quiet again.
The race replay had ended. The sun had dipped lower, turning Piltover gold and blue outside the wide windows. Caitlyn tried to rest—she really did—but her mind ran laps faster than any car she’d ever driven.
Her ribs ached. Her shoulder throbbed.
But none of it compared to the pull in her chest whenever she replayed Vi’s words:
“This win is for Caitlyn Kiramman.”
Her pulse still hadn’t returned to normal.
She shifted in bed, adjusting the pillows with her good arm. The movement sent a sharp stab through her side—but she swallowed it down, jaw tightening, refusing to make a sound.
The last thing she needed was another nurse fussing.
She had just closed her eyes when her phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Her heart jumped.
No—absolutely not.
There was no reason for her pulse to react like this.
She reached over carefully, wincing only a little, and checked the caller ID.
VIOLET.
Her breath caught.
For someone who’d faced death, sabotage, and a lifetime of Kiramman expectations…
this tiny name on her screen caused the most ridiculous flutter beneath her ribs.
She answered before she could overthink.
“Hello?” Her voice was a bit quieter than intended, a touch breathless.
There was a pause on the other end. And then—
“…Cait?”
The sound of Vi’s voice—soft, warm, unguarded—hit her harder than any impact she’d taken on track.
“Yes,” Caitlyn murmured, closing her eyes for a moment, “I’m here.”
Another silence. But not empty—full. Heavy. Charged.
Then Vi exhaled shakily, like she’d been holding her breath since the race ended.
“Please tell me you watched it,” she said. “Please tell me you saw all of it.”
Caitlyn’s lips curved, barely. “Of course I did. You drove beautifully.”
She heard Vi’s relieved laugh—quiet, disbelieving. “Yeah? You think so?”
“I know so,” Caitlyn replied. “Your sector two pace was… impressive.”
“Only sector two?” Vi teased gently.
There she was—the Violet that made Caitlyn’s world tilt.
Caitlyn let out a soft breath. “All of it. The whole performance. You earned that win.”
Another moment of quiet. Then Vi said, voice low:
“I meant what I said. In the interview.”
Caitlyn swallowed. Hard. “I know.”
“You’re sure?” Vi asked, a bit of vulnerability slipping through. “Because I— I don’t want you thinking I just… said it for show.”
“You didn’t.” Caitlyn stared at the window, refusing to let her emotions show, even alone. “You meant it. And… I heard you.”
Vi let out a shaky sigh. “Good. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you the whole damn race.”
Caitlyn’s breath hitched—but she steadied it instantly.
Kiramman composure. Kiramman spine. Kiramman heart in lockstep.
She schooled her voice soft but even.
“You should focus on driving, Vi.”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Vi said quietly.
Silence spilled between them—warm, fragile, dangerous.
Caitlyn looked at the IV line running into her arm, the medical tape wrapped around bruised skin, the rise and fall of her chest still sharper than it should be.
Part of her wanted to tell her everything.
Why she crashed.
Who caused it.
What she’d done to protect her.
But she couldn’t.
Not yet.
So she deflected, gently. “How are you feeling?”
Vi huffed. “I’m fine. I’m more worried about you.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Well, I am.”
The fierceness in her tone made Caitlyn’s stomach flip.
There it was.
That raw protectiveness.
The part of Vi she tried not to crave.
Caitlyn inhaled slowly, tightening her grip on the phone. “Vi… you don’t need to worry every minute.”
“Too late,” Vi whispered.
The softness in her voice slipped past every wall Caitlyn had.
A long breath passed before Caitlyn could trust her voice again. “You won today. That matters. I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah, well,” Vi murmured, “I just wanted you to see it.”
Caitlyn felt her heart catch on the words. “I did.”
Another beat of silence.
Then—
“Cait…”
“Yes?”
“…don’t hang up. Just… stay a little. Please.”
Caitlyn leaned her head back against the pillows, eyes closing.
For once—just once—she let herself be selfish.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.
Vi exhaled like the world had been lifted off her shoulders.
They stayed like that—breathing into the same quiet, connected by a fragile, trembling line—for a long time.
No confessions.
No explanations.
Just two girls holding onto each other from opposite ends of a continent, hearts beating far too fast to hide.
And in the dim light of her hospital room, Caitlyn realized:
For the first time since the crash…
she didn’t feel alone.
The moment the post-race press obligations ended, Vi didn’t even bother changing out of her team gear. She shoved her helmet into Ekko’s arms, ignored the cameras shouting her name, and sprinted toward the paddock gates like the asphalt was on fire beneath her feet.
“Vi! You have media—!”
“Tell them I’m sick,” she barked over her shoulder. “Or dead. I don’t care.”
Her heart was hammering against her ribs, not from victory, not from adrenaline—
but from the phone call.
Caitlyn’s voice had sounded so… tired.
Too tired.
Like she was trying to hide it.
And that soft, small “I’m not going anywhere” before she fell asleep on the phone?
Vi felt it sink right into her chest, heavy and warm and terrifying.
She reached the SUV waiting to take her to the airport and yanked the door open, sliding inside. Nadia tried to catch up.
“Vi, are you sure you want to—?”
“I need to be in Piltover,” Vi snapped, shoving her seatbelt into place. “Now.”
Nadia hesitated, then nodded. “…I’ll let the team know.”
The door slammed, and the driver pulled away.
Vi slumped back, running both hands through her hair.
She hated how her fingers shook.
She hated how much she cared.
But most of all—
she hated that Caitlyn was up there in a hospital bed pretending she wasn’t hurting. Pretending everything was fine. Pretending like she hadn’t nearly died because of something that should’ve been Vi’s burden.
What happened to your telemetry, Cupcake?
What the hell are you hiding from me?
Vi stared out the window as the city blurred past.
The second the plane door opened, she’d go straight to the hospital.
Straight to her.
She had questions.
She had fears she couldn’t outrun anymore.
And she was done waiting.
The room was dim.
Machines hummed in a calm, steady rhythm—the only steady thing left in Caitlyn’s world.
She had slept in short, fractured fragments for the last twelve hours. Every time she drifted off, pain would claw her awake: a sharp pull in her ribs, a burn in her chest when she tried to breathe too deep, a dull throb under tightly wrapped bandages.
Her shoulder felt like it had been carved out of her body and reattached wrong.
Which, medically, wasn’t far from the truth.
She blinked up at the ceiling, vision slow to focus.
The rehab nurse had left only minutes ago, after another round of breathing exercises that made Caitlyn want to scream.
“Again,” the nurse had said gently.
“Deeper. Fill your lungs.”
But she couldn’t.
Not fully.
The pneumothorax had healed enough to keep her stable, but the bruising, the broken ribs—
every inhale stabbed.
Every exhale burned.
Her chest felt too tight, too fragile.
Useless.
The one thing Caitlyn Kiramman was never allowed to be.
She turned her head toward the window—very slowly, because anything more than that made the world tilt—and breathed through the ache spreading across her ribs.
Outside, Piltover glittered in early evening gold.
She should be out there.
She should be racing.
She should be fighting for her championship.
Instead, she was lying here, hooked to monitors, half-conscious, every limb heavy, every breath a negotiation.
A Kiramman wasn’t supposed to break.
Her mother had hammered that into her spine since childhood.
“Pain is temporary. Discipline is permanent.”
“Stand straight, even if you’re bleeding.”
“Never show vulnerability unless it serves a purpose.”
Well, look at her now.
Flat on her back.
Weak.
Unable to sit up without shaking.
She’d never felt smaller.
Her phone buzzed once—
a message from Ekko:
“Vi left Brazil early. She’s on her way.”
Caitlyn exhaled, a tremor running through her.
Of course she was.
Vi always ran toward danger.
Toward pain.
Toward her.
Caitlyn closed her eyes.
She didn’t know if she was ready to be seen like this.
Not by Vi.
Two hours later, the physiotherapist returned.
“Time to move your arm again,” she said cheerfully, like she wasn’t about to ask Caitlyn to travel through hell.
Caitlyn sat up with help and bit down on a groan she refused to let out. Sweat broke across her forehead instantly.
The therapist lifted Caitlyn’s injured arm a few degrees.
A white-hot bolt of pain shot through her shoulder and ribs.
Caitlyn’s vision warbled.
“Good,” the therapist encouraged. “Just breathe through it.”
Caitlyn forced the air in.
Then out.
Her entire body trembled.
“You’re doing well.”
No, she wasn’t.
She was shaking.
Her chest hurt.
Her arm felt wrong.
Her breath hitched each time she tried to expand her lungs.
But she nodded anyway.
Because she was Caitlyn Kiramman.
She didn’t complain.
She didn’t fold.
She didn’t show pain.
Even when pain swallowed everything.
When it was over, she was left exhausted, trembling, breath shallow.
“Rest for a while,” the therapist said softly before leaving.
The door shut.
Silence filled the room again.
Caitlyn slowly, painfully let herself lean back into the pillows, her pulse still racing.
Her body wasn’t hers right now.
It was a battlefield.
And she was losing ground inch by inch.
She hated it.
She hated herself for it.
She pressed the back of her hand against her brow.
She felt like she was drowning.
Vi sat curled in the plane seat, legs bouncing restlessly.
Ekko had tried to convince her to nap.
Nadia had tried to insist she eat something.
She ignored both.
Vi closed her eyes.
“Cupcake…”
She remembered the crash—Caitlyn swerving, the violent impact, the radio going silent.
She remembered her throat closing up, her lungs seizing, her chest aching in a way she had never felt before.
And now?
Caitlyn was still hurting.
Still recovering.
Still refusing to explain why she had been protecting Vi in the first place.
Vi clenched her fists.
Whatever this was—
whatever Caitlyn was hiding—
Vi would drag the truth out of it herself.
Even if Caitlyn refused to talk.
Even if it broke something between them.
The plane began its descent into Piltover.
Vi barely remembered the flight from Brazil, the cameras, the podium, the interviews she gave through a tight jaw because the FIA wouldn’t let her skip Brazil, not even for Caitlyn Kiramman in critical condition.
But she remembered running through Piltover Medical.
Her lungs burned by the time she reached Caitlyn’s wing.
She pushed the door open without knocking.
And the whole world stilled.
Caitlyn sat upright in the bed, hair brushed but limp, dark circles painting her eyes a bruised violet. Her right arm rested carefully across her stomach; her left shoulder was strapped and immobilized. Bruises bloomed like watercolor down her collarbone, ribs, and throat.
She looked tired.
She looked breakable.
She looked alive.
Her eyes lifted — pale, sharp, softening the second they found Vi.
“…Vi,” she whispered, the sound rasping, fragile.
Vi exhaled shakily — like air leaving her for the first time in days — and crossed the room in long, desperate strides.
“Hey,” Vi breathed, kneeling beside the bed. “Cupcake…”
Caitlyn smiled — small, weak, but warm enough to cut straight through Vi’s ribs.
“You came back early.”
“Won the race,” Vi said, trying to sound casual but failing. “Got on a jet the second they let me.”
Caitlyn’s gaze traced her — her wind-messy hair, the faint champagne stickiness still clinging to her suit. Something softened in her eyes, something warm and aching.
“You look exhausted,” Caitlyn murmured. “You didn’t sleep.”
“Couldn’t,” Vi replied quietly. “Not while you were like this.”
Caitlyn held out her hand — the uninjured one — and Vi took it immediately, gently, like it might break.
Caitlyn’s fingers curled into Vi’s palm with surprising strength.
“Vi,” she whispered, “you don’t have to—”
“Yeah,” Vi murmured, lowering her forehead to Caitlyn’s arm, “I do.”
They stayed like that for a moment.
Breathing together.
Existing together.
The first real calm since the crash.
When Vi looked up again, her eyes were softer, but there was something else beneath it. Something searching.
“Cait,” Vi said quietly, “can I ask you something?”
Caitlyn’s expression shifted — barely, but Vi felt it as surely as a tremor beneath her feet.
“Vi…” Caitlyn murmured, already retreating.
“You remember anything from the crash?” Vi asked. “Anything at all? How it happened?”
Caitlyn looked away.
Vi’s chest tightened.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Then I need you to tell me something else.”
Caitlyn’s eyes flicked back — guarded now.
“You’ve been warning me since Singapore,” Vi said. “You said you were keeping me safe. You said something was coming. Then suddenly… my telemetry goes wrong. And your car takes the hit instead of mine.”
Caitlyn’s jaw clenched so faintly Vi almost missed it.
“Vi—”
“You’ve been hiding something from me.”
“Vi, please—”
“Just tell me the truth.”
Caitlyn inhaled sharply — that training, that Kiramman composure sliding over her like armor. But Vi knew her too well now. She saw the fear lodged beneath the surface.
“There’s nothing you need to worry about,” Caitlyn said carefully, voice controlled.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Vi’s brows drew together — hurt flickering through her eyes. “Why won’t you just tell me?”
“Because you don’t need to know,” Caitlyn snapped — too quick, too sharp, then winced as the movement pulled her ribs.
Vi froze.
Caitlyn immediately looked away, breathing slow and steady like she was forcing herself back into calm. “Vi,” she said quietly, “please. Drop it.”
“No.” Vi’s voice was soft, but unyielding. “I won’t.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes — one long exhale, her control fraying at the edges.
And Vi pushed again, even softer.
“Tell me what you’re afraid of.”
That did it.
Caitlyn’s eyes opened — wide, shining, terrified.
And the words tumbled out like a confession she’d been swallowing for too long.
“It’s… Ambessa.”
Vi went completely still.
Caitlyn didn’t look away this time.
“She’s been behind it,” Caitlyn whispered. “The telemetry. The failures. The near-misses. All of it was meant for you.”
Vi’s stomach dropped.
“She threatened your seat,” Caitlyn continued, voice cracking despite her discipline. “Threatened to expose your sister. Said the FIA would bury you under regulations and investigations if she told them everything she knows.”
Vi’s breath punched out of her.
Caitlyn pushed on, voice shaking. “She said she’d take you off the grid unless I distanced myself. Unless I stayed away from you.”
Vi swallowed — slow, painful.
“You crashed…” she whispered, “because you were protecting me.”
Caitlyn’s eyes flickered — guilt, fear, love buried beneath restraint.
“I did what I had to,” she said quietly.
“You lost your season,” Vi said, voice hollowing out. “You lost your shot at the championship.”
Caitlyn didn’t deny it.
“You almost died,” Vi whispered.
Caitlyn’s mouth tightened. “…yes.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Vi stepped back from the bed — just one small step, but Caitlyn felt it like a blow.
“Vi?” Caitlyn breathed, fear threading through her voice. “Don’t—”
“I can’t let you do that again,” Vi whispered.
“Vi—”
“You can’t keep throwing yourself in front of bullets for me.”
Caitlyn’s expression fractured — a crack in glass. “I won't let Ambessa control my life."
“Then you’re gonna lose everything else.”
“Vi—”
“You think Ambessa stops because I walk away?” Vi said, voice trembling. “She’ll keep coming. She’ll keep pushing. And you? You’ll keep sacrificing yourself.”
Caitlyn shook her head — small, desperate. “Don’t do this.”
“We need space,” Vi murmured. “Until this settles. Until you’re safe.”
“I am safe.”
“No, you’re not,” Vi whispered. “Not while I’m in your orbit.”
Caitlyn stared at her — eyes wide, shining, breaking. “Vi… I thought you would fight for us.”
Vi felt the words slice her open.
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” she said, voice cracking. “That’s all I’m doing.”
Caitlyn’s throat tightened — her voice barely a breath. “You’re giving up.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“That’s not protection,” Caitlyn whispered, shaking. “That’s abandonment.”
Vi turned away — not because she wanted to, but because she couldn’t survive the look in Caitlyn’s eyes.
Her hand touched the door.
“Vi…”
Caitlyn’s voice cracked for the first time.
“ Don’t go.”
Vi closed her eyes.
“I’ll come back,” she whispered. “Just… not the way you want.”
And she stepped out.
Behind her, Caitlyn stayed perfectly still — not crying, not calling out — just staring at the space Vi left behind, breathing in quiet, breaking silence.
Her right hand curled into the bedsheet, trembling.
Notes:
Thanks for reading — this chapter was a heavy one, and I’m curious what you all think. Should Vi keep her distance, or should she regret walking away sooner than she realizes? And what should Caitlyn do now that she knows Ambessa won’t stop? Drop your ideas for the next chapter
Chapter 14: Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The door hissed shut behind her, but Vi didn’t move.
She stood in the middle of the hallway like someone had yanked the track out from under her, hand still wrapped around the handle, forehead pressed to the cool metal.
Her chest hurt. Not the way it did after a race—lungs burning, muscles lit up. This was… tighter. Smaller. Like something was wedged behind her ribs and wouldn’t shift.
You’re giving up.
Caitlyn’s voice was still right there in her head. Calm, clipped, cutting deeper than any shout would’ve.
Vi squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m trying to keep you alive,” she muttered, half to herself, half to the empty corridor. “Why does that make me the bad guy?”
She stepped away from the door, back hitting the opposite wall. The hospital lights were too bright, the floor too clean. It felt wrong to be breathing this easily when Caitlyn was in there counting inhales for physiotherapy.
Ambessa. Jinx. Telemetry sabotage. Crash.
Every thought stacked, heavy.
What’s next, Cupcake? What’s the next insane thing you’ll throw yourself into because of me?
She dragged a hand down her face, palms rough over tired eyes. Walking away had felt like the only move that wasn’t a direct invitation for Ambessa to take another shot.
“Distance equals safety,” she said under her breath. It sounded smarter in her head. Out loud, it just sounded lonely.
The soft hydraulic hiss behind her made her shoulders tense.
“Vi.”
She turned.
Caitlyn was in the doorway.
For a split second, all Vi registered was wrong.
Wrong that her hair was pulled back into a loose, messy knot. Wrong that the hospital gown hung too big on her frame. Wrong that she was barefoot on cold tile, a sling pinning her left arm uselessly to her side.
She had one hand on the IV stand, knuckles white around the metal, the other hanging limp in the sling. Her jaw was set, her back straight, her chin tipped up like she hadn’t almost bled out in an ambulance.
Her eyes were steady. Her legs were shaking.
“What the hell are you doing?” Vi blurted, already pushing off the wall.
“Apparently,” Caitlyn said, each word careful, measured, “chasing after you, again.”
“Get back in bed.” Vi’s voice came out sharper than she meant. “You’re not supposed to be walking.”
Caitlyn took a single, controlled step out of the room. The IV wheels squeaked. Her fingers tightened on the pole.
“I’m not going back in there,” she said coolly, “until we’re done.”
Vi stared. “Done?”
“With this.” Caitlyn gestured faintly between them with her chin, since her arms were occupied. “With you making… whatever that was… in there sound like a reasonable plan.”
Vi’s hands flexed uselessly at her sides. “Cait, you can barely stand.”
“Apparently I can,” Caitlyn replied. “Witnessed by one very stubborn Zaunite in the corridor.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking,” Caitlyn said, voice flat. “You tried to end this in three sentences and a dramatic exit. I’m not letting that stand.”
Vi laughed once, humorless. “You almost died because of me, and I’m the one being unreasonable?”
“You’re the one trying to walk away.” Caitlyn’s gaze didn’t waver. “Again. Do you have any idea what that looks like from where I’m standing?”
“Standing?” Vi snapped. “You’re barely doing that.”
“Still doing it,” Caitlyn said. “Which means you don’t get to run.”
Vi clenched her jaw. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t throw yourself in front of the next bullet, Cait. That’s all this is.”
“I make my own choices,” Caitlyn shot back, a hint of fire finally cracking through the composure. “You don’t get to decide what risks I take.”
“Those risks nearly killed you!”
“And I’d do it again.”
There was no hesitation. That’s what made Vi’s stomach drop.
“Listen to yourself,” Vi said, stepping closer. “Do you hear how insane that sounds? You, Miss ‘Control' are telling me you’d happily slam into a wall twice if it meant I didn’t.”
“Happily?” Caitlyn’s mouth tightened. “No. But I would. Because someone has to stand between you and people like Ambessa and right now, that someone is me.”
“That’s the problem!” Vi burst. “That it’s you. Not a lawyer, not the FIA, not some security team— you. Alone. In a car.”
Caitlyn’s grip tightened on the IV pole. “You think I trust lawyers to protect you from Ambessa? Regulators? The same people who would salivate at the prospect of tying you to the council attack? Be serious.”
“So your brilliant solution is to destroy yourself before she can destroy me?”
“Not destroy,” Caitlyn snapped. “Mitigate. Redirect. Take control where I can.”
“In your spine?” Vi threw a hand toward her. “In your ribs? In your season?”
Caitlyn’s nostrils flared. “You walking away doesn’t give any of that back.”
“Maybe it stops the next one.”
“And maybe it just makes me an easier target,” Caitlyn said. “Alone. Without you. Without witnesses. Have you thought of that?”
Vi opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Caitlyn pressed on, quiet fury threading her words. “You think I’m not afraid? You think I don’t know what she’s capable of? That doesn’t mean I roll over the second she rattles the cage. And it certainly doesn’t mean I let her dictate who I stand beside.”
“That’s easy to say now,” Vi muttered. “You’re high on painkillers and stubbornness.”
“And you’re high on fear,” Caitlyn replied, not unkindly. “The difference is, I’m willing to admit it.”
Vi’s cheeks flushed. “I am not—”
“You are terrified,” Caitlyn said. “Of what she might do next. Of what I might do next. Of losing me. Of losing your seat. Of losing everything you’ve built. So your instinct is the same as it’s always been: run first, hurt later.”
“It kept me alive,” Vi snapped.
“I know,” Caitlyn said softly. “I’m just not interested in being on the receiving end of it.”
The words hit harder than any punch.
Vi swallowed, throat tight. “You really think I don’t care?”
“I think you care so much it scares you,” Caitlyn said. “And you’d rather torch whatever this is than watch it be used against you.”
“This isn’t about—”
“Yes, it is,” Caitlyn cut in, a little breathless now. “Don’t you dare stand there and pretend it isn’t.”
Vi stepped toward her, anger and panic blending into something messy. “You flatlined, Cait. Twice. I watched them drag you away. I listened to ten days of beeping and silence and doctors repeating the word ‘critical.’ You really want me to just shrug and say, ‘Sure, do it again?’”
Caitlyn’s lips parted.
For the first time since she’d stepped into the hallway, her mask slipped—just a fraction. Enough for Vi to see the flicker of remembered fear behind her eyes.
“No,” Caitlyn said quietly. “I don’t want that.”
“So what then?” Vi demanded. “Because I’m out of ways to keep you safe that don’t involve me getting the hell out of your blast radius.”
“I don’t need you to keep me safe,” Caitlyn said. “I need you to stay.”
“Those two things don’t go together!”
“They do,” Caitlyn insisted, “They do if we make them.”
Vi opened her mouth to snap back—and Caitlyn swayed.
It was small. So small anyone else might’ve missed it. The IV stand rattled; the wheels juddered awkwardly on the floor. The metal pole started to tilt.
Vi moved without thinking.
Her hand shot out, grabbing the stand before it crashed. Her other arm slid around Caitlyn’s waist, catching her as her knees dipped.
“Got you—hey, hey, easy,” Vi muttered, hauling her in.
Most of Caitlyn’s weight slumped into her. Not much, because she didn’t have much to give right now. But enough that Vi felt all of it—every tremor, every sharp, involuntary breath.
Up close, the cracks were impossible to ignore.
Caitlyn’s forehead dropped against Vi’s shoulder, just for a heartbeat. Her eyes were squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in her cheek. Her free hand had bunched in Vi’s shirt on reflex, fingers trembling.
“Don’t,” she ground out through her teeth.
“Don’t what?” Vi’s voice had dropped, instinctively gentler. “Fall? Kind of too late for that, Cupcake."
“Don’t… fuss,” Caitlyn rasped.
“You almost face-planted into your IV pole,” Vi said. “I think we’re past the ‘no fussing’ stage.”
She adjusted her grip, bracing her legs to take more of Caitlyn’s weight. The IV stand wobbled again; Vi kicked its wheel straight, muttering a curse under her breath.
“Breathe,” she said quietly. “Come on. In. Out.”
Caitlyn tried.
The inhale hitched halfway, catching painfully under her ribs. Her shoulders shook against Vi’s chest. A soft, raw sound slipped out before she strangled it.
Vi’s heart lurched.
“Hey, hey—none of that,” she said, tightening her hold. “You don’t have to do the whole stoic Piltover act when you’re about to pass out in a hallway, alright?”
“I’m not—” Caitlyn started, then had to stop, swallowing hard. “I’m… fine.”
“Liar,” Vi said, but there was no bite to it. “You’re shaking.”
Caitlyn forced her eyes open, lifting her head just enough to look at Vi. Up close, the exhaustion was brutal. Her pupils were blown, lashes clumped with sweat, pallor clear even under the bruises.
“I told you,” she said, voice thin but still annoyingly precise, “I’m not going back until we talk.”
“And I told you,” Vi shot back, “you can barely stand.”
“Still not a yes or no,” Caitlyn pointed out, stubborn even half-collapsing on her.
Vi stared at her for a beat. “You’re impossible.”
“Frequently,” Caitlyn mumbled. “Answer the question.”
“You are literally hanging off me right now,” Vi said. “I am not having a life-defining argument while you’re seconds from face-planting. We’re going back in that room.”
“I’m not—”
“Caitlyn.”
Something in Vi’s tone—low, fierce, frayed—cut through the argument. Caitlyn’s fingers tightened once in her shirt, then loosened.
“I won’t leave,” Vi said, slower, deliberate. “You want to talk? We’ll talk. In there. After you’re not about to pass out in front of the nurses’ station.”
Caitlyn hesitated. Her breathing was still too fast. Every second out here was dragging her further past the line her body could handle.
She knew it. Vi knew it.
“…You’ll stay,” Caitlyn said. Not a question. A last check.
Vi held her gaze. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
The fight eased out of Caitlyn’s shoulders, just a little.
“Then I’ll allow it,” she muttered.
“Thanks, princess,” Vi said dryly. “Real generous of you.”
With slow, careful steps, Vi maneuvered them back toward the room. She kept one arm firm around Caitlyn’s waist, the other hand guiding the IV stand, kicking it straight whenever the wheel caught.
Every few steps, she felt Caitlyn’s balance falter again—tiny stumbles, quickly corrected, but never fully hidden. Her breaths stayed shallow, each one dragging tight across battered lungs.
“Tell me if it spikes,” Vi murmured as they reached the door. “Pain. Dizziness.”
“It’s tolerable,” Caitlyn said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Caitlyn’s mouth twisted. “Annoying. You’re very… loud.”
“You’re delirious,” Vi snorted. “Great.”
“Still right, though,” Caitlyn breathed.
They made it to the bed. Vi helped her turn, lowering her carefully onto the mattress. It took longer than it had any right to. Every adjustment was a small battle—get her shoulder supported, don’t jostle the ribs, keep the sling in place, don’t tangle the lines.
By the time Caitlyn was finally lying back, her chest was heaving. Not dramatically, not noisy. Just… wrong. Too effortful. Too shallow. Sweat clung to her hairline, darkening a few strands at her temples.
Vi watched her for a second, something hot and terrified twisting under her sternum.
“You done proving your point?” she asked quietly.
Caitlyn’s eyes closed, lashes resting against pale skin. “I was right.”
“About what?”
“You weren’t going to keep walking,” Caitlyn murmured. “Even before I came out. You were stalling.”
Vi frowned. “How would you know that?”
“You don’t stomp off quietly, Vi,” Caitlyn said, a ghost of a smile touching her mouth. “The corridor was still vibrating.”
Despite everything, Vi huffed.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said again.
“Yes, well,” Caitlyn whispered, finally letting her head sink fully into the pillow, “so are you.”
Vi sat down heavily in the chair, dragging it closer until her knees nearly touched the side of the bed.
She looked at Caitlyn—really looked.
At the trembling in her fingers. At the faint line of pain engrained between her brows. At the way her body was clearly at its limit, and she still dragged herself out of bed after her like it was nothing.
“You scare me,” Vi said quietly.
Caitlyn’s eyes opened, hazy but sharp where it counted. “Good.”
Vi blinked. “Good?”
“It means you understand what’s at stake,” Caitlyn said. “I’d be more concerned if none of this touched you.”
“It touches me,” Vi muttered. “That’s the problem.”
Caitlyn studied her for a long moment. “You said you’d stay.”
“I did,” Vi replied. “You try to get back out of this bed again, though, and I’m zip-tying you to it.”
“Do you tell all your conquests that?” Caitlyn asked, deadpan.
Vi coughed, cheeks flushing. “Not really the time, Cupcake.”
Caitlyn’s mouth curved, just a fraction. “Then don’t make it so easy.”
Silence stretched.
Softer this time. Less sharp. Edges burned off by pain and adrenaline and whatever still sat between them that neither of them had the language for.
“Alright,” Vi said finally, settling back in the chair, forearms on her knees. “You win. No walking away. No noble sacrifice arcs. We figure this out together.”
Caitlyn’s eyelids fluttered. “I always told you I was a better strategist.”
“Don’t push it,” Vi warned.
“You started it,” Caitlyn murmured, voice fading toward sleep now, the fight finally draining out of her bones.
Vi watched her breathing even out by millimeters. Not perfect, not painless—but calmer. Less frantic.
She stayed like that. Guard dog at the bedside. Jaw set, eyes on the door like she expected Ambessa Medarda herself to walk through it.
Caitlyn’s fingers twitched against the sheets—searching for something.
Vi saw it.
Without thinking too hard about what it meant, she reached over and laced their fingers together, careful of the IV.
Caitlyn’s hand relaxed immediately, grip loose but present.
“You’re an idiot,” Vi whispered, affection bleeding through every syllable.
From the edge of sleep, Caitlyn sighed. “Takes one to know one.”
Vi smiled—small, tired, real.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Guess it does.”
And for now, that was enough.
Caitlyn woke to warmth.
Not the feverish, burning kind that came with painkillers and bruised ribs, but something quieter. Softer. A weight against her palm, steady and solid.
She blinked up at the ceiling, letting her eyes adjust. The light in the room was softer now — early morning, by the angle and color. The monitors hummed in that same relentless rhythm. Her chest ached, her shoulder throbbed in dull pulses, but the sharp edge of last night’s exertion had faded to something she could breathe through.
She turned her head — slowly, carefully.
Vi was slumped in the chair beside her bed, dead asleep.
Her head was tipped back against the wall, mouth slightly parted, hair a complete mess like she’d lost a fight with the pillow and the floor at the same time. Her legs were sprawled out, one boot half-off, the other foot braced against the base of the bed like she’d fallen asleep mid-argument. Her jacket had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the edge of a tattoo curling up her bicep.
Caitlyn’s gaze drifted down to their hands.
Vi’s fingers were tangled with hers, firm even in sleep, thumb resting just over the back of Caitlyn’s hand like she’d fallen asleep mid-guard duty. Caitlyn’s IV line ran into the back of her wrist, taped down with clinical care. Vi had somehow avoided pressing on it, like she’d mapped out every safe inch of skin without thinking.
Of all the ways she’d imagined Vi — flying through corners, standing on podiums, arguing with stewards — this might have been the one that disarmed her most.
Soft. Unarmored. Here.
Caitlyn let herself stare.
She traced the slope of Vi’s nose with her eyes, the faint scar at her eyebrow, the permanent tension in her jaw even now. She looked younger when she slept. Less like the Undercity girl who’d clawed her way into F1 with bloody knuckles and more like the idiot who stole her breath every time she laughed.
Her chest tightened — not pain, not entirely.
She turned her hand under Vi’s, very gently. Vi’s grip tightened automatically, even half-conscious.
“Ridiculous woman,” Caitlyn murmured under her breath, fondness threading through each syllable.
With her free hand — the one that wasn’t strapped and useless — she shifted her palm so it lay over the back of Vi’s hand. Slowly, she brushed her thumb along the ridge of scarred knuckles, feeling the rough ridges, the callouses, the stubbornness etched into skin.
Vi’s fingers flexed.
Her lashes fluttered once, then again. She dragged in a sharp inhale and jerked slightly in the chair, blinking herself awake.
“Wh— huh—” Her eyes darted wildly around the room until they found Caitlyn.
Caitlyn raised a brow. “Good morning.”
It took Vi a beat. Then her shoulders dropped, tension rolling out of them in one messy exhale.
“You’re awake,” she said, voice hoarse, like she’d been talking all night. “Right. Yeah. Of course you are. ’Course I didn’t just drool on myself for six hours while you stared at me like some kind of creep.”
Caitlyn’s lips curved, just enough to be dangerous. “You did snore.”
“I do not snore.”
“Mmm.” Caitlyn tilted her head, studying her. “Tell yourself that.”
Vi squinted at her, then glanced down — finally realizing their hands were still linked. Her cheeks went faintly pink; she tried, very unsuccessfully, to play it off.
“How’re you feeling?” Vi asked, thumb moving without thought against Caitlyn’s skin, as careful as if she were handling broken glass.
Caitlyn considered. Her ribs ached. Her shoulder felt like it had been pulled apart and stitched back together wrong. Her lungs still dragged when she drew a deeper breath. But her head was clear, her vision steady, her mind… sharp.
“Like I’ve been hit by an arrogant rookie with no regard for braking zones,” she said lightly.
Vi snorted — relief flashing quick and bright in her eyes. “So. Normal, then.”
“More or less,” Caitlyn allowed.
They fell quiet for a moment. Not uncomfortable — just full. The kind of silence that had weight.
Caitlyn looked at their hands again, at the way Vi’s thumb kept moving over her skin like she didn’t know how to be still. The way her shoulders were bunched, like she was bracing for another impact.
“Vi.”
There was something in her tone — that same clipped calm she used in a car at 300 kph — that made Vi straighten.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t do that again.”
Vi blinked. “Do… what? Sleep in a chair? Because I hate to break it to you, Cupcake, but that was not exactly restful—”
“Run,” Caitlyn cut in, quietly. “Don’t run. Not from me.”
Vi’s mouth shut with an audible click.
Color climbed up the back of her neck, slow and reluctant. “I was trying to protect you.”
“I know what you were trying to do.” Caitlyn’s gaze sharpened, blue eyes losing their softness for a moment. “And I’m telling you not to do it. Not like that.”
“You almost died,” Vi said, the words coming out low, raw. “Because of me. Because of my past. Because of my sister. Because Medarda thinks she can play god with telemetry. You want me to just stand there and watch you jump in front of the next one too?”
“I want you to stop deciding for me,” Caitlyn replied. “I’m not a child and I’m not a passenger in my own life. You don’t get to decide I’m safer without you.”
“We’re from different worlds, Cait,” Vi muttered, dragging her hand back halfway and then stopping when Caitlyn’s fingers tightened.
Vi’s jaw flexed. “You know what they’ll% say if Ambessa goes public. About me. About Jinx. About Zaun. About you.”
“Yes,” Caitlyn said. “And I don’t particularly care what they mumble into their articles from behind their keyboards.”
“Easy for you to say when you weren’t raised in the Lanes being hunted for other people’s mistakes,” Vi snapped.
“Harder when you’re under a microscope that turns every rumor into policy,” Caitlyn snapped back.
They stared at each other — sharp edges clashing.
Caitlyn exhaled through her nose first, reining herself back in. “We are not oil and water.”
Vi scoffed. “Feels like it most days.”
“We’re not,” Caitlyn repeated, colder now. “Oil and water don’t keep ending up on the same podium. They don’t keep making the same choice to stand next to each other, despite everything.”
“You really think that’s enough?” Vi’s voice dropped. “To face someone like Ambessa? To face the FIA? The press? Piltover?”
“No,” Caitlyn said. “Which is why we don’t charge into it like you do into turn one on cold tires. We’re smart. We’re strategic. We gather proof. We find allies. We know where she’s vulnerable before she knows where we’re aiming.”
Vi snorted. “You make it sound like a war.”
“It is a war,” Caitlyn said simply. “She started it when she decided sabotaging your life was acceptable collateral.”
Vi fell silent, breath uneven.
Caitlyn shifted slightly, wincing at the pull in her ribs, but she didn’t let go of Vi’s hand. Her thumb brushed along a scar on Vi’s index finger — the one from Zaun, from a fight Vi never properly described.
“You’re not leaving,” Caitlyn said. “Not because you’re frightened of what she’ll do. Not because you’ve decided for both of us that it’s ‘safer.’”
“And if walking away is the only way to keep you off a stretcher next time?” Vi murmured.
Caitlyn’s eyes didn’t move from hers. “Then I expect you to know me well enough by now to realize I will follow you.”
Vi froze.
“Cait—”
“You think distance solves this,” Caitlyn said. “It doesn’t. It only isolates us. Which is exactly what she wants. Divide and conquer. She keeps us apart, she controls the narrative. She gets to decide what happens to you. To me. To Jinx. To all of it.”
“She’s got the power to bury me,” Vi said quietly. “You heard what she said.”
“And I have the power to drag every single one of her sins into the light,” Caitlyn replied. “But I can’t do it if you keep deciding I’m better off without you.”
Vi’s heart was beating way too fast now. She could feel it pounding in her throat, in her fingertips, in the fragile skin of Caitlyn’s wrist under her thumb.
She looked down.
At their hands.
At the IV line taped carefully into place. At the faint dinginess of hospital sheets. At the way Caitlyn’s fingers weren’t letting go, even as her own hand trembled from exertion.
Vi looked back up.
Caitlyn was studying her with that same expression she’d worn the first time she’d shown Vi a clean lap through sector three — half pride, half challenge, a quiet, infuriating expectation that she would rise to whatever was being asked of her.
The same woman the commentators called ruthless. Clinical. Cold.
Yet here she was, in a hospital bed, holding her hand like it was the only thing keeping her anchored.
“We fight her,” Caitlyn said, voice softer now, but a steel core running through it. “Smart. Together. And in the meantime, you stop trying to martyr yourself emotionally and I stop… throwing cars at walls. Agreed?”
“That really your plan?” Vi asked. “Not throwing cars at anything?”
Caitlyn’s mouth twitched. “I did say I’d try to be less dramatic next season.”
Vi huffed out something that was nearly a laugh, nearly a sob. “You drive like a sniper and get hurt like a demolition charge, you know that?”
“I am versatile,” Caitlyn said primly.
Vi stared at her, something raw and terrified and stupidly hopeful fighting for space behind her eyes.
“We do this together,” Caitlyn said again, quieter. “Or not at all.”
Vi swallowed. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Caitlyn replied. “You’re not the only stubborn one in this room, Violet.”
Hearing her full name in that low, precise voice did something awful to Vi’s ribs.
She opened her mouth — to argue, to agree, she hadn’t decided yet—
There was a knock at the door. Sharp. Polite. Unavoidable.
Caitlyn’s spine straightened instinctively. Years of etiquette and training slid over her like a jacket.
“Come in,” she called.
The door slid open.
Cassandra and Tobias stepped inside.
Cassandra Kiramman looked much the same as she always had on broadcasts — immaculate posture, sharp eyes, clothes that said old money without ever needing a label. But there was something softer around her now, a tightness at the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there in council footage.
Tobias hovered at her shoulder, hands in his coat pockets, expression somewhere between exhausted and relieved, glasses slightly crooked like he’d been running his hands through his hair for days.
Both of them took in the scene in a heartbeat.
Caitlyn in the bed, pale but upright.
Vi in the chair, hair a mess, circles under her eyes, their hands still—very obviously—linked.
Cassandra’s brows rose a fraction. Tobias’s mouth quirked, almost-smile.
Caitlyn’s head snapped between them, then to Vi, then back, mind already calculating ten steps ahead. “Mother, Father—this is Vi. Violet. She—”
“We know who she is,” Cassandra said smoothly.
Her gaze flicked to Vi, not unkind, not exactly warm either. Assessing. “Miss Vi has barely left your room since they brought you to the hospital."
Caitlyn blinked. “She—what?”
Color rose at the back of Vi’s neck. She tried to pull her hand back on instinct. Caitlyn’s fingers tightened reflexively, keeping her in place.
Cassandra noticed. Of course she did. One brow arched just slightly higher.
Tobias stepped forward, his voice warm in that gently absent-minded way. “You were here when she was still unconscious,” he said to Vi. “Most days. Most nights. The nurses started scheduling their rounds around you.”
“Uh.” Vi scrubbed a hand over the back of her neck, giving a crooked, awkward half-smile. “Yeah, well. Someone had to make sure they didn’t feed her terrible hospital coffee.”
“They did,” Tobias admitted, lips twitching. “She was unbearable about it.”
Caitlyn tore her gaze from her parents and pinned it on Vi. There was something hot and startled in her chest.
“Thank you,” Cassandra said.
For a heartbeat, Vi thought she’d imagined it.
Tobias nodded. “It’s… good,” he said, searching for the right words, “to know that our daughter has people who care about her. Outside of… all this.” He gestured vaguely at the monitors, at the Kiramman crest on the wall screen, at the invisible weight of the council.
Vi’s throat bobbed. She shrugged, trying to make it casual. “Yeah, well. She’s annoying but she grows on you.”
“Like moss,” Caitlyn muttered.
“Like fungus,” Vi shot back automatically.
Cassandra actually huffed, the barest hint of amusement.
She glanced at Tobias, then back at Caitlyn. “The doctor says your scans look good this morning,” she said, slipping back into composed efficiency. “If your vitals stay stable and the physio signs off, they’ll discharge you by the end of the week.”
“Home?” Caitlyn asked.
“To the estate,” Cassandra confirmed. “You’ll keep your respiratory therapy and physiotherapy there. Your room is already prepared. The medical staff will be on-site.”
Caitlyn nodded once, the smallest easing of tension in her shoulders. “Understood.”
Vi shifted again, clearing her throat. This was family talk. Logistics. Old Piltover money and estates and private doctors. Worlds away from Zaun and Lanes and shared hotel rooms with peeling paint.
“I should… uh,” she started, already pushing up from the chair. “Give you guys some space. Family meeting and all.”
Vi didn’t trust herself to stay much longer.
Not with Cassandra’s gaze like a blade against her back.
Not with Tobias trying to look gentle about everything.
Not with Caitlyn watching her like she might disappear if she blinked wrong.
“I’ll be back,” Vi said softly, squeezing Caitlyn’s hand once more. “Just… coffee. I’ll grab you something that isn’t hospital soup, yeah?”
Caitlyn’s fingers tightened briefly.
She slipped out before either of them could stop her, the door whispering shut behind her.
The hallway smelled like antiseptic and old sadness. Vi shoved her hands into her hoodie pockets, shoulders tense, heart rattling around in her chest like something trapped.
She didn’t notice — two wrong turns later — that she was still hovering outside the door when she heard Cassandra’s voice.
Sharp. Cold. Surgical.
“I had a background check done.”
Vi froze.
“She’s a delinquent, Caitlyn,” Cassandra continued. “Records, sealed juvie files. I don’t understand how a team like Red Bull allowed her near one of their cars.”
Vi stared at the floor.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t move.
“She is a good person.”
Caitlyn’s voice — calm, clipped, dangerous.
“She has a bad reputation,” Cassandra replied instantly. “You are a Kiramman, not some street racer from Zaun.”
“I am a driver,” Caitlyn said, and there it was — iron wrapped in silk. “And she is the most talented person I have ever seen behind a wheel.”
A pause.
Then colder:
“You will not speak about her like that.”
Vi swallowed hard.
Cassandra’s voice softened but sharpened at the same time — the tone she used when she started carving people into shapes she wanted.
“Are you honestly telling me you intend to return to Formula One? After you nearly died?”
“Yes,” Caitlyn replied.
No hesitation.
No fear.
“Caitlyn, you’re an heir.”
“I’m not interested in politics,” Caitlyn said flatly. “I’m not interested in galas. I’m not interested in sitting beside men who think they own me.”
Another beat.
“I want to drive. I want to win. And I won’t stop.”
Silence stretched.
Tobias’ voice finally entered — softer, tired.
“…Just take care of yourself, love.”
Footsteps.
Vi stepped away before anyone could find her.
She didn’t realize she was shaking until she reached the vending machine.
She pressed her forehead briefly against the cold metal.
Delinquent.
Maybe.
But she’d never been looked at the way Caitlyn just defended her.
She bought two coffees.
Burned her fingertips on the cups.
She didn’t care.
Back in the hospital room, the world felt hollow after they left.
Caitlyn stared at the space where the door had closed, where Vi had disappeared.
Heir.
Delinquent.
Politics.
Expectations.
She leaned back slowly, the ache blooming quietly through her ribs — ignored, folded away.
Her parents’ words hung in the air like smoke.
She closed her eyes.
She thought about Vi — about the warmth of her hand, the way her voice softened only for her, the way she stood between Caitlyn and everything sharp in the world.
Her chest tightened.
She didn’t allow the thought of what could be.
Not now.
Not when surviving still felt like learning how to breathe in a different body.
The knock came again.
This one lighter.
Quicker.
Urgent.
“Caitlyn?” A familiar, breathless voice. “It’s me.”
The door opened, and Maddie practically rushed inside.
Her blonde hair was pulled back, eyes wide with worry, steps fast until she was right beside the bed.
“Oh my god,” Maddie said, dropping her bag. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn replied automatically, straightening. Spine perfect. Expression composed. Kiramman mask locked in.
Maddie was already at her side, reaching for her hand.
“You don’t look fine.”
She squeezed Caitlyn’s fingers with both hands.
“I’ve been so worried about you.”
Caitlyn allowed it, even if her instinct was to pull away. Maddie meant well. Always had.
“I’m recovering,” Caitlyn said. “The doctors are… optimistic.”
Maddie gave a small laugh, eyes softening. “Mercedes isn’t the same without you, you know.”
Caitlyn lifted a brow. “You’re doing well.”
“I am,” Maddie admitted. “But it feels wrong being there without you beside me. I’d rather be chasing you than replacing you.”
Her thumb brushed unconsciously against Caitlyn’s knuckles.
And then—
The door opened again.
Vi froze.
Coffee in both hands.
Heart dropping straight through the floor.
Her eyes locked immediately on Maddie’s hand.
On Caitlyn’s.
Something ugly and hot tightened in her chest.
Maddie noticed her first.
“Oh — hey,” she said.
Vi forced her jaw to relax.
“Yeah.”
Caitlyn noticed Vit’s stiffness instantly, but didn’t pull her hand away.
Vi set the coffees down carefully.
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
“The doctor said she needs to rest. No visitors today.”
Maddie blinked, surprised.
First at Vi.
Then at Caitlyn.
Caitlyn didn’t contradict it.
Which hurt more than she’d admit.
“Oh…” Maddie said softly, standing. “Of course.”
She gave Caitlyn’s hand one last squeeze.
“Get better, yeah? We can’t wait to have you back. I’ll… visit again.”
She nodded toward Vi politely and left.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Thick.
Jealousy settled under Vi’s skin — ugly, unwelcome, impossible to ignore. She hated how it felt. She hated that she noticed. She hated that she cared.
Caitlyn watched her carefully.
Vi picked up one of the coffees and handed it to her.
“She didn’t need to hold your hand like that."
It slipped out before she could stop it.
Immediately, she looked away.
Regret crawling up her spine.
But she didn’t apologize.
Because the jealousy was real.
And it scared her.
And she didn’t know how much more of it she could survive.
Rhea stood just outside the glass wall, arms folded, watching.
She had watched a thousand practice sessions. Watched Caitlyn push cars past their tolerance. Watched her walk away from walls of flame without a tremor in her hands.
This was different.
Now she watched Caitlyn attempt to lift her own arm.
The motion was slow. Controlled. Careful. Too careful.
The physiotherapist offered support. Caitlyn waved her off without looking at her.
“Again,” Caitlyn said.
Rhea’s jaw tightened.
Caitlyn’s shoulder shook — so slight most people wouldn’t notice. Her ribs shifted under the bandage. Her breathing grew thinner, sharper, more deliberate, like she was rationing air.
She didn’t make a sound.
She never did.
When the session ended, the physiotherapist offered a faint smile. “Good progress.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer. She simply nodded, already bracing her hand on the rail before her balance could betray her.
The room tilted.
Rhea moved fast, stepping in just as Caitlyn swayed.
She caught her by the elbow.
Caitlyn stiffened immediately. Not startled — offended.
“I’m fine,” she said, breathless despite herself.
Rhea didn’t let go.
“You’re not.”
Caitlyn’s breathing was shallow now. Her vision had obviously gone soft; she blinked more than necessary.
“Let’s sit,” Rhea said.
“I don’t need to sit.”
“You’re going to.”
Caitlyn didn’t argue, but she didn’t relax either. She lowered herself carefully onto the bench. Silent. Distant. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap.
Rhea crouched in front of her.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You’re lying.”
Caitlyn looked away.
Rhea studied her for a long moment.
“I know about the telemetry.”
Silence.
Caitlyn didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“What are you talking about?” Caitlyn said finally.
“You rewrote the system.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tensed.
“You rerouted the failure path,” Rhea said calmly. “You rewrote the input logic so the corruption would hit your car instead of Vi’s.”
Caitlyn’s voice cooled. “You can’t prove that.”
“I don’t need to.”
Caitlyn met her eyes now.
“You’ve worked with me for six years,” Rhea replied. “I know how your mind works. I know how quickly you move when someone you care about is in danger.”
Caitlyn said nothing.
Rhea’s voice softened, just a fraction.
“If you hadn’t acted, Vi could have crashed.”
That landed.
Caitlyn’s shoulders lowered half an inch.
“…Yes,” she said quietly.
Rhea waited.
“I thought I could control it,” Caitlyn admitted. “I thought I’d be able to manage the car after.”
Her fingers tightened together. Her breathing turned thinner again.
“I wasn’t expecting multiple failures,” she added. “Systems that had nothing to do with the telemetry began to fail at once.”
Her voice went flat. Controlled.
“I lost it.”
Rhea felt that in her chest.
That frightened her more than anything.
“What you did was reckless,” Rhea said.
“I know.”
“You could have died.”
“I know.”
“You did die,” Rhea added quietly. “Twice.”
Silence fell between them.
Rhea glanced down for a second.
Her voice changed.
“You didn’t answer the radio.”
Caitlyn swallowed hard.
“For years, I’ve always heard your voice,” Rhea said. “Even when you were bleeding. Even when the car was smoking. Even when everything else failed.”
She looked back up at her.
“And for the first time… you didn’t answer me.”
Caitlyn’s voice barely came out. “I didn’t want to scare you.”
Rhea let out a breath that wasn’t steady.
“You did.”
They sat with that.
Rhea continued, quieter now. “You scared the entire garage. You scared your parents. You scared me more than I thought you ever could.”
Caitlyn stared at the floor.
Rhea straightened slightly.
“If you think this is how you stop Ambessa, you’re wrong.”
Caitlyn’s lips pressed thin.
“You don’t fight a woman like that by sacrificing yourself,” Rhea said. “You don’t win by bleeding quietly and hoping no one notices.”
Rhea gestured vaguely at her.
“You lost your season, Cait. The championship was basically yours.”
Caitlyn’s chest tightened.
“Look at what’s left,” Rhea said, softer but heavier. “Your shoulder. Your ribs. Your lungs.”
A beat.
“I didn’t interfere because I thought you had it under control,” Rhea admitted. “I thought you were handling it.”
She shook her head slightly.
“I was wrong.”
She met Caitlyn’s eyes again.
“I’m not letting you do this again.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
Her breathing was uneven. Her posture rigid. Her eyes darker now.
Rhea leaned closer.
“I know you’re angry about your season. I know you’re grieving it.”
Caitlyn looked like she might say something sharp.
She didn’t.
“I know you’re frustrated with your body, your recovery, the slowness of it.”
Still silence.
“You don’t have to hide that from me,” Rhea said. “You never have.”
A long stretch of quiet passed.
Caitlyn’s shoulders sank slightly.
Not breaking.
Not admitting.
But not pretending anymore.
She whispered, almost too low to hear:
“I don’t know who I am if I’m not in that car.”
Rhea felt her throat tighten.
She didn’t say anything.
She just stayed there with her.
Because for the first time, Caitlyn hadn’t sounded like a driver.
She sounded like a person.
The room was dim, curtains pulled halfway against the late afternoon sun. Piltover looked soft outside the windows — distant, quiet, unreal.
Vi sat in the chair beside the bed and didn’t move.
Caitlyn was asleep.
Even in sleep, she looked tired. Her brow faintly furrowed. Her breathing shallow, careful, like the act itself cost her something. A faint shadow lived beneath her eyes, and the long line of bandage over her collarbone rose and fell with each measured breath.
She looked smaller.
Vi hated that.
She leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, and just… watched her. Memorized the way her lashes rested against bruised skin. The way her lips pressed together even in unconsciousness, like she was still holding herself in check.
She’d done all this… without Vi ever asking.
Without Vi ever knowing.
“What kind of person does that?” Vi whispered to the quiet room.
She felt something tight behind her ribs. Something hot behind her eyes.
She’d never understood Caitlyn at first. Why she was kind when no one else was. Why she listened. Why she looked at Vi like she wasn’t something broken or dangerous or disposable.
Now she understood.
Caitlyn wasn’t kind because the world was.
She was kind in spite of it.
Caitlyn shifted.
Her lashes fluttered.
“…You’re staring,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep and softness.
Vi stiffened, heat rushing into her face. “I wasn’t.”
Caitlyn’s lips twitched, barely. “You absolutely were.”
Vi huffed quietly and looked down at her hands. “…You look like you should sleep more."
Caitlyn shifted carefully, trying to sit up — and failed, a soft breath leaving her through her nose.
“Help me?” she asked quietly.
Vi was on her in a second.
She slid an arm behind Caitlyn’s back, careful of the sling, of the bandages, of the fragile places. Her other arm wrapped gently around Caitlyn’s waist.
Caitlyn’s body was warm.
Too warm.
Too close.
She felt the tension immediately — the tight breath Caitlyn tried to hide, the way her weight leaned into Vi just slightly more than necessary. The way her fingers brushed Vi’s side unconsciously.
Vi lifted her slow, controlled, careful.
For a moment, Caitlyn was pressed against her.
Chest to chest.
Breath to breath.
Neither of them spoke.
They were too close to pretend this was nothing.
Caitlyn’s forehead nearly brushed Vi’s. Her breath ghosted against Vi’s lips. Vi’s hands tightened slightly against her back, instinctively protective, instinctively possessive.
“Easy,” Caitlyn murmured, but her voice wasn’t steady.
When Caitlyn finally settled against the pillows, neither of them moved away.
They stayed where they were.
Looking at each other.
Too close.
Too aware.
Vi swallowed. Her voice dropped into something raw and honest before she could stop herself.
“I’m really glad you’re alive.”
Caitlyn stilled.
She looked at Vi’s eyes — and saw the wetness there that Vi hadn’t let fall.
Saw the guilt.
The fear.
The love she never tried to name.
Caitlyn lifted her uninjured arm slowly.
Her fingers brushed Vi’s jaw.
Then her cheek.
Warm, gentle, unbelievably tender.
Vi stopped breathing.
Caitlyn’s thumb brushed beneath her eye, like she might wipe away tears that hadn’t fallen yet.
Her gaze dropped to Vi’s lips.
Back to her eyes.
She leaned in just slightly — slow enough that Vi could pull away.
Slow enough that Vi could stop her.
She waited.
A heartbeat.
Two.
Vi’s eyes drifted shut.
That was all the permission Caitlyn needed.
She closed the last inch of space and kissed her — soft, careful, like she was afraid of breaking something more fragile than bone.
It wasn’t desperate.
It wasn’t rushed.
It was warm.
It was real.
And when they parted, their foreheads rested together, breath shaking quietly between them.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn’t need to.
They just stayed there, together — finally not pretending they didn’t feel it.
They didn’t pull away because they wanted to.
They pulled away because their lungs reminded them they still needed air.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The space between them felt wrong — too empty after the warmth.
Vi’s hands hung uselessly at her sides, fingers twitching like she didn’t trust them not to reach back out. Her breath was uneven, eyes dark, fixed on Caitlyn’s mouth before she could stop herself.
Caitlyn noticed.
Of course she did.
Her pulse slid into her throat, and she swallowed slowly, deliberately, trying to bring herself back under control.
“That…” Vi murmured, voice rough, “…was not in the plan.”
Caitlyn’s lips curved, but her eyes hadn’t softened yet — still warm, still dangerously close to unguarded.
“No,” she agreed quietly. “It wasn’t.”
Silence stretched.
Thick.
Electric.
Vi shifted her weight and the movement somehow shortened the distance again without either of them consciously stepping closer.
Now they were within breath-range.
Now they could feel each other’s heat.
Caitlyn’s gaze dropped — just for a second — to where Vi’s chest rose and fell under the thin fabric of her shirt.
Vi caught it.
Her throat went dry.
“You’re staring,” Vi said quietly, but she didn’t sound annoyed.
Caitlyn lifted her eyes again. Slowly.
“So are you.”
They both stilled again.
Hands drifted.
Not touching.
Hovering.
Vi’s knuckles brushed the blanket by Caitlyn’s hip.
Caitlyn’s fingers grazed the edge of Vi’s sleeve.
Neither pulled away.
The space between them felt like it had a pulse.
“Vi,” Caitlyn said softly.
Her name didn’t come out like a word.
It came out like a pull.
Vi leaned in without meaning to.
Just a fraction.
Enough that Caitlyn’s breath hit her skin.
Enough that the world narrowed down to lashes and lips and the quiet hitch of their breathing.
If either of them moved any closer, they’d lose control again.
They both knew it.
That’s what made it worse.
“That was… reckless of you,” Vi whispered.
“Yes,” Caitlyn murmured, eyes dark. “I tend to be.”
Vi’s jaw tightened.
Her hand, without thinking now, settled gently at Caitlyn’s waist to steady her when she shifted.
Her thumb brushed bare skin, accidentally deliberate.
Caitlyn inhaled sharply.
Vi felt it.
Felt the reaction.
Felt the heat.
She didn’t pull away.
Caitlyn didn’t ask her to.
They held there — breath to breath — tension so sharp it almost hurt.
“I should…” Vi started, but couldn’t finish.
“You don’t have to,” Caitlyn replied, softer.
Not yet.
Not now.
The air trembled between them.
Finally Vi leaned back — not because she wanted to, but because she was afraid of what would happen if she didn’t.
Her hands dropped.
Too fast.
Her voice came out low and rough.
“Next time." Vi finished, voice low and unsteady, “we should probably… talk more.”
It was a terrible save.
Caitlyn knew it.
She let a quiet breath escape — very nearly a laugh — and tilted her head slightly.
“Talk,” she repeated. “Of course.”
But her eyes didn’t believe it.
Neither did Vi.
The moment eased, not because it faded, but because something in both of them recognized the danger of staying that close for too long. Caitlyn shifted back against the pillows carefully, jaw tightening just slightly before the mask slid back into place.
Vi stepped away.
Barely.
Enough to breathe again.
She scrubbed a hand through her hair, looking everywhere except Caitlyn for a full second before glancing back.
“You should rest,” Vi said again, but this time it sounded like she meant it — like it was the only way to stop herself from doing something neither of them were ready to survive.
“Yes,” Caitlyn replied softly.
She didn’t close her eyes.
She watched Vi instead.
Watched the way her shoulders moved. Watched the way she hovered, undecided, like she didn’t trust herself to leave.
“Stay,” Caitlyn added quietly. More a request than a command.
Vi hesitated just a heartbeat…
…then dragged the chair closer and sat back down beside the bed.
She didn’t touch Caitlyn.
But she didn’t move away either.
They sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t empty.
The kind that stayed stretched tight.
Like a line drawn in the sand neither of them wanted to cross…
and couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if they did.
Caitlyn finally let her eyes close — not to sleep, but to breathe.
Vi stayed exactly where she was.
Watching.
Guarding.
Wanting.
And somewhere between heartbeat and breath, they both knew:
Whatever this was…
It wasn’t over.
Not even close.
The council chamber never heard the bomb.
Not as a sound.
As a presence.
A pressure inside the walls — like the air itself forgot how to behave.
One second there were voices. Papers. Calm discussions about trade routes, defense budgets, and Zerra welding tariffs.
The next, the air collapsed in on itself.
A violent concussion ripped through the north wall.
Not fire — not flame — but a shockwave that splintered glass, snapped marble, and hurled bodies through polished desks.
Silence didn’t follow.
Screams did.
Dust rolled through the chamber in thick choking clouds. The ceiling fractured, fractured again — carvings and gold gilding slamming into the floor with wet, ugly thuds.
Enforcers reacted instantly — too late.
“Lock it down!”
“Medics!”
“Where did it come from—?!”
No answer.
Only alarms.
Red lights washed over chaos.
Bodies were dragged across the floor.
Some moved.
Some didn’t.
Some seats remained… terribly empty.
Emergency shutters sealed the perimeter.
Piltover’s illusion of untouchability shattered inside a single breath.
Outside, the city woke up screaming.
Sirens tore through the silent night.
News drones rose into the sky.
Notes:
Thank you so much for all the incredible love and support — reading your comments genuinely means the world to me. I’d love to hear your thoughts and theories, and if you have any ideas or moments you’d like to see, feel free to share! As always, thank you for sticking with this story. 💙
Chapter 15: Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The door whispered shut behind Vi, and for the first time since she’d woken up after Mexico, Caitlyn was alone in the room.
Really alone.
No doctors checking vitals. No physio insisting on one more rep. No Rhea watching her with that quiet, sharp concern. No Vi filling every corner of the silence just by existing in it.
Just the muted hum of machines and the soft glow of the wall-mounted screen playing a recap of yesterday’s race.
She should have closed her eyes. Rested. That’s what everyone kept telling her to do.
Instead, she stared at the screen.
They were replaying Brazil again. The start lights. The grid. Vi’s car in P1, lined up like a coiled punch at the front of the world.
Caitlyn watched the launch from muscle memory. She could have recited the telemetry in her sleep. The RPM spike. The traction control. The millisecond delay of Vi’s left foot.
She’d seen it enough times now that her heart didn’t seize every time the camera cut to Vi’s onboard. Almost.
Her gaze drifted away from the race, toward the bedside table, where two phones sat side by side — her personal and the team line. Both silent. For a blessed moment.
Then the hospital’s broadcast feed blinked.
The race cut out mid-overtake. The screen flickered once, twice, before resolving into the sharp, unforgiving imagery of a breaking news banner.
EMERGENCY: EXPLOSION AT PILTOVER COUNCIL CHAMBER
Caitlyn’s blood went cold.
The footage was chaotic. Shaky. Someone’s drone camera had caught the aftermath: smoke boiling from one side of the grand council building, enforcers swarming like ants, med-drones descending, sirens turning the city’s air into a single, continuous scream.
For half a second, Caitlyn couldn’t breathe.
Then she was moving.
She pushed herself upright too fast. Pain lit up her ribs like a flare. The world tilted, darkening at the edges, but she forced her vision back into line with a sharp inhale.
Mother.
Her hand went straight for the table. She fumbled the personal phone once before getting a grip on it, jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ached.
She hit Cassandra’s contact and pressed the phone to her ear with shaking fingers.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The ringing felt like it drilled straight through her skull.
“Pick up,” Caitlyn whispered. “Come on. Pick up.”
No answer.
The mechanical voice of the network cut in. The subscriber you are trying to reach—
She hung up before it finished.
Her heart hammered so hard it hurt.
She dialed again.
And again.
The third time, the call connected.
Static and distant shouting bled into her ear before a strained, too-even voice cut through it.
“Caitlyn.”
Relief hit so fast it made her dizzy. “Mother.”
She heard herself and was faintly surprised her voice didn’t shake.
“Are you alright?” Cassandra asked. Her words were crisp, but there was a faint roughness underneath.
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn said automatically. “What about you? Where are you? Were you in the chamber?”
“I…” A slight pause. “…was not in the main chamber when the blast hit. I was in the outer hall. I’ve sustained a few… minor injuries. They’re treating me.”
Minor.
The word was supposed to soothe.
It didn’t.
“Where?” Caitlyn demanded. “Which ward?”
“That’s not necessary, Caitlyn. You are not to move—”
“Where,” Caitlyn repeated, the edge in her tone making even Cassanda pause. “Tell me.”
A breath. Slightly sharp, as if pulling through teeth. “Surgical annex. Wing C. The hospital’s main tower. But you are to stay where you are—”
The call crackled. Voices in the background, a medic asking someone to hold still.
“Mother,” Caitlyn said, enunciating each word like she was giving a report to a superior officer, “I am coming to you.”
“You most certainly are not. You can barely walk.”
“I can,” Caitlyn said, already swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Pain clawed across her chest, bright and immediate. She ignored it. “And I will.”
“Caitlyn—”
“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Caitlyn said.
Another pause.
Then, quietly, “Always so stubborn.”
And softer still, almost lost in the static, “Be careful.”
The line cut.
Caitlyn lowered the phone with fingers that didn’t feel like they belonged to her.
The news footage on the wall showed a different angle now — stretcher after stretcher coming out of the grand building. Familiar colors of council robes stained dark with dust and blood. A shot of a cracked marble pillar bearing the Kiramman crest, half-buried under debris.
Her jaw locked.
She reached for the edge of the bed and pushed herself up.
The first step felt like walking into a wall. Her ribs protested, breath stuttering. Her left shoulder screamed as the downward angle tugged against the sling. Her legs wobbled, knees threatening to buckle.
She didn’t stop.
She grabbed the IV stand, fingers biting into cold metal, and yanked it along with her.
The wheels squeaked their displeasure. The monitor beeped faster, registering the spike in her heart rate.
Caitlyn made it to the door in slow, stubborn steps.
The corridor outside was busy — more than usual. Nurses hustled, someone wheeled a portable console down the hall, enforcers in dusty uniforms spoke hurriedly into radio headsets.
She stepped out as if she owned the floor.
“Miss Kiramman.” The nearest nurse almost jumped out of her skin. “You can’t be up—”
“My mother is here,” Caitlyn said, not slowing. “Surgical annex, wing C. I need her room number.”
“That’s not— you can’t just—”
“I am aware that I ‘can’t just,’” Caitlyn said, words clipped with precision. “I’m also aware that my mother was nearly blown up in the council chamber and I am currently being stopped by a man holding a clipboard.”
Her eyes met his.
Blue.
Cold.
Unyielding.
The nurse hesitated. “You’re not cleared to move yet. Your chart—”
“Where,” Caitlyn repeated, each syllable measured. “Is she? "
He glanced at the monitor on her IV pole. Her heart rate glowed in bright numbers — much too high. “Wing C, room twenty-five,” he relented. “But you need an escort—”
“Lovely. Consider yourself volunteered,” Caitlyn said, already moving again.
He sputtered something about protocol, but he followed, one hand hovering near her elbow in case she toppled.
She didn’t.
Every step was agony.
Her body screamed at her, a chorus of protests rising from ribs and muscle and half-healed fractures. The world tilted once, twice, soft gray creeping at the edges of her vision, but she forced it back with harsh, controlled breaths.
In.
Hold.
Out.
She passed a wall-mounted screen in the main corridor.
The news feed had moved on from the exterior shot to footage of the interior — someone’s camera swinging wildly across shattered marble, smoke, and the bodies of enforcers in their navy armor being dragged toward triage zones.
A medic stepped into frame, barking orders. Behind him, a stretcher rolled by — an unconscious councilor, blood streaking down their face, head lolling.
Caitlyn didn’t slow.
Wing C was busier still. Doctors shouted orders. Med-drones hummed overhead. The air smelled like antiseptic and iron.
“Here,” the nurse said, gesturing to a door near the end. “Room twenty-five. Please—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Caitlyn pushed the door open.
Her mother had never looked small to her.
Not until right then.
Cassandra Kiramman sat on the edge of the narrow hospital bed, back as straight as ever, chin lifted, eyes sharp even under the harsh light. A doctor was stitching a long, ugly cut along her hairline, the skin around it a livid, angry red. Her left arm was wrapped in a thick bandage from wrist to elbow. Smaller cuts and bruises dotted her face and neck, disappearing under a simple hospital gown that looked wrong on someone so carefully composed.
There was blood on her fingers.
Her eyes flicked up as the door opened.
“Caitlyn.” Her voice was calm. Exactly as it had been on the phone. If not for the dried blood at her temple, you’d think she’d walked in from a committee meeting.
Tobias turned from his spot near the window, where he’d been speaking quietly with a medic. His glasses sat crooked on his nose.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing Cait?” he asked, eyes widening as he took in his daughter — pale as paper, chest heaving, clutching an IV pole like it was the only thing holding her up.
“I’m walking,” Caitlyn said, because it was easier than saying panicking.
She let go of the stand just long enough to step fully into the room.
The nurse behind her hovered in the doorway, hands flapping uselessly. “She insisted,” he told Cassandra helplessly. “I tried—”
“Leave us,” Cassandra said without looking at him.
“But her chart—”
“Leave us.”
He left.
The doctor finished the stitch and snipped the thread. “You’ll not have a scar,” he told Cassandra, as if she cared. “But try not to frown too much; it’ll pull.”
“I’ll do my best,” Cassandra said dryly.
The doctor glanced at Caitlyn but thought better of commenting. “I’ll give you a moment,” he said, and slipped out.
The door shut.
Silence pressed in for a beat.
Caitlyn took a breath that hurt. “Who did this?”
Tobias sighed. “We’re still assessing—”
“Mother." Caitlyn cut in, gaze locked onto Cassandra. “Who.”
Her mother’s jaw tightened.
“The investigators believe it’s the same faction,” Cassandra said finally. “The same… group that orchestrated the previous attack.”
“From Zaun,” Tobias supplied quietly. “Some… radicalized element. They’re still sorting through the evidence, but the preliminary reports are consistent.”
“Jinx,” Cassandra said, the word like a drop of acid in pristine water. “They believe she was involved in both incidents."
Caitlyn’s fingers curled around the IV pole.
Her knuckles went white.
“How bad,” she asked. The words felt like gravel. “The chamber.”
“Bad,” Tobias said simply. “Worse than last time. Two councilors dead. Several enforcers as well. The rest …” He glanced at Cassandra’s arm. “…were lucky.”
Lucky.
If Cassandra had been standing two meters to the left, she would not be in this bed. She would be a line in a casualty report.
The thought landed heavy in Caitlyn’s chest.
Her ribs protested the way she inhaled.
Cassandra watched her daughter carefully. “There will be… consequences,” she said. “Zaun cannot keep doing this. We’ve already dispatched enforcers to the Lanes. They’re arresting anyone associated with known cells. Any suspicious movements. It will get… tense.”
The clinical lack of drama in her tone made it worse.
Caitlyn’s fist clenched harder. Her jaw locked so tight it hurt. Images from the news feed flashed behind her eyes — broken marble, blood in the grooves of the council seal, enforcers carrying limp bodies.
Jinx.
Zaun.
Vi.
“We need to find them,” Caitlyn said, her voice very calm. Too calm. “And arrest them. All of them. Whoever is responsible. Whoever enabled it.”
Her pulse thrummed under her skin, hot and sharp.
She was so focused on the rage — on the need for order, for control, for action — that she almost didn’t notice it when her body finally called in the debt she’d just forced it to pay.
The adrenaline had carried her down the corridors, through the pain, into this room.
It started to ebb.
The edges of her vision went soft first. The corners of the room smudged. The line of her mother’s shoulders blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again.
She blinked once, slowly.
Her knees loosened.
“Caitlyn,” Tobias said sharply.
She tried to say I’m fine, the words already halfway formed.
They didn’t make it out.
The IV pole tilted as her grip faltered. The wheels jammed against the edge of the bed, jerking sideways. The world tilted with it.
She didn’t hit the floor.
Someone caught her.
A solid arm wrapped around her waist, another hand shooting out to steady the IV stand before it crashed. Her shoulder collided with a warm chest, not the cold, unyielding metal she’d been seconds away from.
“Got you,” Vi muttered, breath close to her ear. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
Caitlyn’s fingers bunched reflexively in the fabric of Vi’s hoodie. Her ribs howled. Her shoulder flared. Her pride took a blow she pretended not to feel.
She let herself lean — for half a heartbeat — into the support.
Then she pulled back, jaw locking as she forced her legs to cooperate. “I’m fine,” she bit out.
“‘fine ? " Vi said, tightening her grip when Caitlyn swayed again. “ Nearly hitting the floor in your mom’s hospital room is ‘fine’?”
“I” Vi swallowed. “I went back to your room. It was empty. The nurse told me you’d gone chase-walking across the hospital to find the council chamber victims like you didn’t just—” She broke off, shaking her head. “Of course you did.”
Her eyes flicked past Caitlyn then, to Cassandra on the bed.
To the stitches along her hairline.
To the bandaged arm.
To the smaller cuts and bruises along her neck.
Vi’s breath stuttered.
It could have been worse.
It could have been much, much worse.
Her heart slammed against her ribs hard enough to hurt.
Jinx.
She didn’t need anyone to say it aloud.
She saw it in the footage, in the pattern, in the way enforcers moved with grim familiarity.
Her sister had done this.
Maybe not with her own hands. Maybe from a rooftop, or a control panel, or a bomb rigged three days ago.
But it was Jinx’s style.
Chaos as a calling card.
And Cassandra had been inside.
Cassandra — who had done nothing to Vi directly apart from ask pointed questions and look at her like a complicated equation — had walked out with blood on her face and bandages on her arm because Jinx wanted Piltover to suffer.
Because Jinx wanted the council to bleed.
Because Jinx wanted Vi to look at the wreckage and see herself in it.
Guilt punched through her like a fist.
She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be here anymore.
Not in this room.
Not beside this bed.
Not in Caitlyn’s orbit at all.
“Vi.” Cassandra’s voice cut through the static in Vi’s head like a knife. Calm. Dangerous.
Vi straightened instinctively, though she still had one arm around Caitlyn’s waist. It felt like being caught with her hand in someone else’s pockets.
“Ma’am,” she said, because she had no idea what else to call the woman whose council chamber had just been bombed by Vi’s sister.
Tobias stepped forward, trying to fold the anger and fear in the room into something gentler. “You shouldn’t have come all this way,” he told Caitlyn, but there was no real heat in it. Just worry. “You could have waited. We were going to you as soon as they finished treating your mother.”
“You were hurt,” Caitlyn replied, as if that explained everything. In her mind, it did.
Cassandra’s eyes tracked every small movement her daughter made. The way her shoulders shook slightly with the effort of standing. The way her hand clenched around Vi’s sleeve, fingers trembling in a way her face would never show.
“That is enough,” Cassandra said, gentler than Vi had heard her sound yet. “Back to bed, Caitlyn.”
“I’m not—”
“You are not invincible,” Cassandra cut in. “Sit before you fall. I refuse to have both of us in trauma wards on the same day.”
Tobias stepped in on the other side of Caitlyn, adding a steadying hand. Between them, he and Vi guided her toward the nearest chair.
Caitlyn let herself be steered, just this once.
She sank down, moving with the stiff care of someone holding herself in so many places that one wrong breath might break her.
Her eyes went to the monitor on the wall, where the news feed still ran on mute.
BREAKING: TWO COUNCILORS KILLED IN EXPLOSION. ENFORCER CASUALTIES CONFIRMED. ZAUNITE TERROR CELL SUSPECTED.
The words crawled along the bottom of the screen in relentless red.
Tobias followed her gaze, then looked back at his daughter. “They’ll brief us in full soon,” he said quietly. “Right now, it’s all fragments. But they think this isn’t the last of it. Whoever is doing this… they’re escalating.”
Caitlyn’s jaw clenched.
Zaun.
Jinx.
Ambessa’s threats.
Vi.
Everything collided behind her eyes in a sickening tangle.
“We have to stop them,” she said softly.
Her mother studied her profile.
“We will,” Cassandra said. “But not from this bed. And not tonight.”
She shifted, wincing as the movement tugged at the stitches on her forehead. “For now, I intend to let the doctors earn their salaries. You will do the same.”
Her tone brooked no argument.
Tobias nodded in agreement. “She’s right.”
Vi glanced between them, then down at Caitlyn.
Her hand had relaxed once she was settled in the chair, but only barely. Her fingers were still white at the tips. Her eyes were still fixed on the screen, somewhere far away.
Vi followed her line of sight.
The rubble. The smoke. The injured being loaded into ambulances.
Her stomach twisted.
What if Jinx is still down there?
Her heart pulled in two directions at once — toward Zaun, toward Piltover, toward blood ties and chosen ones.
Caitlyn seemed to feel the shift in her.
She finally tore her gaze from the screen and looked up at Vi.
Her eyes were paler than usual in the harsh hospital light. Harder, too. Not unfeeling — never that — but more guarded. Layers sliding back into place.
“Mother,” she said, still looking at Vi. “Father. I’m going back to my room.”
“You can barely stand,” Cassandra said automatically.
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t topple over any more IV stands,” Vi muttered. “Promise.”
Cassandra’s gaze flicked between them.
There was a thousand things unsaid in that look.
About loyalties.
About risks.
About Zaun.
About Jinx.
About a girl from the Lanes holding up a Kiramman heir who refused to break.
“Very well,” Cassandra said after a long moment. “Go. Both of you. Rest while you still can. This will get worse before it gets better.”
Her words hung in the air.
They all knew she wasn’t just talking about the council.
Or Zaun.
Or the city.
She was talking about them.
Vi squeezed Caitlyn’s shoulder lightly. “Come on" she said softly. “You heard the council lady. Time to pretend to be a good patient again.”
Caitlyn’s mouth twitched despite everything. “I never pretended,” she muttered.
Vi slipped an arm under her good shoulder, careful and sure. Caitlyn let herself lean — just enough to move without falling apart.
As they left the room, the news screen switched to a still image.
A grainy capture of a mural on a Zaunite wall, taken from a drone cam, zoomed in past the static.
A laughing, spray-painted face in bright, chaotic colors.
Wide eyes. Wild smile. Pink and blue hair.
No one said the name out loud.
They didn’t have to.
Caitlyn’s hand clenched around Vi’s sleeve.
Vi’s heart dropped.
Somewhere deep under the city, in the smoke and neon and shadow of the Lanes, Jinx was laughing.
And for the first time since Mexico, Vi had no idea which way to run.
The door slid shut behind them with a soft hiss.
Too soft.
Like the room was pretending nothing had changed.
Vi noticed it immediately — the silence.
Not the comfortable kind. Not the shared kind they’d had when they sat too close on the bed and forgot how to breathe after that kiss. This was… emptier. Caitlyn wasn’t curled against pain anymore. She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t soft.
She was still.
Too still.
She sat on the edge of the bed, uninjured hand folded tightly over the blanket, jaw locked. Her gaze hadn’t returned to Vi since they’d come back inside.
“You okay?” Vi asked quietly.
It felt like stepping onto broken glass.
Caitlyn didn’t look at her.
“How could I be?” she replied, voice even and hollow at the same time. “My mother nearly died.”
Vi swallowed hard.
“I— I didn’t know it was this bad,” she said. “The people behind it… they’re not random. It’s a group. Silco’s people. He runs things in Zaun. He’s… not good.” Her hands twitched uselessly at her sides. “They’re trying to destabilize everything.”
Caitlyn’s fingers tightened in the sheets.
“I know Zaun has been treated like a wound Piltover didn’t want to look at,” she said, still not meeting Vi’s eyes. “I know it’s divided, and ugly, and unfair.” A pause. “But blowing apart a council chamber isn’t justice. It’s slaughter.”
“I’m not defending it,” Vi said quickly, throat tight. “I just… want you to know it isn’t random. It’s organized. It’s planned.”
“I want them arrested,” Caitlyn said immediately. “Every one of them.”
The words landed clean. Sharp. Final.
Vi felt the guilt bloom, fast and violent.
She laughed once, breathless. Not amused. “Yeah. Well. One of them shares my blood.”
Caitlyn’s head turned then.
Finally.
“What do you mean?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
Vi stared at the wall. At the floor. Anywhere but her.
“My sister,” she said. “Jinx. She’s… part of it. At least, we think she is.” Her voice cracked and she hated that it did. “She used to be… different.”
Silence stretched thin and tight.
Vi forced the words out before she could think herself out of them.
“I’m sorry. For what she did. For what she might’ve done.” She huffed, brittle. “Your parents are gonna hate me when they find out. Piltover already thinks I’m a problem. This just… puts a target on my back.”
Caitlyn studied her.
Vi braced for rejection.
Blame.
Coldness.
Instead, Caitlyn’s expression shifted — softened, just slightly.
“You are not responsible for anyone’s actions but your own,” she said quietly. “You don’t control your sister.” A pause. “And my parents don’t get a say in how I see you.”
Vi blinked.
“You… don’t hate me?”
Caitlyn exhaled slowly. “Vi. My mother is injured. I am angry. I am furious.”
She met Vi’s eyes fully now.
“But I am not stupid enough to blame you for someone else’s choices.”
That hit harder than if she had yelled.
Vi swallowed, nodding once.
“I want to find her,” Vi said. “I want to get to her before she does something worse. I want to pull her out of this before she… disappears completely.” Her hands curled into fists. “That’s not the sister I grew up with.”
“She may still have to face consequences,” Caitlyn said quietly.
“I know.”
“Everyone who committed a crime must be held accountable.”
“I know.”
“I’m not going to pretend otherwise because I care about you.”
“I wouldn’t respect you if you did,” Vi said hoarsely.
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, thoughtful.
“You believe she can be saved?” she asked.
Vi’s answer came too fast.
“Yes.”
Like it was the only thing holding her upright.
Caitlyn held her gaze.
“How are you so sure?” she asked. “What if you’re wrong?”
Vi didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Caitlyn pressed, softer but sharper.
“What if the next attack is worse?” she asked quietly. “What if next time the victims aren’t just injured?” A breath. “What if someone dies because you hesitated?”
The air left the room.
Vi felt it collapse around her lungs.
She stared at her hands like they belonged to someone else.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, finally.
Her voice was small.
Broken.
“I don’t know what to do.”
That was the truth.
She didn’t know how to be a good sister and a good person and still live in a world where both sides wanted blood.
She didn’t know how to protect Caitlyn without losing her.
She didn’t know how to save her sister without betraying the people who deserved justice.
Caitlyn watched her.
Really watched her.
Not cold.
Not cruel.
Just… aware.
“Then don’t decide alone,” Caitlyn said.
Vi looked up.
And for the first time since the news, since the blood, since the guilt, she saw something steady in Caitlyn’s eyes.
Not anger.
Not blame.
Resolve.
“We will figure it out,” Caitlyn said. “Together. Or not at all.”
Vi let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Because the truth was:
She didn’t know what to do.
But she knew she didn’t want to face it without Caitlyn.
The garage felt wrong.
Too loud. Too bright. Too clean.
Vi sat on the edge of the bench, race suit half-zipped, helmet resting at her feet. Mechanics moved around her in gentle, practiced chaos, but she barely heard them. Her mind kept drifting.
To blue eyes.
Bandages.
A hospital room.
Her phone buzzed.
The name wasn’t saved.
It didn’t need to be.
She answered.
For a second, there was only breathing.
Then — laughter.
“You got real quiet when you picked up.”
Vi closed her eyes. “Powder…”
“Oh. We’re doing childhood names now?” Jinx said. Her voice was sugar-sweet and cracked glass underneath. “That’s cute.”
“What do you want?” Vi asked quietly.
“To see if you remember where you’re from,” Jinx replied. “Hard to tell now that you’re all famous and shiny.”
Vi swallowed. “You can’t just—”
“Can’t just call?” Jinx cut in. “Or can’t remind you that you used to look at me like I was the whole world?”
Silence.
Vi tightened her grip on the edge of the bench.
“You’re spending a lot of time with that Piltover girlfriend of yours,” Jinx added lightly. “Funny. I don’t remember you liking people who wore gold.”
“She’s not like—”
“You forgot where you belong,” Jinx said.
That one landed.
Vi’s voice broke slightly. “You left.”
“Yeah,” Jinx said. “That’s what you tell yourself?”
Vi pushed to her feet as the room swirled.
“I looked for you,” Vi said. “For years. Every street, every dock, every rumor. Don’t rewrite this.”
“You stopped,” Jinx replied.
“I didn’t.”
“You did,” Jinx said. “You traded smoke and oil for champagne and cameras.”
Vi shook her head even though Jinx couldn’t see it. “That’s not true.”
“You’re racing,” Jinx said. “You’re kissing Piltover princesses. You’re smiling in front of people who would’ve locked us up just for breathing.”
Vi whispered, “You don’t know her.”
“I don’t need to,” Jinx replied. “She looks at you like she owns you.”
Vi felt something ugly coil in her chest.
“I’m trying to stop you,” Vi said. “Because if they catch you, it’ll get worse. Prison. Experiments. They won’t understand you, Powder.”
The name slipped out softer.
Jinx went silent.
Dangerously silent.
“…Don’t call me that.”
“Powder—”
“I said don’t.”
A distant clink — metal. Tools. Something being adjusted.
“You abandoned me,” Jinx said, quieter now. Not playful. Not sharp. Just… hollow.
“You ran,” Vi said, voice shaking. “You vanished. I woke up and you were gone.”
“You left me with nothing,” Jinx replied. “So I made something.”
A beat.
“You’ve got your race in a few minutes, don’t you?”
Vi didn’t answer.
Jinx laughed softly. “I can hear it. All that buzzing. All that fancy machinery.”
Vi whispered, “Please stop what you’re doing.”
“I don’t care,” Jinx said. “I really don’t.”
“If they arrest you—”
“Let them try.”
“I want to save you,” Vi said. “You’re not this person. You’re not—”
“Not what you want me to be?” Jinx interrupted. “Not convenient?”
Vi’s throat went tight. “I want my sister back.”
Silence.
Then, low and sharp:
“You chose them.”
“No,” Vi said. “I’m choosing you right now. I’m begging you.”
“And you’re still putting on that helmet,” Jinx replied.
The pit wall radio crackled faintly:
> “Vi, five minutes.”
“…See?” Jinx said. “You won’t leave.”
Vi whispered, “You don’t make this easy.”
“I’m not supposed to,” Jinx said.
Then, softer. Dangerous again.
“You keep choosing her.”
“What?”
“That girl,” Jinx said. “She feels… close to you.”
Vi didn’t answer.
Jinx’s voice dipped lower.
“Careful, Vi.”
A beat.
The line went dead.
Vi stared at the phone.
Her hands were shaking when she picked up her helmet.
And for the first time since she climbed into the car, she didn’t know which direction she was really driving toward.
Las Vegas was supposed to roar.
That was what they always told her.
Vegas will energize you. Vegas will wake you up. Vegas will feel like a show.
But right now, it felt like a cage.
From inside the cockpit, everything sounded wrong.
The fans weren’t thunder. The engines weren’t music.
They were noise.
Static.
Vi flexed her fingers inside her gloves and forced herself to breathe slowly.
In
Out
Helmet on.
HANS secured.
Belts tight.
The mechanics around her were efficient — hands flying, muttering tire temps and balance adjustments like prayers.
She didn’t answer.
She could still hear the call.
Not the team radio.
Her sister.
You forgot where you belong.
She stared straight ahead, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
The visor reflected back a ghost of her: eyes hard, unreadable, more tired than she’d ever admit.
“Systems check,” her engineer’s voice cut in.
“Copy.”
“Brake migration okay?”
“Okay.”
“ERS deployment?”
“Normal.”
The lights above the track flickered: red… red… red…
Her heart started racing before the car ever did.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The lights went out.
And she launched forward like she was being fired from a weapon.
Second gear almost screamed.
Third snapped in.
Rear tires fighting traction, biting hard against the asphalt.
She didn’t lift.
She didn’t hesitate.
Turn one was a blur of carbon fiber and proximity alarms. She forced her way inside, refusing to yield even half a car’s width.
The steering wheel felt alive under her hands — twitching, aggressive, vibrating against every thought she refused to think.
She was driving too hard.
She knew it.
She didn’t care.
Every lap built tighter.
The Las Vegas strip burned across her vision — neon lights streaking into colors that didn’t exist off throttle.
Her race engineer tried again.
“Vi, your lap times are borderline. Tire wear will—”
“Don’t,” Vi cut in.
Silence fell on the radio.
She drove like the world behind her was burning.
Like slowing down would mean drowning.
Half distance.
She was fighting.
Defending.
Attacking.
She overtook brutally — clean, but ruthless.
No celebration.
No radio laughter.
Just breathing.
Monster breathing.
By lap 37, every muscle in her shoulders was tight.
By lap 45, her hands ached from overcorrecting.
By the final lap, she couldn’t remember what calm felt like.
The checkered flag dropped.
P1.
The world exploded.
And Vi felt… nothing.
The radio erupted.
“VI! THAT’S A WIN! VI, YOU BEAUT—”
She turned the radio volume down.
Rolled into parc fermé.
Unbuckled.
Pulled off her helmet.
Camera flashes blinding.
She didn’t wave.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t even look up.
She walked straight past the podium.
Past champagne.
Past hands reaching for her.
She didn’t explain.
The team didn’t stop her.
Because they could see it.
Something was wrong.
The phone felt heavier than it should have.
Vi held it against her ear, shoulder pressed to the cold concrete wall of the paddock corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above her. The noise of the world felt far away — mechanics shouting, engines whining, the hum of cameras and expectation.
All of it distant.
The only thing that existed was the soft click as the line connected.
For a breath, there was only static.
Then she heard Caitlyn breathe.
It was subtle. Controlled. Like she was holding something back.
“You didn’t celebrate,” Caitlyn said quietly.
Vi stared at the floor, jaw tightening. A dark spot on the tile. Oil, maybe. Rubber.
“Didn’t feel right,” she answered.
There was a pause — not awkward, but careful. Like Caitlyn was choosing her next words with precision.
“You didn’t look right,” Caitlyn said. “Your shoulders were too tight. You didn’t smile. Not the real one.”
Vi closed her eyes.
“You can see that through a screen?” she asked, but there was no humor in it.
“I can see you,” Caitlyn replied. “Even when you don’t want me to.”
That sat between them for a moment.
The air felt denser.
“She called me,” Vi said before she could stop herself.
The words felt like broken glass in her mouth.
Silence on the other end.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Just understanding.
“Your sister,” Caitlyn said.
Vi slid down slowly until her back hit the wall and she was sitting on the floor, knees bent, forearms resting against them.
“She said I forgot where I came from,” Vi whispered. “Said I’ve gone soft. That I’m playing hero beside a Piltover princess.”
Caitlyn’s breath sounded sharper now. Held. Measured.
“She said I abandoned her.”
Vi’s hand trembled slightly where she gripped the phone.
“She laughed when I told her I never stopped looking,” Vi added.
Outside, a car roared to life. The sound felt meaningless.
“You didn’t abandon her,” Caitlyn said.
“I don’t know how to make her believe that.”
There was a quiet shift on the other end of the line — like fabric moving, like Caitlyn adjusting her posture.
“My mother told me something,” Caitlyn said.
Vi straightened slightly, instinct kicking in.
“They found Silco’s main hideout,” Caitlyn continued. “Northern Zaun. Old industrial sector.”
Vi’s heart stuttered.
“There’s going to be a raid,” Caitlyn said. “Tomorrow night.”
Each word felt like it was being planted carefully.
“They think she’ll be there.”
Vi stared at her boots.
The floor felt colder.
“They’re going to arrest her,” Vi said.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“You’re calling me to tell me to stay away?” Vi asked quietly.
“No,” Caitlyn replied. “I’m calling you so you’re not unprepared.”
Vi let her head fall back against the wall.
“You’re worried,” she said.
Caitlyn hesitated. Just long enough to be honest.
“I am.”
Something in Vi’s chest tightened.
“They’ll hurt her,” Vi said.
“They’ll try not to,” Caitlyn said. “But raids are… not gentle.”
Vi swallowed.
“You should hate me,” Vi whispered. “My sister did this to your city. To your mother.”
Caitlyn’s voice softened, but didn’t bend.
“I hate what she’s done,” she said. “I don’t hate you.”
That hurt worse than anger would have.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Vi murmured. “I should be in Zaun. I should be fixing this.”
“You can’t fix everything by bleeding for it,” Caitlyn said.
A long quiet fell over the line.
The kind that felt fragile.
“You sound tired,” Caitlyn said.
“I am.”
“You’re allowed to be.”
Vi almost laughed.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight,” Caitlyn said. “Just… stay breathing. That’s enough.”
Vi nodded, though she knew Caitlyn couldn’t see it.
“Thank you,” Vi said.
“For calling me,” Caitlyn replied.
The line stayed open after that.
No rush.
No goodbye.
Just two people on opposite ends of something too large to name, trying to hold onto each other through static.
The alley smelled like oil, ozone, and old rot.
Zaun always smelled like this — damp metal and broken promises — but tonight it felt tighter. Like the air itself was waiting to snap.
Vi stood in the mouth of the passage, shoulders tense, listening.
A soft click echoed.
Then another.
Boot heels on metal.
“I knew you’d come.”
The voice was wrong.
Not Powder.
Not really.
Too smooth. Too playful. Too sharp.
Vi swallowed. “Jinx.”
She stepped out of the shadows like she’d been poured from them — braids bouncing, boots light on the catwalk, eyes bright in a way that felt like broken glass reflecting light. She was grinning.
She was always grinning.
“You’re late,” Jinx said, tilting her head. “Again.”
Vi forced herself forward. One step. Then another. “I had a race.”
Jinx laughed.
Not a nice laugh.
Not a Powder laugh.
It was brittle and too loud for the narrow space, echoing off pipes and walls like broken bells.
“Of course you did.”
She leaned forward, hands on her knees, eyes wide and glittering. “Can’t make time for your sister, but you can make time for little flags and shiny trophies, huh?”
Vi’s chest tightened. “That’s not—”
“Oh, don’t,” Jinx said, straightening, wagging a finger. “Don’t start with the ‘I had no choice’ thing. That one’s getting old.”
She paced in a slow circle around Vi, boots scraping metal.
“You look good.” Her tone shifted — lighter, dangerous. “Real good. Clean. Healthy. Expensive.”
She leaned in close.
Smelled like oil and smoke.
“And you smell like Piltover.”
Vi flinched.
Jinx noticed.
Of course she did.
“Oooooh,” she sing-songed. “There it is.”
She leaned back, hands thrown wide. “How’s the princess?”
Vi’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”
“She kiss you yet?” Jinx tilted her head. “Or is she still playing ‘fragile rich girl who falls apart if you breathe too hard’?”
Vi’s pulse spiked. “Leave her out of this.”
Jinx barked a laugh. “Why?” She stepped closer. “You left me out of everything.”
“That’s not true,” Vi said, and the words came out cracked. “I looked for you. For years.”
Jinx stopped.
The sudden stillness was more dangerous than the movement.
“…Liar.”
The word was soft.
Deadly.
“You didn’t look,” Jinx said quietly. “You moved on.”
Vi stepped closer now, desperate. “You disappeared, Powder. You ran.”
“I survived,” Jinx snapped, and suddenly her voice wasn’t playful at all.
Silence crashed between them.
Jinx recovered fast. Too fast. Smile back in place. Crazy back turned on like a switch.
“And now you drive little fast cars and kiss your little Pilty princess and pretend you’ve still got a sister.”
“You do,” Vi said. “You still do.”
Jinx’s grin thinned.
“I’m doing what you should’ve done,” she said. “I’m making noise. I’m shaking the cage.”
“You almost killed her mother,” Vi said, voice breaking. “You could’ve killed a lot of people.”
Jinx shrugged. “Oops.”
Vi stared at her.
It hurt more than she’d admit.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” Vi said quietly. “I came to get you out.”
“Out?” Jinx echoed.
Then she laughed harder.
“Out where, Vi?” she said. “Your fancy little paddock? Your luxury team trailer? Your girlfriend’s hospital room?”
She stepped in close enough that Vi could feel her breath.
“You think they’ll let me sit there?” she whispered. “You think they won’t look at me and see a monster?”
“You’re not a monster,” Vi said, immediately.
Jinx tilted her head, studying her.
“…You believe that?”
“Yes,” Vi said. “Even now.”
It seemed to throw Jinx.
Only for a second.
Then she leaned back, smile twisting again.
“Well,” she said lightly, “careful with that tone, sis.”
She tapped Vi’s chest with two fingers.
“People start gettin’ ideas.”
Vi grabbed her wrist.
Not hard.
Not gentle either.
“Come with me.”
Jinx froze.
“Right now,” Vi said. “Before they come here. Before everything gets worse.”
“No.”
The word was instant.
Sharp.
“I won’t let them take you,” Vi said. “Do you hear me? I won’t.”
Jinx’s smile widened — but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Funny.”
She leaned in, whispered against Vi’s ear:
“Because if you try… I might have to blow up your little girlfriend next.”
Vi went cold.
Her hand tightened on Jinx’s wrist.
Jinx pulled free, stepping back into the shadows.
“Relax,” she said lazily. “Was just a thought.”
She tilted her head.
“Or was it?”
Her eyes glittered.
“You gonna choose now, Vi?”
She pointed two fingers like a gun.
“Racecar…”
A flick to the left.
“Or sister?”
Then she vanished — slipping back between pipes and darkness before Vi could grab her again.
Vi stood there shaking.
Heart racing.
Hands empty.
And for the first time in years, she realized:
She might lose both of them.
The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and clean endings.
Not beginnings. Not healing. Endings.
Caitlyn sat on the edge of the bed, back straight despite the lingering ache in her ribs, hands folded loosely in her lap. The discharge folder lay unopened beside her, skewed just enough to look abandoned on purpose. Her duffel bag leaned against the chair near the door — packed, zipped, ready. She looked the same as she always had: composed, careful, precise.
But the air around her felt colder.
Vi noticed that immediately.
She hovered by the window, palms pressed lightly into the glass, like it might keep her grounded. Piltover stretched out below them — bright, distant, untouched. She hadn’t said anything yet.
That was the first sign she was afraid.
“You’re quiet,” Vi said finally, forcing the words out like they didn’t weigh anything.
“I know,” Caitlyn replied.
Not cruel.
Not warm.
Neutral.
Silence folded over them again.
No relief. No softness. No smile waiting under restraint.
Vi swallowed.
She turned away from the window finally and looked at her properly.
Caitlyn hadn’t looked at her once.
Her gaze was fixed somewhere past the wall, eyes clear, unreachable.
“I… didn’t want to walk in without saying something,” Vi said.
Slowly, Caitlyn lifted her eyes.
Not soft.
Not furious.
Sharp.
Evaluating.
Like she was looking at a witness, not a partner.
“You told her.”
The words were quiet.
They didn’t shake.
They didn’t accuse.
They landed.
Vi felt it physically — like a bruise forming under her skin.
“I didn’t want them to drag her through Zaun in chains,” Vi said immediately, words tumbling. “I didn’t want it to turn into a bloodbath. You said they were moving and I— I thought if I could just get there first—”
“You told her,” Caitlyn repeated.
That was worse.
Not hearing.
Confirming.
Vi nodded.
“I warned her.”
That was the confession.
Caitlyn inhaled.
Exhaled.
And stood up.
Her movements were careful, calculated — ribs still bruised, shoulder not fully steady — but she didn’t let it show. She stepped away from the bed without wavering. She walked like control was something she could choose.
“I told you,” Caitlyn said, voice low and measured, “so you would not be blindsided.”
She took a step toward Vi.
“So you wouldn’t come home and find half of Zaun in lockdown.”
Another step.
“So you could prepare yourself if she was involved.”
Another.
“I did not tell you so you could sabotage an arrest.”
Vi’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t trying to sabotage anything.”
“You informed her of a raid,” Caitlyn said calmly. “That is not a misunderstanding. That is interference.”
“I was trying to save my sister.” Vi said. “That was the only thing in my head. I’ve seen what happens when enforcers storm Zaun. I didn’t want it to turn into another massacre.”
“And you decided that meant letting her escape.”
Silence.
Caitlyn stopped about three feet away from her.
“She would have been arrested,” Caitlyn said.
Her hands curled slowly at her sides.
“And now she is free.”
The room didn’t breathe.
“My mother was almost killed,” Caitlyn said, tone still painfully level. “She survived by luck. By timing. By a medic being closer than expected.”
Vi looked down.
“She will survive,” Caitlyn continued. “Unless there is another attack.”
A beat.
“And now, that possibility is higher.”
That was the fracture.
The invisible crack that split something between them.
“I told you so you could protect yourself,” Caitlyn said. “Not so you could protect her.”
“She is still my sister—”
“That does not change what she has done.”
Vi stepped forward instinctively. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“I know.”
That almost hurt worse.
“I wasn’t trying to make things worse.”
“I know,” Caitlyn repeated.
A quiet breath.
“Intent does not negate consequence,” she said.
Vi clenched her hands. “I thought if I could reach her first, I could make her stop.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Silence.
“And if she attacks again before you manage that?” Caitlyn asked.
Vi didn’t answer fast enough.
Caitlyn nodded slightly, like she’d expected that.
“That is where the trust fractures,” she said.
She looked at Vi properly now. Fully. Like she was studying damage.
“I gave you sensitive information,” Caitlyn said. “Not as a driver. Not as an asset. But as someone who trusts you.”
Her voice dropped.
“And you used that trust against what I was trying to prevent.”
Vi shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to betray you.”
“You still did.”
It was quiet.
Heavy.
Not shouted.
Not dramatic.
Just true.
“You made a decision for both of us,” Caitlyn said. “You took a situation that required structure and turned it into chaos.”
She turned away.
Picked up her duffel bag.
The zipper sounded too loud.
“You didn’t betray me by loving your sister,” she said over her shoulder. “You betrayed me by using my trust as a weapon.”
She paused at the door.
Her hand hovered at the panel.
“If there is another attack…” Her voice thinned, just barely. “…I don’t know how I would live with knowing I helped give her that chance.”
The door slid shut.
And Vi finally broke.
The sound that left Vi wasn’t a sob — it was worse. A breath that collapsed in on itself. Her knees hit the chair behind her too hard and she barely felt it. Her hands came up to her face like she could hold herself together.
She stared at the closed door.
It stared back.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, to no one.
Her shoulders started shaking.
She let them.
No one was there to see.
She dragged her palms down her face, breath stuttering, heart cracking open over and over again.
She hadn’t lost a fight.
Hadn’t lost a race.
She’d lost her.
And this time, she knew she’d done it to herself.
The estate was too quiet.
Not peaceful — just empty in a way that felt engineered.
Sunlight fell in clean, careful lines across the polished wood floor. Everything smelled faintly of disinfectant and expensive flowers that no one was around to notice dying.
Caitlyn pushed harder.
Always harder.
Her shoulder screamed before her ribs did.
The physiotherapy room was small, all glass and light and mirrors that reflected every weakness back at her. Her breathing was controlled — on purpose — so Rhea couldn’t hear it hitch.
“Again,” Caitlyn said, gripping the resistance band tighter.
The therapist hesitated. “You’ve hit your limit for today.”
Caitlyn didn’t look at her. “Again.”
The pull burned deep in her chest, dragging against mending bone and muscle that had not finished learning how to exist properly again. Her arm trembled.
She ignored it.
Sweat gathered at her hairline, darkened the collar of her tank.
Pain was manageable.
Silence was not.
Two weeks.
No Vi.
No late-night conversations.
No chair pulled too close to a hospital bed.
No hand in hers while she slept.
Rhea leaned against the doorframe, watching.
She didn’t interrupt.
She watched Caitlyn’s jaw set. The way her eyes glazed slightly with pain. The way she refused to stop.
That same Kiramman control. Just pointed inward like a weapon.
“Again,” Caitlyn said, breath thinner this time.
She pulled.
Her arm shook violently. The band snapped back slightly. She corrected it with precision that bordered on spite.
Her vision darkened briefly around the edges.
She braced herself on the wall.
She didn’t fall.
Behind her, Rhea’s voice softened. “You don’t have to break yourself to prove you’re still here.”
Caitlyn didn’t turn.
“I’m not,” she replied.
She was lying.
And she knew Rhea knew it.
But she kept going anyway.
Because if she stopped, she might think.
And thinking meant remembering:
the hospital room
the quiet
the way Vi said “I warned her”
the sound of the door closing
Again.
She lifted the band.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Unflinching.
Alone.
Qatar
The desert air tasted like dust and heat and static.
The track looked like glass from above — too perfect, too polished, too far from everything that mattered.
Vi adjusted the strap of her helmet, eyes unfocused.
The garage was loud.
Radio chatter. Mechanics shouting. The hum of generators.
Red Bull logos everywhere.
She felt none of it.
Her engineer’s voice crackled through her earpiece, too cheerful.
“You’re P1 in practice. Weather’s stable. You ready?”
“Always,” Vi replied.
She lied.
The lights went out.
Her thoughts went silent.
That was the only place she could breathe.
The race was a blur of instinct.
Brake. Apex. Throttle. Dirty air. Overtake.
She drove angry.
She drove hollow.
She drove like she had nowhere to return to.
Chequered flag.
P1.
The team exploded.
Radio yelling. Congratulations. Laughter.
She stayed still.
Didn't scream.
Didn’t punch the air.
Didn’t smile.
The car slowed.
She rolled into parc fermé like she was returning something.
They opened the cockpit.
She didn’t lift her arms.
Didn’t celebrate.
Didn’t look for anyone.
Her engineer noticed, quietly. Didn’t ask.
The team didn’t push.
They could feel it.
She walked past the cameras.
Past the microphones.
Past the people who called her unstoppable.
She pulled off her helmet.
The air hit her skin.
She didn’t feel it.
In her pocket, her phone buzzed.
She didn’t check it.
She didn’t need to.
She already knew.
She stared at nothing.
Somewhere in Piltover, Caitlyn was pulling against resistance bands.
Breaking herself quietly.
Somewhere in Zaun, a girl with blue eyes and a laugh like broken glass was still free.
And Vi?
Vi had won another race she couldn’t care about.
She stood alone in a room full of people who thought she was invincible.
And for the first time in her career, victory felt like another kind of loss.
Two weeks later.
The desert cooled slowly, like it was reluctant to surrender the heat of the day.
Floodlights carved harsh white paths across the circuit, stretching shadows into long, distorted things that clung to the concrete and the barriers. The kind of light that made everything feel exposed — every flaw, every crack, every truth no one could quite hide anymore.
The air vibrated with sound.
Engines cooling. Radios crackling. Mechanics shouting. Cameras whirring alive like insects feeding on chaos.
The season was over.
And the world had chosen its winners.
Silver flooded the Mercedes garage.
Not the color — the feeling.
Relief. Validation. Something dangerously close to grief that no one wanted to name.
Cassandra Kiramman watched it happen with a hand folded neatly around a tablet she hadn’t looked at in ten minutes. Tobias’s fingers rested lightly on her shoulder, a quiet miracle for a man so touch-starved by politics that such simple gestures felt foreign.
Then the noise shifted.
Not exploded.
Shifted.
Like a tide turning.
Because Caitlyn Kiramman stepped into view.
The crowd reacted before the microphones did.
Phones went up in a wave. Journalists fucking scrambled, literal running, cords tangling, shouts thrown down lanes between garages like sparks.
There she was.
Breathing.
Standing.
Real.
Her uniform sat clean on her frame, precise and elegant, a tailored armor stitched in silver and black. Her left arm rested inside a sleek black sling — subtle but undeniable, a quiet reminder that she was not untouched by what had happened.
The bruises had faded to soft ghosts.
The damage was deeper than skin.
People noticed.
They always did.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t wave.
She simply walked, shoulders squared, back straight, chin lifted — like the world expected nothing from her, and she hadn’t come to disappoint.
When she reached the pit wall, the roar was physical.
It pushed. It cracked. It swallowed.
Her name rolled across the circuit like thunder.
A reporter slipped in like a well-trained predator.
“Caitlyn Kiramman — welcome back.”
No tremor. No theatrics.
It was a fact.
“How does it feel to stand here again?”
Caitlyn’s eyes flicked briefly toward the floodlit track. Toward the waiting cars. Toward the asphalt that had almost taken everything.
Her answer was measured.
“It feels… grounding,” she said. “I’m proud of my team. Proud of what we overcame. And I’m grateful to still be here to witness it.”
A cheer rose from the grandstands that felt almost grateful.
She didn’t look at the cameras after that.
She looked at the garage.
At the people who had operated on muscle memory while she lay broken and silent in hospital rooms.
She belonged to them.
They erupted when the final confirmation hit the screens.
Mercedes — Constructors World Champions.
Helmets flew.
Mechanics hugged.
Someone punched the air and cried without shame.
Then:
Another headline.
Another shockwave.
“Next season: Maddie Nolan confirmed as Mercedes’ second driver, alongside Caitlyn Kiramman.”
Maddie arrived like chaos in human form.
She laughed and cried and threw her arms around Caitlyn without thinking.
Champagne corks popped.
Spray exploded.
Caitlyn managed to shield her sling with professional efficiency while getting absolutely annihilated with one-handed splashing.
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
It startled people who’d forgotten what her real laugh sounded like.
Across the paddock, the Red Bull garage exploded into a different kind of madness.
The kind that only happens when history is made.
Vi was lifted above their heads before she could protest.
Her boots left the ground.
Hands gripped her suit.
Her helmet was pulled off.
Sweat, oil, champagne, tears — it all blurred into noise.
Rookie. Champion. First year.
They screamed it at her.
She let them.
Her mouth stretched into a smile because that was what champions did.
But her eyes weren’t present.
They were across the paddock.
Fixed on silver.
On one woman.
On the sling.
On the way Caitlyn stood close to Maddie now, both of them soaked and shining and smiling like survivors.
It hit Vi in stages.
She looked… okay.
She looked better.
She looked happy.
She looked like she didn’t need Vi anywhere near her to exist.
That realization hurt in a way that champagne and noise couldn’t drown.
A journalist dragged Vi toward the interview pens.
Microphones rose like weapons.
Cameras locked in.
“VI! ROOKIE WORLD CHAMPION — WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE?”
Her voice came out clean.
“It’s unreal,” she said. “This team… they believed in me before I did.”
“And your rivalry with Kiramman? We haven’t seen you two publicly since the accident.”
A pause.
So brief no one would notice.
Except Caitlyn would have.
“She makes me better,” Vi said. “She always has. She was P2 despite missing four races. That says everything.”
A beat.
“What about next season?”
Her jaw tightened slightly.
“Defend the title.”
Her eyes moved back to the Mercedes garage.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading! Season 1 ends with Caitlyn and Vi drifting apart — but their story is far from over. The next F1 season will bring new races, new challenges, and plenty of emotional chaos. I’ve loved blending Arcane elements into the F1 world, and I’m excited to explore more of it. If you have any ideas or moments you’d like to see, don’t hesitate to comment — I’ll do my best to bring them to life!
Chapter 16: Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The desert did not care about last season.
It didn’t care about titles or heartbreak, about politics or council chambers or the sound a life made when it cracked. Bahrain woke up the way it always did: pale sun clawing its way over low sand dunes, sky soft and empty, heat already gathering at the edges of the day like a promise.
By mid-morning, the circuit was alive.
Engines coughed awake. Generators hummed. Mechanics in crisp new-season kit pushed cars with fresh liveries into the light. Cameras blinked on. Media passes flashed. The paddock exhaled the strange, familiar breath of a year starting over.
The old season was over.
The new one had sharp teeth.
The new Mercedes looked like a threat.
Matte black and silver, lines clean and predatory, it sat under the reveal lights like something that had evolved to cut through air and expectation both. The crew had joked about it in the garage — “she looks mean,” “she looks illegal,” “she looks like a lawsuit waiting to happen” — but when the covers came off, even the joking died for a moment.
It was fast just sitting still.
Caitlyn stood beside it, hands clasped lightly in front of her, posture straight, fireproof suit pristine, hair gathered back in a tight, efficient knot. The new-season cap sat low on her forehead, shadowing eyes that caught everything.
The photographers shouted first.
“Caitlyn, this way!”
“Over your shoulder!”
“Helmet up!”
“Big smile!”
She gave them the same thing she had always given the world when it demanded pieces of her: precision. A small, contained smile that didn’t give too much away. Chin tilted. Angle exact.
It had been three months since she’d last been in a paddock.
Three months since she’d walked away from a hospital room and left Vi sitting there with betrayal like a fresh wound between them.
Three months of physiotherapy and simulation work; of watching race replays frame by frame; of waking up with her shoulder burning and her heart thrumming with phantom adrenaline. Three months in which she had mastered the language of pain and converted it into data.
Her body remembered the wall.
Her mind refused to let it dictate anything.
“Welcome back, Caitlyn.”
The first interviewer slid in the second the photo op loosened. A woman in a neutral polo, mic branded with one of the big networks. Her smile was bright, eyes brighter.
“How does it feel to be back on track for testing? Whole paddock’s been waiting to see you in that car again.”
Caitlyn adjusted her grip on the helmet tucked under her arm. The new gloves still felt stiff against her fingers, but that would fade. Everything did, eventually.
“It feels good,” she answered. Calm. Even. “Testing is where you put everything on the table. We’ve worked hard over the winter — the team, the factory, the simulator crew. I’m grateful to be healthy enough to get back in and do my part.”
“You’re coming into this season as one of the favorites for the title,” the reporter continued. “After missing four races last year and still finishing P2, people say—”
“That I underachieved,” Caitlyn finished, the corner of her mouth twitching. “People are fond of numbers.”
A soft ripple of laughter around them; the media pen eased a fraction.
“But they’re not wrong,” she continued. “We had the pace to fight for more. Circumstances didn’t allow it. This year, my goal is simple: complete the season, maximize every weekend, and put Mercedes in a position to fight for both championships.”
“Any hesitation? After… the accident?”
There it was. They always circled back eventually.
Caitlyn held the reporter’s gaze directly. “No,” she said. “Respect, yes. The wall will always be there. The risk will always be there. But if fear makes your choices for you, you shouldn’t be in this sport.”
The interviewer nodded, satisfied. “Last question — how arr your injuries, shoulder ? The fans have been very worried.”
Caitlyn flexed the fingers of her left hand, lazy, almost bored. “Functional,” she said. “Within FIA requirements.”
That made a few mechanics snort nearby.
She let herself soften then, just a fraction, turning her head toward the barricade where fans were pressed in tight, phones up, merchandise held out like offerings.
“And I’m very grateful for the concern,” she added, a little louder, directing it toward them.
The reaction was immediate.
“CAITLYN, WE LOVE YOU!”
“KIRAMMAN, GIVE US A SMILE!”
“CAN YOU SIGN THIS?”
Security let a small group through in an orderly wave. Posters, caps, a homemade banner that read WELCOME BACK in shaky blue letters.
Caitlyn’s mouth curved, real this time.
She stepped closer to them — because whatever else had fractured in the last year, this had not. She took the photos. She signed the caps. She listened as a girl with shaking hands told her she’d rewatched Caitlyn’s rookie pole lap in Monaco “like, two hundred times.”
“You might know it better than I do now,” Caitlyn said dryly, and the girl burst into delighted laughter.
From a distance, the scene looked effortless: the cool, composed golden girl of Piltover motorsport returned, her aura intact, the crowd leaning toward her like sunflowers.
She wielded attention like a finely honed blade.
She just didn’t let anyone see where she’d cut herself with it.
Vi hated the Bahrain garage for reasons that had nothing to do with the car.
The light found everything in here. It bounced off polished floor and glossy nose cones, made the Red Bull logos pop obnoxiously bright on the walls. It had nowhere to hide, no dark corner, no soft edge. It made it that much harder to pretend she was fine.
She tugged the zip of her race suit higher, feeling the familiar pinch at her throat. Someone laughed behind her; a mechanic cursed at a laptop; the high whine of an impact gun cut through the air in quick bursts.
It should have felt like home.
It didn’t.
Three months ago, she’d staggered home from a bar in Zaun with blood on her knuckles and whiskey in her veins, and for a fleeting, ugly second, she had genuinely wanted someone to hit her hard enough that she wouldn’t wake up to the mess she’d made.
Instead, she’d woken up to headlines.
DRIVER’S WORLD CHAMPION SPOTTED IN UNDERCITY BAR BRAWL
RED BULL ROOKIE CAUGHT IN LATE-NIGHT FIGHT — “JUST BLOWING OFF STEAM,” SAYS PR REP
The team had spun it. Said she’d slipped, said it was a misunderstanding, said the bruises down her jaw were from “training.” Red Bull always did love an edge.
They hadn’t been the ones waking up at four in the morning choking on smoke that wasn’t there, hand reaching blindly for a phone that stayed silent.
She’d stopped going out after that.
Not because she didn’t want to — but because there was a difference between hurting and handing the whole world a front-row seat.
So she drank at home.
On the floor.
Back against a bare wall.
Eyes unfocused.
Bottle beside her, messages to Jinx unsent, messages to Caitlyn written and deleted and rewritten until her vision swam.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to.
I thought I was doing the right thing.
I thought I could fix it.
Please talk to me.
She never hit send.
Caitlyn never called.
Zaun simmered under the surface. No more council chamber explosions — even Silco had to know when to quiet the noise and let the dust settle. But the raids had left scars. Enforcers patrolled more aggressively. Checkpoints appeared in places that had never tolerated them before. People disappeared quietly.
Jinx thrived in the tension. Her chaos had gone from explosions to smaller, sharper cuts — sabotaged shipments, dead enforcer drones, murals with laughing faces painted over the ruins of old graffiti.
She called Vi less.
When she did, it was worse.
So Vi had thrown herself at the only thing that still made sense: driving.
Every simulator run. Every debrief. Every test plan.
It didn’t make her feel better.
It just stopped things from getting worse in her head.
Mostly.
“Oi, champ.”
Her engineer’s voice cut through the fog. Vi blinked, realizing she’d been staring at the same data screen for who-knows-how-long without processing a single number.
He leaned on the desk beside her, tablet under one arm. “Media pen in ten. Car’s ready for installation laps after lunch. You good?”
She forced a grin that felt like it sit wrong on her face. “Always.”
He studied her, the way people did when they’d known you long enough to spot the cracks even when you thought you’d hidden them.
“You seen the Mercedes launch?” he asked, casual.
Vi’s heart did a stupid little stutter.
“Nah,” she lied. “Been busy.”
“Hmm,” he said, unconvinced. “Well. Try not to stare too obvious when you do.”
She frowned. “What?”
He didn’t answer.
Someone buzzed her name from the doorway. “Vi! Press now.”
“On my way,” she called back.
Her engineer clapped her shoulder lightly as she moved to go. “You know the drill. Smile. Say ‘defend the title’ at least once. Try not to swear on live TV.”
“No promises,” she muttered.
She ducked out under the half-open garage door, into the dry furnace of the paddock.
The first thing she saw was silver.
Not the car.
Her.
Caitlyn stood by the barrier with the fans, signing something with neat, precise strokes. The new Mercedes suit fit her like it had been grown on her skin — black and silver and that faint electric blue detail tracing along the seams. Her cap was off now, curls escaping their tie in the dry wind.
She was smiling. A small smile as a kid held up a crudely drawn picture of her car with MASSIVE WINGS scribbled over the back.
“Illegal,” Caitlyn was saying, amused. “But I like the enthusiasm.”
Something hot and stupid punched into Vi’s chest.
Three months.
Three months of aching and drinking and apologizing to empty rooms.
Seeing Caitlyn again was like someone lifting a boulder off her lungs and throwing it back on twice as heavy at the same time.
She looked good.
Too good.
Healthy. Strong. Shoulder no longer in a sling, movements clean and controlled. Whatever pain remained, she buried it deep enough that Vi couldn’t see it from here.
And standing so close to her, leaning against the rail with an easy, familiar grin, was Maddie Nolan.
Maddie in full Mercedes kit. Maddie with a cap turned backward, sunglasses perched on her head. Maddie bumping her shoulder against Caitlyn’s as they laughed at something a fan said.
They looked… close.
Closer than they’d been last year.
To anyone else, it probably looked like teammate chemistry.
To Vi, it looked like three months of shared simulator sessions, long debriefs, late-night factory work, coffee runs, stupid in-jokes. It looked like Caitlyn had handed that quiet, rare softness to someone else and walked away.
Vi’s feet slowed.
She watched Caitlyn move through the crowd with that contained grace that had always undone her — the way she angled her body so small kids wouldn’t be jostled, the way she bent just enough to bring herself to their eye level, the way she listened.
It hurt.
It was supposed to. She’d earned that.
Someone shouted her name.
“Vi! Over here!”
She tore her gaze away and let the media swallow her.
The testing press area was smaller than race weekend setups, but that didn’t mean the questions were less hungry.
Vi sank into the chair, mic stand angled toward her, camera lights soft but persistent in her eyes. The backdrop behind her was crowded with logos — Red Bull, sponsors, the series branding. Her cap shadowed half her face; she kept it that way on purpose.
“Vi, last year you made history as the first rookie champion in decades,” the moderator began. “Now that the dust has settled, how does it feel coming into your second season as the one everyone wants to beat?”
She scratched at the edge of her gloves, buying herself a breath.
“It feels… weird,” she admitted, getting a small ripple of laughter. “I grew up fighting to get into this paddock. Now I’m the one with the target. People say last year was ‘magical’—” she made air quotes with one hand “—so I guess this year the job is to prove it wasn’t a fluke.”
“Some say the championship was influenced by Kiramman’s accident,” one journalist cut in bluntly. “Do you feel your title has an asterisk?”
The room went sharper.
Vi’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “No,” she said. “I scored my points. I finished my races. I did my job. That’s what a title is built on.”
A beat.
“But,” she added, because she was incapable of not saying the thing that would complicate her life, “I wanted to fight her for it to the end. I still do. She’s one of the best drivers on this grid. I want her in the mirror when I cross the line.”
The microphones hummed, feeding that line to a thousand live-tweet accounts.
“Is she your main rival this year?” someone asked.
Vi shrugged with one shoulder. “There are nineteen other drivers who want my head,” she said, smirking. “I’m not arrogant enough to only look at one. But if you’re asking if I expect Caitlyn to be there every quali, every race? Yeah. I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t.”
“Where do you think you’ve improved most over the winter?”
She thought of bottles. Of empty rooms. Of waking up on the bathroom floor and deciding, finally, that she didn’t want to end up like the ghosts in Zaun who drank themselves quiet.
“Race management,” she said instead. “Tire life, energy deployment. Less… overdriving.”
That got another chuckle. They’d all seen Vegas.
“And off-track?” one of the softer-spoken journalists asked, as if they knew exactly where the traps were and was offering her a different route. “What’s changed for you personally?”
Vi hesitated.
The easy answer was: not much.
The true answer was: everything.
“I’m learning where the lines are,” she said slowly. “What I can’t fix. What I can’t punch my way out of. And when to just… shut up and drive.”
It wasn’t enough. It was all she was willing to say.
The moderator wrapped it up a few minutes later.
“Thank you, Vi.”
She stood, shoulders rolling, neck cracking quietly as she left the stage. Outside the tent, the sun hit her full-force, heat soaking into her suit.
Across the paddock, another press session was just beginning.
She didn’t mean to watch.
She did anyway.
Caitlyn sat at her own table, Mercedes star glowing bright on the backdrop. No visible sign of healing except the careful way she folded her hands, like she was always accounting for a hidden ache.
“How does it feel to be back in the car?” the moderator asked. “First proper laps since Mexico.”
“Natural,” Caitlyn said. “The car feels responsive. The balance is good. There’s work to do, but that’s what testing is for.”
“Any flashbacks to the crash?”
“No,” she said, simple. “If you’re thinking about the wall, you’re not thinking about the lap. That’s not acceptable at this level.”
“Your teammate this year is Maddie Nolan,” the interviewer continued. “You two already seem very close. How has that relationship developed over the winter?”
Caitlyn’s mouth softened. “Maddie is fast rookie,” she said. “Committed. Honest. We’ve spent a lot of time in the sim together. She’s pushed me. I think we’ll push each other all season.”
“Is she the first teammate you’ve really… let in?”
Caitlyn gave a small, polite smile that meant Absolutely not answering that. “I’ve had good teammates,” she said. “Maddie is a good fit for where Mercedes is right now.”
“And your goals?” Another journalist leaned in. “You came heartbreakingly close to having hour fifth championship in a row. Now, with a full season ahead—”
“My goal hasn’t changed,” Caitlyn said. “I want to have my fifith championship. I want the team to win the constructor championship. Every lap between now and Abu Dhabi is about that.”
“What about the rivalry with Vi?” someone called from the back. “Last year you two were inseparable off-track and electric on-track. We’ve barely seen you together since—”
Caitlyn didn’t flinch.
“Our rivalry is on the circuit,” she said. “That hasn’t changed. She’s the reigning world champion. If I want the title, I have to beat her. There’s nothing complicated about that.”
It was an answer sharpened to a point and smoothed over so it wouldn’t cut anyone by accident.
Except maybe the one person listening for something else.
Vi felt it like a punch to the ribs.
Our rivalry is on the circuit.
Nothing complicated about that.
Sure.
The afternoon heat burned off into a softer gold by the time the cars went out.
The first installation laps were gentle — cars snaking around as drivers checked systems, weaving on the straights to wake the tires, splaying sparks across the tarmac where floors kissed the asphalt.
From high above in race control, the two silver cars looked like sharks. They moved in sync at first — Maddie leading, Caitlyn behind, both of them testing different lines, different modes, different responses.
Vi waited until Red Bull released her.
“Track clear, you’re good to go,” her engineer said. “We’ll do a systems lap, then some baseline race runs. No heroics.”
“Copy,” she said, already lying.
As the RB eased out of the box and onto the pit lane, she caught a flash of silver in her peripheral vision. Caitlyn’s car swept past on the main straight, engine note slightly higher, the new Mercedes power unit singing a loud, confident song.
Vi joined the circuit behind a Ferrari, building speed, body relaxing in the only place it still knew how.
The car moved the way she liked: eager on turn-in, aggressive on power, a little twitchy when she asked too much.
“Brake bias forwards two clicks,” she said. “Front end feels vague in five.”
“Copy, B plus two. Temps are good. Cars ahead on slow laps.”
She saw the first silver car again as she came out of turn ten. Maddie. Her line neat, consistent. Rookie nerves burned off in the heat of simply doing the job.
Caitlyn appeared a lap later.
She came up on the timing screen first — P1, by four tenths — then in Vi’s mirrors, a brief flash of silver as she completed her lap and backed off.
Her entry into the first corner was so precise it made Vi grind her teeth. No wasted motion. No hesitation. The way she used the track was almost arrogant — like she knew it was hers and the rest of them were borrowing.
She’d always driven part against Caitlyn, even when they weren’t on the same bit of tarmac. She chased her ghosts in braking zones, measured her own exits against what she remembered of Mercedes’ throttle traces.
Now, knowing she’d almost lost her for good, the habit took on a crueler edge.
Because every time she saw that silver helmet in the mirror, some part of her still flinched, half-expecting it to disappear into dust and carbon.
Testing laps added up quietly. Long-run data. Fuel loads. Tire degradation numbers scribbled into tablets, engineers muttering, teams comparing.
By the end of the day, the timesheets told one story:
1. Caitlyn Kiramman – Mercedes
2. Vi – Red Bull
3. Maddie Nolan – Mercedes
4. Viktor – Ferrari
The paddock told another:
She’s back.
So is she.
And whatever happened between them hasn’t settled
The paddock emptied slowly, like a great beast settling down after a long, hot day. Mechanics’ laughter faded into background hum. The thump of crates being sealed echoed down the lane. The sun was gone—only floodlights held the desert at bay now.
Inside the Mercedes garage, Caitlyn slid out of her suit with practiced grace, even though the small, involuntary wince in her left shoulder betrayed her. She rotated it once, gently, testing the stiffness in the joint.
That was all it took.
“Stop.”
Rhea’s voice cut through the room like a thrown wrench—sharp, decisive, impossible to ignore.
Caitlyn’s hand froze mid-air.
Rhea stepped closer, tablet tucked under one arm, expression halfway between concern and a storm about to break.
“You’re rolling your shoulder again,” Rhea said. “That means we’re done.”
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn replied, too quickly.
Rhea lifted a brow. “Right. And I’m the Queen of Piltover.”
Caitlyn shot her a flat look. Rhea didn’t budge.
“You’ve pushed enough today,” Rhea continued, tone slipping into something softer but no less immovable. “Testing session is over. So is your simulator run. You’re going back to your room, you’re taking the ice pack I hand you, and you’re resting.”
“There’s still data to review.”
“I’ll review it,” Rhea said. “You’ll listen to your body before it decides to scream at you in race one.”
Caitlyn hated how reasonable that sounded.
She also hated how right it was.
Rhea saw the micro-expression—barely a flicker—and sighed.
“Cait,” she said, stepping closer, dropping her voice. “You were good today. Very good. But your shoulder’s telling on you. Let it heal.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.
She wanted to argue. Out of habit. Out of pride. Out of that familiar, ruthless part of her that believed anything less than perfection was failure.
But she could still feel the pull along the joint. The ache humming under the skin. The ghost of impact.
Finally, she exhaled.
“…Fine.”
Rhea softened. “Good girl.”
Caitlyn scowled. “Don’t call me that.”
Rhea laughed. “Then stop giving me reasons to.”
She walked her out of the garage with the precision of someone escorting a stubborn champion who needed protecting from herself.
Caitlyn sat on the hotel room bed, back propped against crisp pillows, a cold pack resting across her shoulder. Condensation pooled at her collarbone, a single drop sliding down to disappear beneath the neckline of her shirt.
She ignored it.
Her attention was fixed on the TV—specifically, on the interview currently playing.
Vi.
Hair damp, cap low, shoulders still coiled with leftover adrenaline. She sat with her elbows on her knees, mic held loosely, that same rough-edged confidence radiating through the screen.
But there was something else now.
A steadiness.
Her voice held less reckless swagger and more weight. Less impulse, more intention.
The journalist asked her about maturity.
Vi smirked slightly.
“You mess up enough,” she said, “you either grow up or burn out. I’m trying not to do the second one.”
Caitlyn felt her chest tighten—not painfully, but unmistakably.
She had seen the headlines during the break.
The tabloid photos.
The grainy videos from Zaun—fights in back alleys, Vi stumbling drunk, bruised knuckles, empty eyes that said she was awake but not alive.
Caitlyn had pretended she wasn’t looking.
Had pretended she didn’t feel it.
Had pretended she didn’t know exactly what guilt looked like when it broke someone from the inside.
But Vi now?
Sharper. Cleaner. Focused in a way she hadn’t been in months.
Better.
It unsettled her more than the chaos had.
The interview shifted. Someone asked Vi about rivals.
She hesitated—a millisecond, but Caitlyn caught it.
Then Vi said her name.
“Kiramman pushes me. She always has. I expect her to be fast this year. Faster than last year. You don’t get rid of people like her.”
Caitlyn’s throat went tight.
She remembered their last conversation—no, their last fracture.
Hospital lights.
The smell of antiseptic.
The cold in her own voice as she told Vi she had used her trust as a weapon.
She remembered the way Vi’s shoulders had folded in on themselves.
The way she had swallowed a sound like breaking glass.
The way she’d looked at the door as if Caitlyn had closed it on her entirely.
Caitlyn shut her eyes briefly.
The cold pack shifted with her breath.
She wasn’t angry anymore.
Not the way she had been.
Not with flames and edges.
But something remained—a bruise beneath the memory. A caution. A quiet ache she didn’t have time to examine.
Not now.
Not with the season starting in two weeks.
Not when every lap would demand all of her—mind, body, precision, control.
She opened her eyes.
Vi was still on the screen, answering a question about preparation.
“I’m not perfect,” Vi said. “But I’m learning.”
Caitlyn felt something in her chest twist.
Recognition.
Regret.
Longing she would not name.
She reached for the remote.
The screen went dark with a soft click.
Silence filled the room.
She leaned her head back, eyes closing again, letting the cold numb her shoulder and her thoughts in equal measure.
Two weeks until race one.
Two weeks until the world began again—louder, faster, crueler.
She needed to be sharp.
She needed to be whole.
She needed absolutely no distractions.
Especially ones with blue eyes and a voice she could still hear in her dreams.
Caitlyn exhaled.
She slid lower into the pillows.
No more thinking about Vi tonight.
No more thinking at all.
Just rest.
Just recovery.
Just the road ahead—straight, clean, under control.
At least, that’s what she told herself as sleep finally drew her under, soft and heavy as desert nightfall.
The Bahrain paddock glowed under the late afternoon sun, the heat finally thinning into something tolerable. Most teams had wrapped up for the day — engines cooling, garages half-closed, mechanics lounging with bottled water and half-eaten snacks.
Mercedes, however, had found a way to stay entertained.
A small crowd of engineers gathered outside the hospitality unit, forming a loose semicircle. Laughter drifted out onto the walkway. Good-natured groans. Someone slapping a hand on their knee.
Vi slowed as she approached, helmet bag hanging off her shoulder. She wasn’t looking for Caitlyn.
She wasn’t.
But the sound of her voice pulled Vi toward the commotion like a magnet.
She rounded the corner—
And froze.
There they were.
Caitlyn and Maddie stood on opposite sides of a folding table, five empty water bottles lined neatly along the edge. Earplugs sat in a small pile between them like ammunition.
The game was simple:
Earplug Flick Shots.
Whoever knocked down more bottles won.
Loser paid for team dinner tonight.
Everyone was loudly enthusiastic about this.
Except Caitlyn.
She stood with her usual calm precision, sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable but focused — the exact look she wore before taking a qualifying lap, before making a difficult shot, before doing anything that required perfection.
Maddie?
Already sweating.
“Alright,” one of the engineers barked, grinning. “Round three! Maddie’s at one bottle. Caitlyn’s at… what, four?”
“Four,” Rhea confirmed dryly, arms folded, eyes sharp. “Math didn’t change in the last minute.”
More laughter.
Caitlyn’s lips twitched — not really a smile, but close enough that the team collectively leaned in, half-hoping she'd do it again.
Vi knew that look.
That tiny, rare flicker of warmth.
She hadn’t seen it in months.
Maddie prepared her next shot, squinting dramatically at the bottles. “Okay, I swear this time I have the technique down.”
“You’ve sworn that four times,” Caitlyn said calmly.
Cue more laughter.
“No pressure, Maddie,” someone teased. “Just the bill for dinner at the paddock restaurant.”
“That’s like half my paycheck,” Maddie groaned.
“Then aim,” Rhea deadpanned.
Caitlyn stepped closer — not dramatically close, not intimate, just… helpful. Professional. Patient.
But Vi’s stomach still twisted as she watched.
Because Caitlyn didn’t do patient for just anyone.
“Your arm is too tense,” Caitlyn said, voice low, instructive. “Relax your wrist. You’re stiffening before you flick.”
Maddie looked at her like she was speaking a different language.
Caitlyn sighed — soft, barely audible.
“May I?”
Maddie nodded desperately. “Please, save me from bankruptcy.”
The group chuckled.
Caitlyn moved behind her, posture perfect, calm radiating off her in cold, controlled waves. She didn’t touch much — just adjusted Maddie’s wrist with her fingertips, guiding her elbow into alignment.
“Here,” Caitlyn murmured. “Keep it loose. Don’t overthink the force.”
Her tone wasn’t warm.
It wasn’t intimate.
Just precise, exactly the way she was with telemetry data, or any skill she wanted mastered.
But from where Vi stood — half-hidden behind a barrier, breath caught in her throat — the image hurt.
Maddie throwing her head back in exaggerated despair as Caitlyn corrected her grip.
The engineers cheering them on.
Caitlyn — composed, competitive, quietly deadly — teaching someone else a trick Vi had once made her laugh with.
Something about it felt wrong in Vi’s chest.
Like she was watching a memory that wasn't hers anymore.
“Try now,” Caitlyn said.
Maddie flicked the earplug.
It curved wildly.
Missed the entire table.
Silence—
Then the Mercedes crew erupted in laughter loud enough to shake the umbrellas overhead.
“Absolutely tragic,” Rhea said, straight-faced.
“That one almost went backwards,” another mechanic wheezed.
Maddie covered her face. “I hate this game.”
“Then stop talking and aim,” Caitlyn replied dryly.
She wasn’t smiling.
But the crew was.
Vi’s fingers tightened around her helmet bag.
Because Caitlyn used to talk like that with her.
Maddie, determined, grabbed another earplug. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got it this time.”
“No you don’t,” Caitlyn said, monotone.
The engineers howled.
Rhea muttered, “I’ll book the dinner reservation now.”
Finally, with a dramatic inhale, Maddie flicked again—
And the earplug clipped the edge of a bottle.
It wobbled—
Paused—
Fell.
The team cheered like they’d won a championship.
Maddie jumped and pointed at Caitlyn. “HA! Did you see that?! I hit one! I’m not paying!”
Caitlyn arched a brow.
Her voice cool, steady, slightly amused in a way only the people closest to her recognized.
“You hit one,” she said. “Out of ten.”
“Oh no…” Maddie whispered, deflating.
“Final round,” Rhea said, stepping in like a ring judge.
Caitlyn crouched, selected an earplug with surgical care, and lined her shot.
She flicked.
The plug sailed straight, silent—
—and hit the bottle dead center, sending it flying off the table.
The garage erupted.
Caitlyn barely blinked.
“Game,” she said simply.
Maddie dropped her head onto the table. “I hate you.”
“You challenged me,” Caitlyn replied.
“You accepted!”
“Because I don’t lose.”
Vi felt the words in her ribs.
Felt the ghost of Caitlyn’s smirk.
Felt how distant it all was now.
She stepped back before Caitlyn could turn and accidentally see her.
Back into the shadows of the paddock walkway.
Back into the space where she didn’t belong anymore.
Whatever was between them…
It wasn’t hers now.
It might never be again.
Albert Park at sunrise looked nothing like the chaos it would become in forty-eight hours.
The sky was a pale gold wash over the lake, the air still cool, the circuit empty except for marshals, a few early engineers, and two bikes rolling quietly along the painted white line.
Ekko pedaled beside Vi, his bike squeaking every third rotation because he still refused to get it serviced by the team mechanics. He claimed it gave the bike “character.” Vi claimed it made him sound like a dying robot.
Neither of them spoke for the first lap.
Vi kept her eyes on the asphalt, tracing every bump, every patch of darker resin, every place she’d need to risk her life at two hundred miles an hour. She usually loved this part — the calm before the world demanded perfection.
But today it felt like someone else’s track.
“Yo,” Ekko finally said, slow and careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “You gonna pretend all week that I can’t tell something’s wrong?”
Vi’s jaw flexed. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh,” Ekko said, unimpressed. “Is that why you haven’t slept? Or why you’re riding like the Grim Reaper’s drafting you?”
Vi shifted gears, accelerating slightly.
Ekko matched her effortlessly.
“You’ve been off since the break. ” he added. “And I don’t mean ‘new-season nerves’ off. I mean ‘I’m thinking myself into a hole’ off.”
Vi stared down the straight, letting the wind tug the stray hairs from her braid.
“You saw her." Ekko said quietly.
Vi didn’t ask who. Didn’t need to.
Sunlight glinted off the skyscrapers beyond the track; the Melbourne skyline blurred for a moment, and Vi blinked hard.
Ekko waited — patient, steady, the one person Vi couldn’t outrun emotionally, no matter how hard she tried.
Finally, she spoke.
“It’s not… seeing her,” Vi said, voice gravel low. “It’s what I did.”
Ekko didn’t interrupt.
“I broke her trust,” Vi continued, pushing harder on the pedals. “She trusted me with something important — something dangerous — and I threw it away.”
“You didn’t—”
“I did.” Vi’s voice cracked. “I warned Jinx. And yeah, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting my sister.”
She dragged a hand across her face.
“And she almost died because of me.”
Ekko slowed, letting her move ahead before catching up again.
“Vi,” he said softly, “Caitlyn’s accident wasn’t your fault.”
Vi’s throat tightened.
“She crashed because someone sabotaged my car and she took the hit ” Vi muttered. “Trying to save me from Ambessa. From the politics. From the threats. From everything.”
“Still not your fault.”
“But I didn’t protect her,” Vi said. “I never protected her.”
They turned into the chicane, bikes weaving the racing line as if out of instinct.
The lake glittered beside them.
“I wasn’t there,” Vi whispered. “She got hurt. She suffered. And I spent the break drinking myself stupid because I couldn’t handle what I did.”
Ekko’s expression softened, sadness tugging at the corners.
“Vi…”
“I wasn’t there for her,” Vi repeated. “I let her get hurt. I let her look at me like— like she didn’t recognize who I was anymore.”
They slowed to a stop at the edge of the grass. Vi put one foot on the ground, staring at the track surface as if it could swallow her whole.
“I don’t deserve to talk to her,” Vi said quietly. “That’s the truth.”
Ekko let out a slow breath. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna sulk all season? Pretend she doesn’t matter? Hope it magically goes away?”
Vi’s shoulders curled inward.
“It doesn’t matter if I talk to her,” she said. “It won’t change anything.”
“Because you think she’s moved on?”
Vi flinched — small but visible.
Ekko nodded to himself, confirmation enough.
“I saw you watching her at testing,” he added. “Anybody could’ve seen it. You looked like someone standing outside their own life.”
“She looked... happy,” Vi whispered. " She had Maddie and the whole team around her. She didn’t look like she needed me. At all.”
Ekko rested his forearms on the handlebars, leaning toward her just slightly.
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss you.”
“It means she doesn’t trust me,” Vi corrected. “And she’s right not to.”
Another breath. Another fracture in her composure.
“I hurt her,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now I can’t even look her in the eye without feeling like I’m— I don’t know. Like I’m dirt.”
Ekko reached out and nudged her shoulder with two fingers.
“Vi,” he said, “you’re not a bad person.”
She didn’t reply.
“You made a hard call,” he went on. “Wrong call? Yeah. Maybe. But you made it from a place of love. And Caitlyn knows the difference.”
Vi swallowed hard. “Not anymore.”
“Still,” Ekko said, gentler now, “you don’t get to quit on yourself because something hurts.”
Vi glanced toward the main straight, where a few early fans had gathered by the fence. Somewhere beyond that, inside a white and silver motorhome, Caitlyn Kiramman was probably reviewing data.
Vi’s chest tightened painfully.
“I miss her,” she said softly.
Ekko’s voice was warm, steady.
“Then maybe,” he said, “you should stop running from the one person you actually want to run toward.”
Vi let out a shaky breath.
Then shook her head.
“I can’t,” she said. “Not anymore.”
A long moment passed.
Ekko didn’t push. He never did.
He just straightened up, kicked his bike into motion, and nodded down the track.
“Then at least,” he said, “race like hell. If you’re going to break your own heart, you may as well win with it.”
Vi managed the ghost of a smile.
Then she followed him onto the circuit.
Pedaling toward the first race of a season that would demand everything from her —
Except the one thing she wanted most.
The first practice session of the season always carried a certain electricity — a tremor in the air that felt like engines waking up and the world remembering how to breathe.
But inside the Mercedes cockpit, Caitlyn Kiramman’s breath was the only thing that sounded too loud.
She lowered herself into the seat, movements precise, controlled. The crew buckled her in, tightening the belts down her chest and over her injured shoulder with practiced gentleness. Only someone who knew her well would see the subtle wince she didn’t quite hide.
Her fingers hovered over the steering wheel.
They trembled.
Not visibly to the cameras, but enough for her to feel it pulsing up her forearms, into her ribs, into the spot in her skull where memory lived like a bruise.
She inhaled.
Slow. Even. Do not think.
The visor came down.
The world became tunnel vision.
“Alright Caitlyn,” Rhea’s voice crackled into her ears, warm but edged with that particular tone she saved only for her. “Systems look good on our end. Whenever you’re ready.”
Caitlyn swallowed once.
Twice.
“Copy,” she said.
Her thumb clicked into gear.
The car rolled out of the garage.
---
The track opened in front of her — but so did the past.
Turn Three approached, and the steering felt… light. Too light.
She corrected.
The rear stepped out.
A flash.
A memory.
Sparks.
The smell of burning carbon.
The violent left snap of the wheel she never saw coming.
Her hands tightened on the wheel until her knuckles whitened.
“Rhea,” she said, voice kept steady by force alone, “I’m getting oversteer. No grip on the rears.”
“Copy that,” Rhea answered. “We see a bit of instability— try toggle forward on diff settings.”
Caitlyn did.
It helped.
Barely.
Vi shot to P1 on the timing board — aggressive, confident, flying.
Caitlyn stayed in P9.
Then P11.
Then P13.
The car wasn’t responding, and she wasn’t either — not the way she used to. Her breathing was shallow, her shoulder tight, her hands… still shaking.
She exited Turn 11, the fast chicane.
The car snapped sideways.
Violently.
The rear stepped out with a viciousness that should’ve sent her into the wall. The world blurred—
Mexico Mexico Mexico—
Her stomach lurched, heat rising up her back.
But instinct—
cold, hard, trained instinct—
took over.
She countersteered.
Caughtthecarbyamiracleandpurelogic.
The wall flashed past by centimeters.
The radio exploded.
“CAITLYN! Talk to me!” Rhea’s voice was sharp with fear she never let anyone else hear. “Are you okay?!”
Caitlyn forced her breathing under control, like she was strangling panic with discipline.
“I’m fine,” she said.
A lie.
A perfect lie.
“We need more front grip. It’s unpredictable mid-corner.”
There was a pause — too long to be accidental.
“Bring the car in,” Rhea said, tone gentle but immovable. “Now.”
Caitlyn didn’t argue.
She boxed quietly.
P13.
Her worst FP1 in years.
---
Back in the garage
The team swarmed the car the second it stopped, mechanics lifting the chassis, removing tires, running diagnostics with urgent, clipped voices.
Caitlyn slid out of the cockpit with practiced grace, though her left hand trembled once before she hid it behind her back.
Engineers approached with data tablets.
“Balance is off.”
“Rear unstable under load.”
“Telemetry shows something irregular in the suspension—”
“We’ll fix it by FP2.”
Caitlyn nodded once.
Noncommittal. Controlled.
Then the media descended.
She stood under the harsh sun, Mercedes cap shadowing her eyes.
A journalist leaned forward. “Rough start for you, Caitlyn. What happened out there?”
“The car had some instability,” she said calmly. “We identified the issue and the team is addressing it. That’s what practice sessions are for.”
Professional. Crisp. A perfect answer.
Another reporter stepped in — overeager.
“Does this bring back memories of your crash last season? You looked… shaken.”
Silence.
A ripple passed through the crowd.
Caitlyn did not blink.
“My crash is behind me,” she said evenly. “I’m here to race. Not to relive trauma for entertainment.”
The reporter flinched.
She gave no further opening.
Caitlyn stepped out of the pen, heading toward the Mercedes hospitality. The walkway was narrow — teams and drivers brushing past in opposite directions.
Then Vi appeared.
Coming from her own interviews. Helmet under one arm. Sweat still drying at her hairline. Her eyes locked onto Caitlyn like she hadn’t expected her to be right there.
They stopped a foot apart.
Close enough to feel the static.
Caitlyn lifted her chin. Just a fraction.
“Hi,” she said.
Neutral. Polite. Walls high.
Vi’s eyes flicked over her quickly — checking for injuries she knew wouldn’t be visible.
“Hey,” Vi muttered. “I, uh… I saw the moment on track. When the car stepped out.”
Her voice dropped.
“I got worried.”
Caitlyn’s lashes lowered, shielding whatever flickered there.
“It was a balance issue,” she said softly. “Mercedes is fixing it.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
Caitlyn held her gaze.
Unblinking.
“I’m fine.”
But Vi could see her fingers pressing slightly into her palm — grounding, steadying, hiding the tremor.
The air between them tightened.
Vi swallowed. “If you ever need—”
“I should go,” Caitlyn cut in gently but firmly, nodding once toward her garage.
Vi’s jaw flexed as she nodded back.
Caitlyn walked past her.
Vi turned in the opposite direction.
Neither looked back.
The sun dipped lower, flooding the track in warm orange light that made the asphalt glow. The crowds had thinned since the morning session, but the anticipation in the air still hummed — sharp, electric.
Mercedes had been working nonstop since FP1.
Suspension recalibrated.
Front-wing adjusted.
Rear grip corrected.
Telemetry smoothed.
But the real instability wasn’t inside the car.
It was inside Caitlyn.
She stood beside the cockpit, helmet under her arm, eyes fixed on the data screens like she could will her pulse into calm. Her fingers flexed once — the only outward sign of the tremor she was burying beneath layers of discipline.
Rhea approached from her left, holding a tablet.
“You don’t have to push hard this session,” Rhea murmured.
Caitlyn didn’t look at her.
“I’m pushing.”
Rhea sighed, but she didn’t argue. You didn’t argue with Caitlyn Kiramman when she used that voice — the one made of steel and exhaustion and something dangerously close to fear.
“Then give me clean data,” Rhea said.
Caitlyn nodded once.
Then she climbed in.
---
The moment the visor lowered, everything narrowed.
The cockpit sealed her in like a shell — tight, hot, humming with restrained violence.
“Track is clear,” Rhea said in her ear. “Whenever you’re ready.”
A beat.
Caitlyn exhaled — slow, steady.
“Copy. Leaving the garage.”
The car rolled out.
And the world sharpened.
---
The first lap wasn’t perfect.
Her hands still trembled faintly.
Her shoulder pulled.
Her heartbeat thudded too fast.
But the grip was there.
The balance was there.
The car listened again.
Caitlyn pushed harder.
Turn 6 — perfect apex.
Turn 9 — aggressive but controlled.
Turn 13 — she braked late, confidence threading back into her muscles.
Her times dropped.
Purple sectors began to light up the board.
But each time she approached the high-speed chicane at Turn 11, something in her pulse spiked.
The phantom memory of metal twisting.
The violent snap.
The moment gravity betrayed her.
She drove straight into the echo of her own crash.
But she didn’t flinch.
She didn’t slow.
She didn’t let it take her.
She forced the car through the corner with precision so sharp it felt like defiance.
Rhea noticed.
Her voice came softer through the radio.
“That’s good, Cait. That’s really good.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
She kept driving.
Laps blurred — a controlled storm.
The timer dropped again.
And again.
And again.
Then—
P1.
Her number flashed at the top of the board.
Vi slid into P2 moments later.
The crowd roared even though FP2 wasn’t meant to matter.
The rivalry was back.
The war was back.
The world felt alive again.
---
Back in the garage
Caitlyn climbed out of the car with that same quiet efficiency she always had — almost regal, even with sweat at her temples and her pulse thrumming too fast.
Her hands shook when she pulled off her gloves.
She curled her fingers into a fist to hide it.
Rhea saw anyway.
But she didn’t comment.
Instead, she handed her water and tapped her tablet lightly.
“You’re P1,” she said. “Fastest car on track. Cleanest data we’ve seen this season.”
Caitlyn nodded, expression unreadable.
Inside, her heart was still racing too fast to belong to someone so composed.
But she was composed.
No one would know the difference.
---
Across the paddock
Vi watched the timing monitor.
Her breath caught when Caitlyn’s name stayed at the top.
P1.
Not just fast — lethal.
Even after the morning.
Even after the near-crash.
Even after everything that still haunted her.
Vi’s chest tightened in a way she hated — admiration, longing, remorse blending into something sharp.
She’d seen Caitlyn’s car twitch once in FP2.
Barely noticeable.
A micro-correction no casual viewer would catch.
But she caught it.
She knew what that meant.
Caitlyn was fighting ghosts on that track.
And she was still winning.
“Damn,” her engineer murmured beside her. “She’s back.”
Vi swallowed.
Yeah.
She was.
And she looked impossibly far away.
QUALIFYING — MELBOURNE
There was something different in the air.
Not excitement.
Not nerves.
Sharpness.
The kind of sharpness Caitlyn Kiramman carried into every room now — an invisible blade at her spine.
She climbed into the Mercedes with movements so precise they felt clinical. No wasted motion, no hesitation. But Rhea noticed the way her fingers flexed once before gripping the steering wheel. A subtle tremor. A shadow of memory.
Then the visor dropped.
And Caitlyn became untouchable.
Her out-lap was smooth. Sector 1 — tight fast. Sector 2 — immaculate. Sector 3 — ruthless.
Purple.
Purple.
Purple.
Her lap hit the board like a declaration:
KIRAMMAN — P1
Vi watched from the Red Bull pit wall, heart picking up speed for reasons she refused to examine. Caitlyn’s driving had always been disciplined, elegant — but now she was something else.
Harder.
Sharper.
Colder.
Like someone who had closed a door behind her and swallowed the key.
Vi’s own lap put her into P2, three tenths behind. A strong showing. A great showing. But not enough.
Caitlyn simply stepped out of the car, handed off her helmet, and walked to the interview area without breaking stride.
Professional.
Controlled.
Untouchable.
The version of Caitlyn Vi feared she herself had created.
Three chairs sat on stage.
Caitlyn took the one on the right.
Vi took the left.
Ekko between them — a change no one commented on, but everyone noticed.
The interviewer smiled.
“Caitlyn, congratulations. First pole position of the season. How would you summarize your lap?”
Caitlyn’s answer was immediate, perfectly modulated, completely impersonal.
“The team executed well,” she said. “The balance felt strong, and we maximized our window. There’s still work to do, but we’re satisfied with today’s performance.”
No twitch of the mouth.
No softening.
No acknowledgement of the tension in the room.
Just composure.
“Any concerns for the race?”
“We’ve collected data,” she said. “We’ll use it to refine strategy. The goal is to convert this into points.”
The interviewer turned to Vi.
“Vi, P2 — another front row start for you. Thoughts?”
Vi kept her tone light, but she could feel Caitlyn like a gravitational pull beside her.
“It was a good lap,” she said, “but Caitlyn’s was better. She set the benchmark today.”
For a fraction of a second, Caitlyn blinked — slowly.
A barely-there reaction.
If you weren’t Vi, you’d miss it.
“Do you think we’re seeing the return of your rivalry?”
Vi opened her mouth, but Caitlyn spoke first.
“I think it’s premature to label anything after one qualifying session,” she said evenly.
Professional.
Precise.
Borderline surgical.
The room went still.
The interviewer cleared his throat.
“Well… good luck to both of you tomorrow.”
Vi set her microphone down gently.
Caitlyn placed hers with exact, deliberate control.
They stood at the same time — and for the briefest moment, their eyes met.
Ice-blue.
Wide, guarded violet.
Caitlyn gave a polite nod.
Nothing more.
Vi felt something inside her sink.
X / Twitter melts down within minutes
@sector1queen:
WHY IS CAITLYN TALKING LIKE A CORPORATE AI WHO NEVER HAD FEELINGS???
@pitlaneprophet:
Vi praising Caitlyn unprompted while Caitlyn treats the interview like a homicide report is WILD.
@forensicshipper:
She didn’t look at Vi ONCE. Not even once. This isn’t rivalry. This is heartbreak.
---
Viral Clip — Caitlyn’s Composure Breakdown
A video circulates:
Side-by-side comparison of Caitlyn last season vs. today.
Last year:
Relaxed shoulders.
Occasional smile.
Quick glances toward Vi.
Today:
Jaw set.
Back straight.
Micro-expressions absent.
Avoidance of Vi like it’s policy.
Caption:
“This isn’t the same Caitlyn.”
---
A Reddit Megathread Takes Off
[Megathread] Something Is Wrong Between Vi and Caitlyn — Evidence Below
Top comment:
u/fastlapdetective:
They were inseparable after the Mexico crash. Vi literally slept in a chair beside her for days. Then Vi dedicates her win to her. Then… dead silence. Now Caitlyn is ice-cold ?? Something broke.
u/theblueandthered:
Caitlyn looked composed, but not okay. That wasn’t distance. That was walls.
u/undertirepressure:
Vi looked like she wanted to speak to her but didn’t know if she was allowed. That’s not rivalry energy — that’s remorse.
---
TikTok Detectives Lose Their Minds
Edit: Slow zoom on Caitlyn’s eyes whenever Vi speaks.
Audio: “I’m fine… I’m not fine.”
Comments:
“She looks like she’s holding her breath every time Vi talks.”
“This is the angsty season arc and I’m not emotionally prepared.”
“Vi still looks at her like she hung the moon AND crashed into it.”
---
Instagram Comments
On a photo of the interview panel:
@kirammanstans
Caitlyn’s posture is TOO formal. She only sits like that when she’s trying not to feel anything.
@redbullriot
Vi’s face when Caitlyn cut off the rivalry question… girl is in PAIN.
@f1afterdark
If this is the season’s dynamic I’m going to ASCEND.
The engines screamed against the blue Melbourne sky.
It should have felt exhilarating — the first race of the new season, the grid shimmering with heat, fans roaring loud enough to shake the grandstands.
But to Vi?
It felt suffocating.
Because twenty meters ahead, in the silver Mercedes, Caitlyn Kiramman didn’t turn her head once.
Not during the formation lap.
Not during the grid prep.
Not even when the mechanic stepped back and Vi’s Red Bull rolled into its P2 slot.
Caitlyn kept her visor down, helmet angled forward, every line of her body screaming focus — or maybe distance. Vi couldn’t tell anymore.
Lights.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
The world held its breath.
Lights out.
Caitlyn launched perfectly.
Her reaction time was a blade — precise, lethal, unforgiving. She covered the inside before Vi even had the angle. By Turn 3, the gap was already opening.
By Lap 15, it was five seconds.
By Lap 28, it was eight.
By Lap 44, it was ten.
Ten seconds.
Against Vi.
Her greatest rival.
Her almost-something.
Her almost-everything.
Rhea’s voice echoed through the Mercedes radio, tight with a pride she barely hid:
> “Beautiful pace, Cait. Controlled. Clean. Let’s bring it home.”
Caitlyn didn’t flinch.
“Copy.”
Her hands shook slightly when she tightened her grip on the wheel — but she held the car like she was holding a weapon, not a machine.
Turn 9 flashed with memory — the blurred wall, the spinning world, the violent jolt of metal giving way.
But she breathed through it.
And kept going.
Relentless.
Unbroken.
Unreachable.
The chequered flag waved like a blade slicing through the Melbourne sun.
P1 — Caitlyn Kiramman.
The radio exploded in her ear.
> “YESSS CAIT!! What a drive! Absolutely clinical — clinical! Bring her in, champion!”
For the first time in months, something like warmth fluttered in Caitlyn’s chest — tiny, fleeting, fragile.
She guided the car into parc fermé, switched off the engine, and let the silence fall around her.
Then—
The world erupted.
Her mechanics vaulted the barrier.
Rhea sprinted out first, headset forgotten behind her, eyes bright in a way Caitlyn rarely saw.
Caitlyn slid out of the cockpit—
—or tried to. Her shoulder trembled at the angle, but she kept her face still, composed, perfect.
And then—
“GET OVER HERE, KIRAMMAN!” Maddie shouted, voice cracking with joy.
Before Caitlyn could brace, Maddie wrapped her arms around her from the side . The momentum dragged Caitlyn half a step forward, nearly off balance.
Then the entire Mercedes crew folded around them, a wave of hands and cheers and disbelief.
Caitlyn laughed.
Not loud. Not wild.
A soft, startled exhale that sounded almost like the old her.
The team froze.
Then—
“OH GOD SHE LAUGHED!”
This time, Caitlyn did smile — strained and small, but real — as she was pulled deeper into the embrace of her crew.
For a moment, she wasn’t thinking about hospitals.
Or raids.
Or heartbreak.
Just racing.
Just this.
They stood under the hot lights, champagne bottles sweating in their hands.
Caitlyn in P1.
Vi in P2.
Ekko in P3.
The anthem played.
Caitlyn stood tall, chin lifted, her posture immaculate. Her eyes never drifted to Vi, not once.
Vi, however—
She couldn’t stop.
Every few seconds her gaze cut sideways, searching Caitlyn’s profile, hoping for something — a glance, a twitch of the mouth, recognition, anything.
Instead she got stone.
After the trophies were handed, the champagne ritual began.
Caitlyn did what she was supposed to do:
Turned gracefully toward the fans.
Lifted her bottle.
Sprayed the front rows with controlled arcs of silver foam.
Ekko, chaotic as always, soaked everyone within reach — Vi first, then Caitlyn, who jolted back in surprise.
Vi reacted automatically, needing to defend herself, swinging her bottle upward—
And hit Caitlyn square in the chest with the spray.
A beat.
Caitlyn’s eyes flicked to Vi.
Emotionless.
Then she sprayed back — precise, cool, the bare minimum required.
No shared grin.
No softening.
No memory of all their podiums last year.
Just duty.
The fans cheered anyway.
They couldn’t feel the frost sitting between the two of them.
The paddock was still vibrating with noise when Vi finally caught up to her.
Caitlyn had just finished her cooldown routine, helmet under one arm, champagne residue drying across her race suit. She looked… fine. More than fine. She looked like herself again — posture impeccable, expression calm, answering a quick congratulations from a mechanic with a small nod and a crisp “thank you.”
No visible cracks.
No trembling hands.
No shaken voice.
As if nothing between them had ever happened.
“Caitlyn,” Vi said, stepping into her path.
She stopped cleanly, almost gracefully, as if Vi were just another reporter she needed to sidestep.
Her eyes lifted to Vi’s face.
Polite.
Cool.
Neutral as a medic’s glove.
“…Vi,” she said.
No smile.
No warmth.
But nothing visibly hostile either.
Which somehow hurt more.
“You were incredible today,” Vi said quietly. “Really. Textbook perfect. Congrats on the win.”
“Thank you.” A small nod. “The car felt strong. The team has done excellent work.”
She wasn’t being cold. Not exactly. She was just… professional.
Too professional.
Vi felt her throat tighten. “How’s your shoulder? I saw you rubbing it in the paddock earlier.”
“I’m fine,” Caitlyn said lightly. “Just normal post-race strain. Nothing unusual.”
Nothing unusual.
As if she hadn’t spent months in physiotherapy because of a crash meant for Vi.
As if the pain meant nothing now.
Silence pressed between them.
Vi’s fingers curled helplessly. “Look… I wanted to say sorry. For… everything. I shouldn’t have—”
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t shift. Not even a flicker.
“You already apologized, Vi,” she said softly, cutting her off without sounding unkind. “There’s no need to repeat yourself.”
That was the problem.
She wasn’t angry.
She wasn’t emotional.
She was… resolved.
“Cait, can we just—talk? Please?” Vi asked, stepping closer.
Caitlyn’s gaze lowered briefly to the gap Vi had closed, then lifted again.
Her tone stayed perfectly gentle.
“What would talking change?”
Vi’s breath caught. “I just… want to understand where we are.”
“We are where we need to be,” Caitlyn said simply.
“But I miss you.”
Something shifted in Caitlyn’s eyes—too fast, too controlled—before she shut it down completely.
“Missing someone doesn’t undo consequences,” she said. Her voice was soft enough to sound kind, sharp enough to cut clean. “It doesn’t rewind choices. It doesn’t rebuild trust.”
Vi felt the floor tilt slightly under her. “I didn’t mean to break your trust.”
“I know,” Caitlyn said immediately.
The fast reply stunned Vi—because it sounded sincere.
But Caitlyn wasn’t done.
“Intention and outcome,” she continued, “are often different things.”
Her calmness was suffocating.
Vi stepped closer again. “Cait… if you’re angry, just tell me.”
Caitlyn blinked once, slowly. “I’m not angry.”
That somehow hurt worse than if she shouted.
“I’m… relieved,” Caitlyn said, like she was stating a fact. “Relieved that the season has begun. Relieved to focus on racing again. Relieved to feel like myself on track.”
Every word was a polite dismissal dressed as composure.
Vi’s voice cracked. “Do you blame me for what happened?”
“No.”
But then—so gently she didn’t even sound aware she was hurting Vi:
“But I no longer know what you would choose if we were put in the same situation again.”
Vi’s chest caved. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Caitlyn said, “that I must be more careful than I was before.”
There it was.
Not anger.
Not hatred.
Not bitterness.
Just a boundary drawn with surgical precision.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Caitlyn added—smiling, but only with her mouth. “Truly.”
Then she stepped past her.
Like she wasn’t fragile.
Like she wasn’t furious.
Like nothing was broken at all.
And that, Vi realized as her heart tore quietly in her chest, was the worst sign of all.
Because Caitlyn Kiramman was not acting angry.
She was acting healed.
Just… not with Vi.
Notes:
This chapter was… a lot.
Writing Vi and Caitlyn in this stage of their story — both hurting, both stubborn, both too soft for each other in ways they won’t admit — was heartbreaking in the best (and worst) way.I’d really love to know what you felt reading this
Do you think either of them is right… or are they both ruining everything?
And as always, if you have ideas, scenes, or moments you want to see in the next races, in their personal arcs, or with Jinx in the background — don’t hesitate to send them.
Your suggestions genuinely help guide the direction of the story, and I love weaving reader ideas into the narrative.Thank you for sticking with this messy, painful, beautiful slow-burn chaos.
You’re all the fuel behind every chapter. 💙🏎️🔥
Chapter 17: Chapter 17
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Flashback
The first thing Caitlyn noticed was that the ceiling had changed.
The one above her bed in the hospital had been a dull, institutional white. This one was warm cream, lit by soft, expensive lamps. The cracks in the corners of the plaster were the same ones she’d stared at as a child when feigning illness to avoid family dinners.
Home, she realized.
She was home.
Her ribs reminded her of the cost.
Pain rolled, slow and heavy, from the stitched mess at her side up into the fragile scaffolding of healing bone. It felt like her chest had been glued back together with something just a little too brittle, like one deep breath might split her open again.
She tried anyway.
Air slipped in, thin and sharp. Halfway through the inhale, everything caught—the ribs clamped down, nerves fired like live wires. Her vision went white at the edges.
“Stop,” a voice said quietly. “Don’t be an idiot on your first night out of hospital.”
Rhea’s face came into focus when the world settled. She sat in the chair beside Caitlyn’s bed, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, arms folded. Her expression was carefully neutral. Her eyes were not.
“How long have you been here?” Caitlyn asked, voice rough.
“Long enough to know you are in pain.” Rhea replied.
Caitlyn huffed a breath. Pain jabbed. Lesson learned.
“Thirsty?” Rhea asked.
Caitlyn nodded instead of risking speech. Rhea slid a straw into place with infuriating gentleness. Caitlyn sipped. Cold water hit her tongue and throat and settled in her chest like a stone.
When she’d had enough, Rhea set the glass down.
“Your Physio session is tomorrow,” she said, moving as if Caitlyn might argue. “Liora’ll be here at nine.”
“Already?” Caitlyn rasped.
“Yes, already. You told the doctors you wanted an aggressive timeline.” Rhea shrugged. “Apparently they believed you.”
Of course they had.
Everyone always did, when she promised she could take it.
She rested her head back against the pillows. Pain pulsed along her side in time with her heartbeat. The painkillers blurred the edges but didn’t erase the weight of it.
She closed her eyes.
The crash waited for her there.
Turn. Snap. Impact. The sound of the car folding in around her like a dying animal. The taste of copper. The split second of weightless silence when she’d thought impossible—this might be it—
She opened her eyes again.
Rhea’s gaze was still on her, quiet and steady.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not in pain,” she said softly.
Caitlyn considered lying. Decided against it. “It hurts.”
“I know.” Rhea’s voice didn’t change. “That means you’re still here.”
That wasn’t comforting.
It was, somehow.
The rehabilitation room in the Kiramman estate had once been her parents' private gym. Tobías had always claimed the view of the gardens made pain more bearable.
Caitlyn thought he’d been lying.
Sunlight spilled through tall windows, making long bright rectangles on the polished floor. Machines stood along one wall—cables, pulleys, tanks of resistance water. A mirror covered the other wall entirely.
Liora, her physiotherapist, was already there when Caitlyn arrived, dressed in soft grey and carrying a tablet. She greeted her with a nod, eyes mapping her gait and posture before Caitlyn even reached the mat.
“Miss Kiramman,” she said. “How are you?”
“Functional,” Caitlyn replied.
Liora’s mouth twitched. “That isn’t a real answer.”
“It’s the honest one.”
Rhea appeared in the doorway, hands in her pockets. “She’s been like this all morning,” she informed Liora. “You have my sympathy.”
The session started with breathing.
Caitlyn lay flat on the mat—carefully, slowly, each vertical inch a protest from her ribs—while Liora counted.
“In for three. Out for five.”
On the second inhale, the pain sharpened. Her chest refused to expand any further. It felt like something inside her would crack if she forced it.
She forced it.
Pain flared bright and immediate, like the moment the belts had slammed across her.
She didn’t make a sound. Her fingers dug into the mat.
“Don’t push through that,” Liora said mildly. “You’re not in the car now.”
“I can manage,” Caitlyn said.
“We’re not measuring your pain tolerance,” Liora replied. “We’re training your lungs. Stop where it seizes. Work just below that line. Not beyond.”
“Do you talk to all your clients like this?” Caitlyn asked, forcing the words out between controlled exhales.
“Yes,” Liora said. “The stubborn ones more often.”
Rhea snorted again.
They moved on to the shoulder.
Even in the sling, the joint throbbed—deep, ugly, a heaviness that sat in the bone. When Liora eased her arm forward, supported at the wrist and elbow, a white-hot thread of pain shot from the joint down into her ribs, tying the two injuries tight together.
“Lift to here,” Liora murmured. “Tell me when it spikes.”
Caitlyn watched the ceiling instead of the mirror. She counted the lines in the plaster as her arm was raised.
Eight. Nine. Ten—
The pain crested.
“Now,” she said.
Liora stopped. “Hold,” she said.
She did.
Her muscles shook almost immediately. The joint burned. Her ribs screamed silently for her to stop.
She didn’t.
She stared at a small crack in the ceiling until her vision blurred around it.
“Lower,” Liora said.
Her arm descended. Her shoulder throbbed in angry, uneven pulses.
They repeated the motion. Again. Again. Again.
By the end of the set, Caitlyn felt sweat tracing a slow path down her spine. Her breath had gone shallow. Her hand shook when she tried to flex her fingers.
Rhea appeared at her side with water without being asked.
“Pain scale?” Liora asked.
“Manageable,” Caitlyn said automatically.
“Honest,” Liora clarified, patient but firm.
Caitlyn considered, eyes drifting involuntarily to the mirror. The woman reflected back at her was upright, composed, jaw clenched in familiar determination.
There were deep shadows under her eyes.
“Seven,” she said, surprising herself.
Liora nodded once. “That’s enough for today on the shoulder. Ribs next.”
By the time they finished, Caitlyn’s body felt like someone else’s.
Getting up from the mat took longer than she liked. Each movement was a negotiation—ankle, knee, elbow, ribs. Her shoulder trembled when she pushed herself upright.
Rhea watched her, face blank. Only her hands—fisted in the pockets of her jacket—gave her away.
When Caitlyn was finally seated again, Liora handed her a fresh ice pack.
“Ten minutes,” she said. “Then heat. Then rest.”
“I have simulator work this afternoon,” Caitlyn said.
Rhea stiffened. “No, you don’t.”
Caitlyn looked at her. “We agreed—”
“You agreed,” Rhea interrupted. “I listened and made my own decision, as your engineer and the person who has to sit on the pit wall and watch you drive this year. You are not getting into a sim today.”
“Rhea—”
“You can’t hold your own arm at ninety degrees,” Rhea said, voice soft, eyes hard. “You’re not touching a wheel.”
Liora cleared her throat. “I would recommend giving your nervous system time to settle after sessions like these, Miss Kiramman. Piling demands on top will not speed up your recovery. It will only make your pain louder.”
Pain louder.
As if it were something that could be turned up and down like engine mode.
Caitlyn swallowed. Her throat felt dry.
“I need to get back to race fitness,” she said. “We have a deadline.”
Rhea sighed. “You will. But not today. Today you breathe, you ice, you use the painkillers I know you’ve been rationing like you’re at war.”
“I don’t like how they make me feel,” Caitlyn muttered.
“Like you feel less?” Rhea asked.
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
The nights were worse.
Daytime gave her tasks—reps to count, exercises to perform, pain to quantify. It gave her numbers she could measure progress against, no matter how slow.
Nighttime took all of that away.
On the fourth night home, she woke with a scream locked in her throat.
The crash reassembled itself in pieces: the blur of the barrier, the snap of the rear, the hollow, sickening impact that stole the world’s color for a second.
She lay in the dark, chest heaving in short, shallow bursts. Her ribs warned her immediately that they would not tolerate panic. A hot, familiar ache threatened to climb up her spine.
She forced her breaths slower.
In. Out.
Don’t think of the wall.
Don’t think of the replay the entire world had watched thirty times in slow motion.
Don’t think of the way Vi’s face had looked in the hospital, eyes wild and red, and full of worry.
Vi.
She thought of her anyway.
The kiss had not been planned.
Nothing about that night had been planned. Hospital rooms weren’t built for confessions; they were built for survival. Caitlyn had been tired—so tired—and in pain, and terrified in a way she’d never allowed herself to be as a driver. She had felt small and breakable and stupidly grateful to be alive.
Vi had been a constant presence at her bedside. She had bullied nurses gently. She had smuggled in food when the hospital meals made Caitlyn’s stomach turn. She had stayed, stubborn, in that awful chair for hours—days—until her neck had creaked and her shoulders had given in.
Caitlyn could still feel the ghost of Vi’s fingertips brushing her cheek where an IV line had irritated the skin.
She could still feel the warmth of that touch bleeding into something else.
They hadn’t said anything.
They hadn’t needed to.
When she’d shifted closer in the bed, when Vi’s hand had slid to the back of her neck and their foreheads had touched, there’d been a quiet, shared understanding:
This is more.
This is real.
This is terrifying.
The kiss had been soft despite the bruises. Careful in a way Vi rarely was with anything. Promise more than action.
Caitlyn had felt something in her chest loosen, just for a moment. A different kind of ache—sweet, terrifying, full.
She’d thought—they would talk later. When she could breathe without counting. When she could stand without a nurse hovering. When the machines quieted and the world stopped vibrating with adrenaline.
Later had not come.
Her mother’s voice on the phone, too even. The hospital room, again. The stitches along Cassandra’s hairline. The bandage around her arm. The smell of antiseptic over blood.
The word Jinx spoken with tight, bitter clarity.
The raid.
The information Caitlyn had shared with Vi in a moment of exhausted trust.
The look in Vi’s eyes when she’d confessed.
“I warned her.”
She understood, now, in the lonely dark of her own bed, that two things could be true at the same time:
Vi had not meant to hurt her.
And Vi had hurt her.
Vi had been trying to save her sister.
And Caitlyn’s mother had almost died twice because of Jinx.
It was as simple and as complicated as that.
Her phone buzzed against the nightstand.
She reached for it before she could think.
Tabloids.
Always tabloids.
GAZE: F1 CHAMPION VIOLET SPOTTED LEAVING ZAUN BAR
PITLANE RUMORS: RED BULL STAR “UNSTABLE” DURING BREAK
FIA STATEMENT: “DRIVERS EXPECTED TO UPHOLD PROFESSIONAL CONDUCT”
She opened one.
The video quality was awful—shot on a cheap undercity device. But the subject was unmistakable. Vi, shoulder pressed into a doorway, arguing with someone just out of frame. Her movements loose with alcohol. Her hands rigid with anger.
The argument escalated.
Vi stepped forward. Someone grabbed her arm.
She swung.
Security stepped in. The clip cut.
Caitlyn stared at the frozen frame—Vi’s eyes hollow, mouth set in a hard line.
That was guilt.
She knew its shape intimately.
The urge to call was so strong it made her fingers twitch.
She wanted to say:
You don’t have to do this alone.
Come here.
Let me help.
She imagined the scene too easily: Vi slumped on a couch in the estate’s smaller sitting room, cheap undercity liquor replaced by something good and clean. A blanket thrown over her knees.
She imagined Vi’s head in her lap, still and heavy, finally sleeping without flinching.
She imagined pressing her mouth to Vi’s hair and thinking: We’ll fix this.
But it was a fantasy.
Reality was sharper.
Reality was Cassandra’s injuries.
Reality was the knowledge that Jinx was still out there, still volatile, still attached to Vi by a bond stronger than loyalty and more dangerous than love.
Caitlyn set the phone down slowly, as if it might explode if she held it too tight.
“This is for the best,” she whispered.
The words sounded thin even to her.
Distance hurt.
So did contact.
Every path seemed to lead back to a future where she was visiting a ward like this one, or worse. Flowers at a memorial. A name carved into stone. Her mother’s body under a sheet. Vi’s face on a wanted poster.
The pain in her shoulder pulsed.
She rolled carefully onto her back again, ribs protesting.
She stared at the ceiling.
Sleep did not come.
When it finally did, the crash was there to meet her.
The weeks blurred.
Physio in the mornings. Ice. Careful exercise. Ribs protesting every twist. Shoulder screaming at every new range they asked of it. Liora’s calm voice. Rhea’s silent presence.
It was progress.
Slow, grinding, humiliating progress.
She could lift her arm a little higher each week. Breathe a little deeper. Stand a little longer without the world tilting.
But every gain came with a price.
By afternoon, she was wrung out—muscles trembling, lungs tired, pain buzzing in a constant low hum under her skin. She would make it back to her room, upright and composed, and then sit on the edge of her bed for ten full minutes, catching up to herself.
Her hands shook when she unbuttoned shirts. The scar along her ribs pulled when she bent to tie her shoes.
She never complained.
Cassandra visited the rehab room once.
She stood in the doorway, arm still wrapped but healing, eyes taking in the machines, the mirror, her daughter’s careful movements with that same assessing gaze she used in council chambers.
“You’re pushing hard,” Cassandra said quietly when Liora stepped out to take a call.
Caitlyn kept her focus on the exercise band in her hand. “There’s a new season coming.”
“I know,” Cassandra said. “That’s what concerns me.”
Caitlyn paused. “You don’t want me to race.”
“I didn’t say that.” Cassandra stepped inside, just enough to make the sensors register her presence. “I want you alive. I want you whole. I want you… not to feel like you have to tear yourself apart to prove you deserve either.”
Caitlyn swallowed. Sweat stung her eyes. The band trembled under her grip.
“I know what I’m doing,” she said.
Cassandra studied her for a long moment.
“I’m not sure you do,” she said. “But I suppose that’s the privilege of youth. You mistake survival for inevitability.”
She turned to leave.
At the door, she hesitated.
“The girl from Zaun,” she said without looking back, “still calls you?”
Caitlyn’s throat closed. “No.”
“Good.” Cassandra’s voice was clipped, brittle " Bad news about her everywhere. I thought she was different."
When the door shut, Caitlyn realized her hands were shaking harder.
Not from the band.
From the way missing Vi and resenting her existed so uneasily side by side.
When the FIA cleared her to race, the email tone was absurdly cheerful.
MEDICAL CLEARANCE GRANTED – FIT TO COMPETE
SUBJECT TO ONGOING PHYSIOTHERAPY AND PAIN MANAGEMENT
She read it in the rehab room, ice pack pressed against her shoulder, ribs wrapped snug under her shirt.
Rhea hovered behind her. “Well?”
“Cleared,” Caitlyn said.
“Of course you are,” Rhea muttered. “You’d show up to that exam with a collapsed lung and tell them it’s an ‘inconvenience.’”
Caitlyn’s lips twitched, then flattened.
A new season.
New cars. Cameras. Questions.
And Vi.
I’m learning where the lines are, Vi had told some interviewer, months ago. Caitlyn hadn’t watched the whole clip. She hadn’t needed to. She heard the shape of regret in every edited quote.
Maybe Vi had grown.
Maybe she hadn’t.
It didn’t change what Caitlyn had to do.
She would go back to the paddock with her shoulder still aching and her ribs still remembering. She would sit in front of microphones and say the right things. She would drive faster than she ever had.
She would keep her distance.
If she saw Vi, she would nod. Professional. Polite. Controlled.
She would not reach out.
She would not ask if Vi was sleeping.
She would not confess that she still woke some nights with the sensation of Vi’s hand slipping out of hers in that hospital room, the door closing harder than any crash had.
She would not say: I miss you.
Pain had taught her many things.
The most important of them was this:
Some choices didn’t have a version that didn’t hurt.
Vi had chosen her sister.
She had broken Caitlyn’s trust.
She vanished from her life.
The wall between them wasn’t made of anger.
It was made of those choices, stacked and mortared with guilt.
She would live with it.
She would race with it.
And somewhere deep down, under the ice and discipline and carefully rebuilt walls, a small, treacherous part of her hoped that if Vi was hurting too… it was only because she cared enough to be hurt. But she wasn't sure anymore if Vi cared. She completely disappeared from her life.
That part of her reached for the phone one last time before Bahrain.
She opened their old message thread.
The last unsent draft blinked up at her from weeks ago:
Vi, are you okay ?
She deleted it.
Instead, she typed:
Good luck for testing.
Her thumb hovered over send.
She stared at it until her shoulder throbbed and her ribs ached and the ghosts of council chambers flashed behind her eyes.
Then she locked the screen.
It wasn’t the future she’d imagined when Vi’s lips had touched hers.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t kind.
It was the only way she knew how to live with the weight of what had already happened—and the fear of what could still go wrong.
Two weeks later, she stepped back into the paddock with a healed body that still hurt and a composed face that hid more than it ever had.
And when she saw Vi again, under the Bahrain sun, she did exactly what she’d promised herself:
She kept her voice soft.
She kept her eyes steady.
And she kept the door closed.
Flashback ended
The noise didn’t stop when the engines did.
By the time night fell over Albert Park, the race was over, the podium cleared, the champagne drying sticky on the asphalt. But the storm had just moved screens.
Clips, photos, freeze-frames—every angle of the day was already online.
Vi sat on the narrow couch in her tiny motorhome, still in half-unzipped race suit. The TV murmured in the background, flicking between race highlights and pundits in crisp shirts who’d never felt a G-force in their lives.
The ticker at the bottom of the screen kept saying the same thing in different words:
KIRAMMAN DOMINATES.
VI SECOND BEST.
CHAMPION OUT-CLINICED BY OLD RIVAL.
Fine.
She could live with that.
It was the other headline that made her stomach turn.
WHERE DID THE CHEMISTRY GO?
VI & CAITLYN: ICE ON THE PODIUM
RIVALS, NOT FRIENDS?
One channel was running a side-by-side from last season’s podium. Caitlyn and Vi, damp with champagne, laughing into each other’s shoulders, Vi’s arm draped loosely around Caitlyn’s back. And today—same step, same positions, same bottles.
No smiles.
No glances that lasted longer than necessary.
Same girls, different climate.
“…can clearly see the tension,” the pundit was saying. “Last year, Kiramman and vi were close. Vi dedicated wins to her. Now? She can barely look at her. Something happened over the break. The body language is—”
Vi muted it.
The silence was somehow worse.
Her phone buzzed on the low table—again, again, again. Group chats. Ekko. Her engineer. A terse, PR-polished message from Red Bull reminding her not to comment on “personal speculation” online.
She ignored them all.
She leaned her head back, stared at the ceiling, listened to her own pulse banging faintly in her ears.
Ten seconds.
That was the gap at the finish.
Ten seconds that might as well have been a universe.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown number, blocked ID, no flag.
She knew exactly who it was.
Her hand hovered for half a heartbeat.
She answered anyway.
“Yeah,” she said, voice low.
Static crackled. Then a bright, too-familiar voice slid through, sugar-coated and sharp as a knife.
“You let her win.”
Vi closed her eyes. “Powder—”
“Ah-ah,” Jinx sing-songed. “Wrong name, sis.”
The pet name evaporated like smoke.
Vi forced herself to breathe. “Jinx. What do you want?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Jinx replied. There was a clank in the background, metal on metal, some machine humming out of sync. “I just watched my big badass sister roll over and let a shiny Piltover toy drive circles around her. Thought maybe your comms were broken. Or your spine.”
Vi’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t ‘let’ her do anything. She was faster today.”
“Ooooh ” Jinx said cheerfully. “Do you hear yourself? ‘She was faster.’ Sickening.”
“You watched the race,” Vi said, because apparently she was determined to say the least important thing first.
“Yeah,” Jinx replied. “It was boring. You used to fight. Now you just… follow.”
Vi stared at the dark TV screen, catching her own reflection—eyes shadowed, hair damp, mouth a hard line.
“You calling to mock me,” she said, “or is there a point?”
“Oh, there’s a point,” Jinx said. The playfulness in her voice shifted, edged. “How could you let that Piltover girl take the win, Vi? After everything they’ve done? After everything she’s tied to?”
Her fingers dug into her thigh. “Leave her out of this.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Jinx crooned. “She’s special, right? The little council pet. The one you kissed in a hospital room while Mommy Dearest was busy surviving another explosion.”
Vi swallowed bile.
“That’s not what this is,” she said. “Jinx, listen to me—”
“I am listening,” Jinx interrupted. “I’m listening to you care more about that girl than where you came from. You sounded very… proud of her in the interviews. ‘She makes me better.’ ‘She set the benchmark.’” Her tone went mocking, pitch-perfect. “You sound like a fan.”
Vi’s breath hitched. “Why do you even care who wins in F1?”
“I don’t,” Jinx said. “I care about what it means. You used to hate them, Vi. The way they looked down on us. The way they built their little sky-city while we drowned in the smog. Now you’re letting one of them stand on your head and smile for the cameras.”
Vi tried to keep her voice level. “I know and i'm not saying i love Piltover."
“You should,” Jinx snapped. The air on the other end of the line seemed to thicken. “You really, really should. Or did you forget who let our parents die?”
Vi stared at the wall. The old ache slid back under her ribs. “It was a fire, Powder.”
“It was neglect,” Jinx hissed. “It was them deciding we were worth less. Just like always. Just like now.”
“Zaun has been treated like trash,” Vi said, too tired to argue about the part they both knew, too raw to fight on that ground. “I know that. You know I know that.”
“Do I?” Jinx asked softly. “Because from here, it looks like you know how to drink champagne and say ‘thank you, sir,’ really, really well.”
Vi’s fingers shook. She lowered her head, forcing her voice quiet.
“Why did you call me,” she repeated, “if not to pick a fight?”
There was a pause.
When Jinx spoke again, her tone had shifted, slid sideways into something lighter, almost sing-song.
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” she said.
“Hear what?”
“I’m planning a surprise,” Jinx said. “A big one. Just for Piltover.”
Vi’s heart dropped. “What did you do?”
“Nothing yet,” Jinx answered, airy. “But it’s gonna be great. Fireworks. Messages. And maybe a little… leverage.”
“Jinx,” Vi said sharply. “What does that mean?”
Metal clinked, closer to the microphone now. A door creaked. The faint echo of distant shouting, made small by distance and pipelines and depth.
“You ever notice how much those councilors value their security?” Jinx asked. “All the guards, the drones, the shields? ‘We’re so important, please don’t touch us.’” She laughed. “You know what’s funny about cages, Vi?”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“Doesn’t matter how many bars you put on,” Jinx said, ignoring her. “You still gotta open the door sometime. To go home. To go to your favorite restaurant. To go tuck your kids in.”
Horror went cold and sharp in Vi’s chest.
“Stop,” she said. “Whatever you’re thinking—”
“I’m thinking,” Jinx said, voice suddenly very clear, “that maybe Piltover deserves to know what it feels like to be scared all the time. Maybe if one of their precious councilors goes missing, they’ll finally listen.”
Vi’s hand tightened so hard around the phone she heard plastic creak.
“You’re talking about kidnapping,” she said. “You’re talking about escalating. Again.”
“Oh, big word,” Jinx said. “Kidnapping. You say it like I haven’t watched them snatch people from Zaun for years. Labs. Work camps. Mines. Where was your precious justice then?”
Vi pressed her free hand against her forehead. “Why, Jinx? What does this fix?”
“It doesn’t fix anything,” Jinx snapped. “It makes them pay attention.”
“This is not the way,” Vi said. Her voice cracked. “You can’t keep doing this. Blowing things up, taking hostages—this isn’t justice. It’s terror.”
“Oh, look at you,” Jinx said, amused and cruel now. “Using council words. ‘Terror.’ ‘Hostages.’ I ask for you to come home, and you give me law books.”
“Talk to someone,” Vi pleaded. “Talk to anyone. We can demand representation. Force them to negotiate—”
“Talking doesn’t work,” Jinx said. “It never has. They like the sound of their own voices. They don’t hear ours.”
“You think kidnapping a councilor is going to make them respect Zaun?” Vi demanded. “You think hurting innocent people is going to bring our parents back?”
“They weren’t innocent,” Jinx spat. “None of them are innocent. Not a single one who sat in that chamber while we starved.”
Vi swallowed. Her throat felt raw.
“I get it,” she whispered. “I do. I get the rage. I get wanting to burn it all down. But you’re not just going after symbols anymore, Jinx. You’re going after people. Families. Kids who didn’t choose any of this.”
“And what about the kids in Zaun?” Jinx fired back. “The ones who get buried under falling scaffolds because safety regs are ‘too expensive’? The ones coughing themselves to death before they hit twelve because the factories dump their guts into our water? Where’s your sympathy for them, Vi?”
“I have it,” Vi said. “All of it. That’s why I’m trying to stop you before this gets worse. Before they retaliate. Because they will. You know they will.”
Silence.
Then Jinx laughed.
“You care so much about Piltover now,” she murmured. "About her.”
Vi’s stomach twisted. “This has nothing to do with Caitlyn.”
“Doesn’t it?” Jinx said. “Funny. You didn’t call me when they cracked heads in the Lanes. But now that your girlfriend might get caught in the crossfire—suddenly you’re very, very concerned.”
Vi’s voice dropped. “Don’t touch her.”
“Oooh,” Jinx cooed. “There it is. You sound almost scared, Vi.”
“I’m begging you,” Vi said, the word bitter in her mouth, “leave Caitlyn and her family alone. Leave the council alone. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”
“You didn’t warn me last time to ‘not make it worse,’” Jinx said. “You warned me so they wouldn’t hurt me. That was cute. Almost felt like you remembered what side you’re on.”
“I’m still on your side,” Vi said. It hurt to say it. It hurt more to mean it. “That’s why I’m telling you: if you do this, there’s no going back. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
Jinx went quiet.
When she spoke again, her voice was flat.
“Piltover doesn’t deserve your protection,” she said. “Not after what they’ve done. Not after what they’re still doing. You saw what their little games did to you."
Vi dragged a hand down her face. “Please. Just… think about it. Don’t act yet. Give me time.”
“Time for what?” Jinx asked. “Time to talk them out of hunting me? Time to convince them I’m just a misunderstood individual."
“Time for me to fix this,” Vi said. Too fast. Too desperate.
Jinx laughed softly.
“You can’t fix this,” she said. “You can’t fix me. Stop pretending you can.”
“Then why are you telling me?” Vi whispered. “Why call at all if my opinion doesn’t matter?”
There was a crack in the silence.
When Jinx answered, it was almost too quiet to hear.
“Because I wanted you to know,” she said. “So you can’t say I didn’t give you a chance.”
The line hissed between them.
“Chance for what?” Vi asked.
“To pick a side.”
The call cut.
Vi sat very still, phone against her ear, listening to dead air.
Her fingers were numb.
Her heart wasn’t.
She moved without really remembering how.
Out of the motorhome. Down the dark, mostly empty paddock lane. Past Red Bull hospitality—lights still on, laughter spilling faintly through the glass. Past Ferrari, McLaren, empty interview backdrops.
Her feet knew the way.
Mercedes hospitality glowed white and silver in the night, logo shining over the glass doors. Most of the crew had gone. A few silhouettes moved inside—late data reviews, debriefs, the hum of a championship operation winding down.
Rhea stood near the entrance, tablet in hand, headset around her neck.
She looked up the second Vi stepped into the light.
Her eyes narrowed.
“…you shouldn’t be here,” she said automatically.
“I know,” Vi replied. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It sounded thinner. Younger. “I need to talk to Caitlyn.”
“She’s resting,” Rhea said. “First race back, rough day. She needs—”
“I know,” Vi said again.
Something must have shown on her face—some crack in the usual bravado. Because Rhea’s jaw unclenched, just slightly.
“What happened?” she asked.
Vi swallowed. “Please. It’s urgent.”
Rhea studied her for a long second.
Then she stepped aside.
“Five minutes,” she said. “If she tells you to leave, you leave.”
Vi nodded, throat too tight for words.
“First door on the left,” Rhea added. “She’s in the drivers’ lounge.”
The corridor was quieter than the rest of the building. Thick carpet muffled Vi’s steps. The hum of the air conditioning sounded too loud in her ears.
She paused outside the door, palm hovering over the panel.
Then she forced herself to push it.
The room inside was dim—lights turned low, curtains half drawn. A narrow couch sat against one wall, small table beside it piled with empty water bottles and a disposable ice pack.
Caitlyn lay stretched on the couch, half-turned toward the backrest. One arm pillowed under her head, the other folded carefully against her ribs. An ice pack rested over her shoulder, condensation dripping slowly down the inside of her T-shirt.
Her eyes were closed.
Her brows were drawn tight.
Even in sleep—or whatever light, exhausted rest this was—pain carved itself into her expression. Her fingers twitched faintly every now and then, like her muscles couldn’t quite let go of the steering wheel.
Her arm was trembling.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
Vi’s chest clenched.
This was not the Caitlyn from the podium—the statue in black and silver, every inch composed. This was the one Vi had seen in hospital beds. In rehab rooms. In the early morning hours before the morphine kicked in.
Human.
Hurting.
Too much all at once.
“Caitlyn,” Vi said softly.
For a second, nothing.
Then Caitlyn’s lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened, unfocused at first, pupils dilated from painkillers and fatigue. She blinked once, twice.
Her gaze found Vi.
And sharpened instantly.
“Vi?” she said, already shifting to sit up. The ice pack slid from her shoulder, landing on the floor with a dull thud she didn’t seem to register. "What happened ?"
She swung her legs off the couch.
She stepped closer, concern overtaking every other reflex.
“Why are you shaking?” Caitlyn asked, voice low. “What’s wrong?”
Vi hadn’t realized she was shaking until Caitlyn pointed it out.
Her hands wouldn’t stay still. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts. Adrenaline still surged from the call, unspent, looking for a target.
“I—” she started, then stopped. Words jammed in her throat.
Caitlyn closed the distance, stopping a careful arm’s length away as if she knew Vi might bolt if she didn't.
“Hey,” she said, softer now. “Look at me.”
Vi lifted her head.
Caitlyn’s eyes were wide, clear, all the practiced coolness stripped away by worry.
“What happened?” she asked again.
“It’s Jinx,” Vi blurted.
The name hung heavy between them.
Caitlyn’s mouth tightened.
“What about her?” she asked. Her voice didn’t rise. It turned… thinner. Taut.
“She called me,” Vi said. “Just now."
Caitlyn stilled.
“She’s planning something,” Vi went on, words tumbling over each other now. “She said she wants to give Piltover a ‘surprise.’ That she’s going to make them pay attention. She talked about kidnapping a councilor. To use as leverage.”
All color seemed to drain from Caitlyn’s face, leaving her eyes too bright.
“Did she give more information ?” she said. No waver. No panic. Just hard, urgent focus.
“No,” Vi said. “Just ‘one of them.’ She sounded… excited.” Her stomach lurched. “Like it was a game.”
Caitlyn exhaled slowly through her nose. “And you believe her.”
“She doesn’t bluff with this,” Vi said, voice breaking. “You know she doesn’t. Not with bombs. Not with threats. If she says she’s going to do something—she’ll try.”
A tremor ran through her again, harder this time. She wrapped her arms around herself, like she could hold her insides together.
“This is my fault,” she whispered.
Caitlyn’s head snapped toward her. “Vi—”
“I did this,” Vi pushed on. “I thought— I thought if I warned her before, I could pull her out. I thought I was saving her. But I just… gave her time. Gave her more room to build something worse.”
Her voice thickened. Vision blurred. She blinked hard, but one tear broke loose, slipping hot and humiliating down her cheek.
“I lost you,” she said. “I lost myself. And now she’s still out there pointing guns at your city and your mother and—” She laughed once, a small, horrible sound. “Congratulations to me, right? I’ve managed to make everyone less safe.”
Caitlyn’s chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with old fractures.
“Vi,” she said quietly.
“They were right,” Vi went on. Words spilled faster now, like she’d dammed them up and they’d finally burst. “You were right. I shouldn’t have interfered. I shouldn’t have taken what you told me and used it for her. Everything’s worse now. And she’s still free, still… planning—”
Her breath hitched.
She dragged the heel of her hand across her eyes angrily, like she could erase the weakness.
“I thought I could fix it,” she said. “Because that’s what I do, right? I punch things until they break the way I want. Only this time I just broke you.”
The silence after that was thick and painful.
Caitlyn’s own hands had started to shake.
Not from the physio.
From the look on Vi’s face.
She’d seen Vi angry. Cocky. Drunk. Frustrated enough to pace a room like a caged thing. She had not seen her like this often—small, stripped bare, voice cracking around guilt heavy enough to crush her.
Slowly, like she was approaching a spooked animal, Caitlyn lifted one hand.
“Vi,” she said again. “Look at me.”
Vi did.
It nearly stole her breath.
Tears stood in the corners of Vi’s eyes, bright and furious, like she resented them for existing. Her mouth trembled once before she clamped it shut. Her shoulders were hunched, like she’d been bracing for a hit that never came.
“You did not lose me,” Caitlyn said.
The words surprised her as much as they did Vi.
“But I—”
“You did not lose me,” Caitlyn repeated, softer but firmer. “Not like that. Not forever.”
A tear finally escaped, tracking down Vi’s cheek. She inhaled sharply, almost angry.
“You don’t have to say that,” she muttered.
“I’m not saying it because I have to,” Caitlyn replied. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
Vi shook her head. “You don’t trust me.”
Caitlyn’s throat tightened. “I’m… afraid,” she admitted quietly. “Of what your choices might cost. Of what they’ve already cost. That’s different.”
“Feels the same,” Vi whispered.
She stepped closer.
She reached out, very carefully, and closed her fingers around Vi’s forearm.
It was the first time she’d touched her since before the break.
Vi froze.
“Listen to me,” Caitlyn said. “You didn’t plant those bombs. You didn’t orchestrate those attacks. You warned her last time because you couldn’t bear the thought of watching her in prison. I can’t forgive the consequences of that yet. I don’t know if I ever fully will.” She swallowed. “But I will not pretend you did it out of malice.”
Vi stared at her.
Another tear slid free. She let this one fall.
“What am I supposed to do, then?” she asked, hoarse. “Stand here while she tears your city apart? While she puts a gun to your mother’s head, again? I can’t keep pretending if I just drive fast enough it’ll go away.”
Caitlyn squeezed her arm gently.
“You won’t stand here,” she said. “You came. You told me. That matters.”
“Does it?” Vi asked. “Really? Can we do anything?”
Caitlyn glanced toward the dark window, mind already pulling threads together—security protocols, council movement patterns, her mother’s schedule.
“Yes,” she said. “We can.”
Vi inhaled shakily. “You have to warn her,” she said. “Your mother. The council. All of them. Tell them someone’s coming. Make them move carefully. Change routes. I don’t know. Something.”
“I will,” Caitlyn said.
“Promise me,” Vi whispered. “Please.”
Caitlyn’s fingers tightened just a fraction more around her arm.
“I promise,” she said.
Vi nodded, swallowing hard. “Good. That’s… that’s something, at least.”
She tried to pull back.
Caitlyn didn’t let go.
“Vi,” she said.
Vi blinked. “What?”
“We are not done,” Caitlyn said. “You don’t get to drop this on my lap and disappear into your garage again.”
Vi flinched. “I thought— I thought you didn’t want me near you anymore.”
Pain flickered through Caitlyn’s eyes. “I thought… keeping you away was safer. For everyone.”
“It probably is,” Vi said bitterly.
“Maybe,” Caitlyn allowed. “But here you are anyway.”
Her mouth twitched—something too small to be called a smile, but not nothing.
“We will figure it out,” she said quietly. “The council. Jinx. All of it.”
Vi let out a strangled breath. “You said ‘we.’”
“Yes,” Caitlyn said.
“That imply you trust me again?” Vi asked, half-hopeful, half-afraid.
Her gaze softened, just a fraction.
“Despite everything,” she said, “I still believe you would rather set yourself on fire than watch the people you love burn.”
Vi looked like she might fall apart.
Instead, she laughed once—broken, disbelieving.
“I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.
Caitlyn’s hand slid from her arm to her wrist, thumb resting over the fast, frantic beat there.
" Neither of us gets to undo what’s already been done.”
Her eyes held Vi’s, steady and unflinching.
“What we do get,” Caitlyn continued, “is a chance to decide what happens next.”
Vi swallowed, breathing hitching once.
Outside, the paddock lights hummed, oblivious.
Inside the small, dim room, with an ice pack forgotten on the floor and pain humming under both their skins, Vi finally let herself lean forward—just a little, just enough that their shoulders brushed.
Caitlyn didn’t pull away.
For the first time since everything had broken, the distance between them felt like something maybe could be crossed.
Not fixed.
Not forgiven.
But faced.
“We’ll figure it out, Vi,” Caitlyn said again, softer now, almost like a promise.
Vi closed her eyes.
And—for one fragile, terrifying moment—believed her.
Caitlyn’s fingers hovered over the contact list for a heartbeat.
Then she tapped Mother.
The line barely rang once.
“Caitlyn.” Cassandra’s voice came through crisp as cut glass, the faint murmur of other councilors and aides in the background. “Congratulations on the win.”
Caitlyn shut her eyes briefly. “Thank you.”
“You sounded strong on the radio,” Cassandra went on. “Your father cried.”
There was a muted protest in the background. Caitlyn’s mouth twitched.
“Exaggeration,” Tobias muttered faintly.
Caitlyn held onto that tiny warmth for half a second.
Then she let it go.
“Mother,” she said. “I don’t have much time. I received a call.”
Instant silence.
“What kind of call?” Cassandra asked. The shift in her tone was immediate—councilor now, not parent. “From whom?”
“I don’t know the number,” Caitlyn said. That, at least, was true. “But the voice was familiar. Connected to previous attacks.”
On the couch opposite her, Vi flinched. Caitlyn kept her gaze fixed on the far wall.
“Go on,” Cassandra said.
“She implied a new operation is being planned,” Caitlyn continued. Her voice was steady, clipped. “Specifically: the kidnapping of a council member. ‘Leverage’ was the word she used.”
There was a rustle on the other end—papers, perhaps, or someone turning to close a door.
“If this is a joke, Caitlyn—” Tobias started.
“It isn’t,” Caitlyn said quietly. “I wouldn’t be calling if it were.”
Cassandra exhaled, a long, thoughtful sound.
“Details?” she asked. “Timeframe? Targets?”
“No names mentioned,” Caitlyn said. “No locations. Just intent.”
“Source?” Cassandra pressed.
“I can’t disclose that,” Caitlyn replied, the lie smooth from years of political etiquette—but it tasted different now. “But I trust it.”
A pause.
“I see,” Cassandra said slowly. There was a faint creak, like she’d leaned back in a chair. “And you’re certain this isn’t… emotional coloring? You’re not mishearing something out of… personal involvement?”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.
“Mother,” she said softly. “I know the difference between paranoia and intelligence.”
On the couch, Vi’s eyes dropped to the floor.
Cassandra’s voice softened—minutely. “I know you do.”
In the background, someone asked Cassandra a question. She murmured something clipped in response, clearly dismissing them.
“All right,” she said. “We’ve already increased security post-explosion, but if there is any hint of another operation, we cannot take chances. I’ll speak to the Chief of Security. Routes will be changed, schedules staggered, non-essential engagements postponed.”
“Good,” Caitlyn said.
“Did this… caller,” Cassandra added delicately, “give any indication of motive? Demands?”
“The same as before,” Caitlyn said. “Punish Piltover. ‘Make the council listen.’”
Cassandra’s sigh was quiet, but heavy. “They never learn new language, do they? Only new methods.”
Caitlyn’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“Be careful,” she said.
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Cassandra replied. Then, softer: “Will you be all right? With this… hanging over you?”
Caitlyn hesitated.
The memory of her last two conversations with Vi sat like a stone in her lungs.
“Yes,” she said. “I will manage.”
“You always do,” Cassandra said. “I’ll send you confirmation once security is briefed. And Caitlyn?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” Cassandra said. No council title. No ice. Just that. “For calling.”
The line clicked.
Call ended.
Caitlyn lowered the phone slowly.
The room felt smaller when she wasn’t holding herself upright for someone else’s benefit. The edges blurred—not from tears, but from exhaustion. The adrenaline from the race had long since burned off; all that was left was pain and the thin, vibrating tension that came with bad news.
She let herself sit.
The couch dipped under her weight. Her shoulder protested; she adjusted automatically, drawing one leg up, bracing her arm against her knee.
Across from her, Vi watched like she was afraid any sudden move might shatter the moment.
The Caitlyn from the paddock interview—the one with the careful smile and polished answers, who’d moved past her as if they were colleagues and nothing more—was nowhere to be seen.
This Caitlyn looked like the one Vi remembered from hospital nights and quiet mornings.
Mouth pulled into that thin, thoughtful line she got when she’d been holding herself together for too long.
She stared at the phone in her hand for a moment.
Then at the floor.
Then, finally, at Vi.
“It’s done,” she said. “They’ll increase security. It won’t stop everything, but it will make an abduction harder.”
“Good,” Vi said.
Her voice sounded rough. She cleared her throat.
“You didn’t… mention me,” she added.
Caitlyn’s mouth twitched, some almost-humor that didn’t quite make it to her eyes.
“Did you want me to?” she asked.
Vi huffed a mirthless breath. “No. Guess not.”
“Until the council has proof,” Caitlyn said, “Jinx is just the face they’ve attached to their fear. They don’t know who she was before. They don’t know who she’s tied to. For now, that ignorance protects you.”
“Does it?” Vi asked quietly. “Feels like it just… delays the explosion.”
Caitlyn looked at her for a long, still moment.
“The longer you’re not a target,” she said, “the more room we have to move.”
Vi nodded.
Silence settled again, heavier now that the immediate crisis had been… contained, for the moment. Not solved. Just pushed back a few steps.
Caitlyn’s gaze dropped to her own hands.
They were trembling.
She flattened them against her knees, as if pinning them down.
Vi noticed.
“Your shoulder,” she said. “You should put the ice back on.”
Caitlyn’s answer was automatic. “I’m fine.”
The old refrain.
The one they both knew was a lie.
Vi almost smiled at the familiarity of it; it hurt too much to try.
“You’re not,” she said softly.
Caitlyn’s jaw worked once.
“No,” she admitted. “I’m not.”
The words were simple. Honest. Quiet.
They landed harder than shouting ever could.
Vi studied her. The way her shoulders were curled in toward herself just a fraction too much. The way her breaths came a touch too shallow. The way pain and control coexisted on her face like two sides of the same coin.
This was her Caitlyn.
Not the cold, untouchable champion from the press conference. Not the perfectly neutral rival from the podium.
This was the woman who'd kissed her in a hospital bed and tasted like relief and fear and everything Vi hadn’t had words for.
The woman who’d pulled away later, voice calm and eyes full of something that hurt worse than anger.
“Thank you,” Vi said suddenly.
Caitlyn blinked. “For what?”
“For believing me,” Vi said. “For calling your mom. For… not telling her it was me.”
Caitlyn’s mouth softened. Just slightly.
“It wasn’t a kindness,” she said. “It was strategy.”
Vi nodded once. “Sure.”
“But,” Caitlyn added, “you’re welcome.”
Her gaze lingered on Vi’s face—a fraction too long to be casual, a fraction too short to be comfortable.
Vi swallowed.
“The way you talked to me earlier,” she said, words slow, cautious, “after the race… you sounded like you’d already written me off.”
Caitlyn didn’t immediately deny it.
“That was unkind,” she said instead.
“Maybe,” Vi said. “But it was honest.”
A pause stretched between them.
Vi forced herself to meet her eyes.
“You said we’ll figure it out,” she went on. “Jinx. The council. All of this. You and me. But I can tell you’re still… somewhere else. With me.”
Caitlyn held her gaze for one heartbeat. Two.
Then she looked away.
“I am,” she said quietly.
The admission punched the air out of Vi’s lungs.
Caitlyn twisted her fingers together, detangling them as if she were reassembling some delicate mechanism.
“I’m still upset,” she added. “Not in the way I was before. Not with… heat. But with… caution.”
Vi’s hands tightened around the edge of the couch.
“Caution,” she echoed.
“My job,” Caitlyn said, “is to assess risk. To weigh outcomes. To decide what I can afford to lose, and what I absolutely cannot.”
She tried to smile. It came out thin.
“I miscalculated once,” she went on. “With you. I thought I understood where your lines were. Then I watched you move one of them in a way that could have costed me my mother.”
The words weren’t cruel.
They were gentle.
Somehow, that made them worse.
Vi’s eyes stung. “I know,” she said. “I hate me for it more than you ever could.”
Silence.
She exhaled, slow.
“But you came tonight,” Caitlyn said. “You could have stayed in your garage. You could have pretended you never picked up that phone. You didn’t.”
Her eyes flicked back up, blue and steady and so, so tired.
“That matters,” she said again. “It doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t restore what we had. But it… pushes against the version of you I was starting to fear you’d become.”
“The version where I’m just like Jinx,” Vi whispered.
Caitlyn’s expression flickered. “You’re not,” she said. “If you were, you wouldn’t be shaking right now.”
Vi let out a breath that almost, almost became a sob.
She swallowed it down.
“So where does that leave us?” she asked.
Caitlyn looked at her for a long time.
“Somewhere between,” she said. “Not what we were. Not what we were this afternoon.”
Her mouth curved, the smallest, saddest ghost of a smile.
“Somewhere I haven’t named yet,” she said. “Somewhere I’m not ready to trust fully. But also somewhere I’m no longer willing to lose you entirely.”
The words hit Vi like sunlight and cold water all at once.
It wasn’t a promise.
It wasn’t absolution.
But it was… something.
A foothold on a cliff she’d thought she’d already fallen from.
“Okay,” Vi said, voice wrecked and sincere. “Then I’ll stay there. As long as you need. As long as you let me.”
Caitlyn nodded, once.
Then her shoulder spasmed, pain lancing across her features before she could hide it.
Without thinking, Vi moved. “Ice,” she said. “Here—”
Caitlyn tensed, out of reflex more than rejection.
But she didn’t pull away when Vi stooped to pick up the fallen ice pack, sat beside her on the edge of the couch, and held it out.
Their fingers brushed.
Both of them went very still.
Caitlyn took the ice, placing it back over the bruised muscle with careful, practiced pressure.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Vi didn’t trust herself to speak.
She sat there, close but not touching, feeling the space between them shift by millimeters.
Not fixed.
Not safe.
But different.
Outside, the world still thought Caitlyn Kiramman and Violet had frozen over.
Inside this quiet, dim little room, something fragile and dangerous and necessary had started to thaw.
And even as Vi saw the distance still in Caitlyn’s eyes—the guard that didn’t drop, the hurt that didn’t vanish—she recognized something else beneath it:
Caitlyn hadn’t given up on her.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
The cabin lights were dimmed to a warm amber glow, the hum of the engines steady and low. Most of the Mercedes staff slept, curled into seats with blankets pulled up to their chins.
Caitlyn wasn’t sleeping.
She sat upright, posture as impeccable as ever, scrolling through telemetry on her datapad even though the numbers had blurred over ten minutes ago.
A soft thump sounded.
Maddie dropped into the seat beside her.
Not sitting — flopping — with the graceless confidence of someone who knew Caitlyn wouldn’t scold her.
“Okay,” Maddie whispered, dramatically wide-eyed. “You need to see this.”
Caitlyn lifted her gaze, calm and mild. “See what?”
“This.” Maddie turned her screen.
Tweets.
Hundreds of them.
#CaitViColdWar
#WhatHappenedLastSeason
#KirammanWhereIsTheWarmth
#ViLooksHeartbroken
#CaitlynIsDifferent
Caitlyn blinked slowly, absorbing the words without reacting.
“They’re worried,” Maddie murmured. “About you two.”
Caitlyn’s eyes softened—not in embarrassment, not in amusement, but in a deeper kind of tiredness.
“They always speculate,” she said quietly. “It’s their job.”
Maddie exhaled sharply through her nose. “This isn’t speculation, Cait. It’s an investigation. People noticed the podium today. You two didn’t even look at each other. Not once.”
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t crack.
“I’m aware.”
“And… you don’t want to comment?”
Caitlyn shook her head, elegant, composed. “There’s nothing to comment on.”
Maddie stared at her. “Caitlyn. Come on. You two were—last season you were closer than teammates on the same team. Now it’s like you’re strangers.”
Caitlyn’s fingers stilled on the datapad.
Her voice stayed steady.
“I’d rather we changed the subject.”
“Caitlyn—”
“Maddie,” she said gently, but firmly, “please.”
The softness in her tone made the boundary even clearer.
Maddie leaned back, blanket tugged around her waist. “…Alright. Dropping it.”
A few seconds passed.
Then her voice dropped further, almost hesitant.
“But… for what it’s worth? You don’t seem like yourself.”
Caitlyn’s eyes drifted toward the window. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. I mean—there’s always been walls. You’re you. But lately?” Maddie frowned. “It feels like there’s something colder behind them. Something sharper.”
Caitlyn blinked.
Not offended.
Not surprised.
Just reflective.
“A lot happened, ” she murmured. “The crash. The political unrest in Piltover. Council tensions. My mother’s situation. My recovery. It would be strange if I wasn’t… changed.”
Maddie hesitated. “Is that all it is?”
Caitlyn looked at her then—really looked—blue eyes calm and unreadable in that way that could either soothe or terrify.
“Maddie,” she said softly, “I am doing the best I can. That is all.”
“But it scares me,” Maddie whispered before she could stop herself. “Seeing you like this. So controlled. So closed off. Like you’ve locked something away and swallowed the key.”
Caitlyn didn’t move.
Didn’t tense.
Didn’t flinch.
She only lowered her gaze a fraction, lashes brushing her cheek like a curtain falling.
“I assure you,” she said gently, “there is nothing to be afraid of.”
Maddie swallowed. “I don’t mean I’m scared of you. I mean I’m scared for you.”
Caitlyn’s breath stilled for a moment.
Barely noticeable.
Almost imagined.
Then she offered Maddie a small, polite smile.
The kind that meant: Thank you for your concern.
The kind that meant: This conversation is over.
The kind that meant: You will get nothing more from me.
“I’m fine,” she said softly. “Truly.”
Maddie held her gaze another second, searching for something—anything—behind that calm mask.
She found nothing.
And that frightened her more than anything else.
The Thursday interviews ended with the usual whirlwind of cameras and clipped questions, but Vi barely heard any of it anymore. Maddie talked excitedly about being Caitlyn’s teammate; Viktor gave a dry, witty prediction for the weekend.
Then the question Vi had been dreading hit.
“So, Vi — fans noticed you and Caitlyn Kiramman haven’t been seen together this season. Everything okay between you two?”
A thousand memories crashed into her — the kiss, the hospital, the way Caitlyn used to soften just by looking at her.
Now?
She forced a small, professional smile.
“Our dynamic on track hasn’t changed,” she replied. “We race hard. That’s the job.”
Her chest tightened in a way she couldn’t hide.
The conference ended. Drivers scattered. PR handlers swarmed.
Vi hopped down from the stage—
And froze.
Caitlyn was there.
Waiting.
Silver Mercedes shirt, cap low, arms loosely folded. She wasn’t glaring. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t anything she used to be.
“Vi,” Caitlyn said quietly.
The name landed gently… too gently.
“Cait?” Vi breathed.
“Do you have a moment?” Caitlyn asked. “For a coffee.”
Vi blinked.
Coffee?
After months of distance? After their cold conversation post-Melbourne?
“…Yeah. Sure.”
They walked side-by-side in silence. Not close enough to brush arms. Not far enough to feel like strangers.
Just… tense.
Caitlyn ordered for both of them — two black coffees — sliding one to Vi with a gesture so familiar it hurt.
They sat at a small table outside, fans murmuring in the distance.
Caitlyn didn’t speak at first.
She just stared at her cup like it was easier to talk to than Vi.
Finally:
“There are rumors circulating,” she began. “Some articles. Threads. People speculating about tension between us.”
Vi exhaled slowly. “Okay… and?”
“It reflects poorly on the sport,” Caitlyn continued calmly. “On the teams. On you. Being seen together will help contain the narrative.”
Vi blinked, confused. “Wait. So this—coffee—is damage control?”
Caitlyn hesitated only half a second.
“Yes.”
Something in Vi’s face crumpled.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for Caitlyn to notice.
“So that’s it?” Vi whispered. “You asked me here to fix a rumor?”
“It’s important,” Caitlyn said, tone gentle but unwavering. “Especially after… everything during the break.”
“The drinking?” Vi scoffed bitterly. “The fighting? The tabloids?”
Caitlyn didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny.
Just lowered her eyes.
Vi laughed once — humorless. “Damn. I actually thought you wanted to talk to me.”
“I am talking to you,” Caitlyn said softly.
“No. You’re handling me.”
Vi’s voice cracked.
“You didn’t even ask how I’ve been.”
Caitlyn froze. Just for a breath.
Then she regrouped — the way she always did.
“Vi…” she began carefully, “I didn’t think you wanted that from me anymore.”
Vi’s voice broke open, wounded.
“How could you think that? After everything—”
“Because you disappeared,” Caitlyn said suddenly.
Vi stopped breathing.
Caitlyn’s tone had not changed — still quiet, polite, calm — but her words had an edge Vi had never heard from her before.
“You disappeared,” Caitlyn repeated, eyes on her coffee, not daring to lift them. “After the hospital… after our last conversation… after everything that happened… you vanished.”
“I— I didn’t know how to face you,” Vi whispered. “I broke your trust—”
“And then you made no effort to fix it.”
Vi recoiled as if slapped.
Caitlyn wasn’t angry.
That made it worse.
Her voice stayed unbearably soft.
“I spent weeks recovering,” she continued. “In physical pain I couldn’t escape. In a body that didn’t feel like mine. I couldn’t lift my arm. I couldn’t sleep. Some days I couldn’t draw a full breath without feeling something tear inside.”
Vi’s eyes filled immediately.
Caitlyn pressed on, measured, composed.
“And while I was learning how to stand without shaking… you were in tabloids. Drunk. Bruised. In fights. Falling apart somewhere I couldn’t reach you.”
Vi’s voice cracked like glass.
“I was ashamed. Caitlyn, I— I didn’t know how to come back.”
“You didn’t try.”
Still soft. Still calm.
But devastating.
“That isn’t fair,” Vi whispered, shaking. “I was drowning. I didn’t know how to face you after—”
“After you warned Jinx,” Caitlyn finished gently.
Vi shut her eyes.
Caitlyn finally looked up — and the hurt there was so controlled, so buried, Vi almost missed it.
“You think it’s only about trust,” Caitlyn said quietly. “But it isn’t.”
“What else is it, then?” Vi whispered.
Caitlyn hesitated.
She never opened up easily.
Not about her feelings.
Not about pain.
But Vi pushed again.
“Tell me,” she begged. “Please.”
Caitlyn inhaled shakily.
Then — slowly, reluctantly — she let the truth bleed through.
“I was alone, Vi.”
Vi’s breath shattered.
“I kept thinking you might call,” Caitlyn said. “Just once. To ask if I was okay. To say something. Anything.”
She looked straight at Vi.
“But you didn’t. Not once.”
“Cait—”
“And I told myself I had no right to expect that from you after our last conversation,” Caitlyn said, voice trembling despite her best effort. “That you had your own pain to deal with. Your own demons. But it didn’t make it hurt less.”
Vi’s voice broke open, raw. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”
Caitlyn held up a gentle hand.
“It isn’t about blame,” she whispered. “It’s about… what it changed. In me. In us.”
Vi felt something cold settle in her stomach.
Caitlyn looked down again — as if ashamed of the next words.
“I lost myself, Vi. During that break. In pain. In fear. In loneliness."
Vi was shaking now.
“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”
Caitlyn exhaled, trembling. “I don’t know how to let myself be vulnerable with you again. I want to. I just… can’t. Not yet.”
Silence crushed the table between them.
Finally, Vi whispered:
“I thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“I wanted to heal,” Caitlyn said softly. “I’m still trying.”
Vi swallowed a sob. “And me? What am I supposed to do?”
Caitlyn looked at her — heartbroken, and trying not to show it.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly.
Vi stood abruptly, blinking away tears.
“So we’re just going to sit here,” she said hoarsely, “as… what? Teammates from different teams? Colleagues? Rumor control?”
Caitlyn flinched.
But her answer was quiet, devastating:
“I don’t know what we are anymore.”
Vi closed her eyes like the world spun.
“Then I’ll stop trying,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Because I clearly make things worse.”
She turned to leave.
But Caitlyn whispered—too late, too soft:
“Vi… please don’t go like this.”
Vi didn’t look back.
She walked away, trembling, wiping tears she hated herself for shedding.
Caitlyn watched her disappear into the paddock crowd.
And only when Vi was completely gone did her composure crack — shoulders folding in, breath shaking, one hand pressing over her ribs like something inside her had reopened and started bleeding again.
Free Practice 1:
The session clock blinked from 60:00 to 59:59.
Engines ignited across the pit lane, a rising chorus of violence.
Mechanics scattered.
Cameras swung into place.
But two cars—two drivers—weren’t ready.
Not really.
Not at all.
When Caitlyn lowered her visor, the world fell into that narrow strip of reality she trusted most: asphalt, curbing, trajectory, speed.
But her pulse was wrong.
Too fast.
Too uneven.
Too familiar.
Rhea’s voice filtered into her helmet.
“Alright Cait, systems green. Release when you’re ready.”
Release.
A simple word for something catastrophic inside her.
She hit the throttle.
Harder than intended.
The Mercedes shot out of the garage with a violent bite of torque that startled even the pit crew.
“Easy,” Rhea warned.
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
She was already gone.
---
Turn 1 — Too Late
She braked late.
Too late.
The car shook as she forced it into the apex, wheels screaming, telemetry spiking red across the screens back in the garage.
“Caitlyn?” Rhea had gone from calm to sharp. “You overshot entry by six meters—what’s happening?”
“Correcting,” Caitlyn said, voice icy, clinical, devoid of emotion.
She wasn’t correcting.
She was fighting.
Her vision flickered—just once—and she saw the wall from her crash.
Not in memory.
Not in abstraction.
She felt it.
Metal folding.
Her ribs going numb.
The moment the world tilted and she didn’t know if she’d get it back.
She inhaled through clenched teeth.
Focus.
Sector 1 lit up purple.
Sector 2 turned purple again.
Sector 3?
Purple.
Fastest driver on track.
Fastest by half a second.
Fast—but wrong.
Her lines were jagged.
Her risk-taking was erratic.
Her steering corrections were too aggressive.
“Caitlyn, slow entry into Turn 9,” Rhea instructed tightly. “You’re overdriving.”
“I’m maximizing grip.”
“No, you’re bullying the car,” Rhea snapped. “Dial it back.”
Caitlyn ignored her.
She threw herself into Turn 11 with a bravery that wasn’t bravery anymore—just a refusal to feel anything but the speed.
And speed answered.
She went faster.
Faster.
The car tremored beneath her hands, the steering wheel vibrating against the faint tremor she couldn’t control.
Her iris flickered again—
—sparks—
—snowblind light—
—the cockpit tilting—
—the wall rushing—
She blinked.
The world snapped back into place.
She forced the wheel straight.
Forced her breathing steady.
Forced everything.
“Caitlyn BOX. Now.”
Rhea’s tone cut through the helmet, sharp enough to draw blood.
“You’re shaking on the input data—box. NOW.”
Caitlyn didn’t respond.
She kept driving.
Purple sector.
Purple sector.
Purple again.
Like the world was bending around her grief instead of the other way around.
“Caitlyn, if you don’t box I swear—”
“I’m finishing the lap,” she said, voice flat as steel.
The lap ended.
Fastest time of the session.
Fastest by far.
It didn’t matter.
She kept driving.
One more lap.
Then another.
Memory nipped at her heels like wolves.
Hospital lights.
Physiotherapy pain.
Loneliness that tasted like metal.
And Vi’s face when she walked away hours earlier.
She doesn't get out of the car.
When the checkered flag ended FP1, every other driver returned to the pits.
Except Caitlyn.
Her car rolled to a stop.
But she didn’t move.
She sat inside the cockpit, helmet still on, hands shaking faintly around the wheel.
Her breath fogged the visor.
Rhea stood outside the car, watching her.
She didn’t tap the halo.
Didn’t rush her.
She just waited.
Like someone waiting for a friend to breathe again after almost drowning.
Vi couldn’t feel her hands.
Not physically.
Just… emotionally.
The inside of her cockpit felt like an empty room she was rattling around in, unable to settle, unable to care enough to push, unable to hurt less if she slowed down.
Her engineer checked in.
“Vi, warm up tires, give me a push lap.”
“Mhm.”
“Copy… is that a yes?”
“Yeah.”
It wasn’t.
She took Turn 3 wide by a criminal margin.
Ran over the curb so violently the floor scraped.
Her pace?
Seconds off.
Not tenths.
Whole seconds.
“Vi, what’s going on?”
“You’re off balance.”
“Talk to me.”
She didn’t.
Because she couldn’t.
Her mind kept replaying Caitlyn’s words:
“You didn’t try.”
“You disappeared.”
“I was alone.”
And Vi’s heart cracked a little more each time.
She clipped the grass on the exit of Turn 8.
Corrected late.
Nearly spun.
Nadia's voice rose instantly.
“VIOLET. WATCH YOUR INPUTS—”
“I know,” she snapped.
Silence followed.
Not angry.
Just… hurt.
Vi swallowed hard.
Then blew Turn 14 so wide she missed the apex completely.
Her time placed her P19.
She didn’t even react.
When the checkered flag waved, Vi rolled into the garage like a ghost.
She didn’t throw her gloves.
Didn’t curse.
Didn’t blame the car.
She just… sat there.
Helmet still on.
Hands limp on her lap.
Mechanics exchanged glances but didn’t approach.
Her engineer opened his mouth to speak—
Then closed it again.
Because Vi didn’t look angry.
She looked miserable.
Devastated, but silent.
Like she had run out of ways to apologize in her own head.
Caitlyn eventually climbed out of the car, slow, methodical.
Her legs were stiff.
Her hands still shaking.
Vi stepped out of her garage at the same moment.
They froze in opposite doorways.
Just like in Australia.
Except worse.
Because now they knew exactly how deep the fracture ran.
Caitlyn lowered her gaze.
Vi lowered hers.
No greeting.
No nod.
No acknowledgment.
Just two women walking away from each other because looking—
just looking—
hurt too much.
Notes:
I just wanted to say thank you. Your love, your comments, your theories — they’re the reason this story keeps growing. I really couldn’t leave you all hanging, not when your support means this much.
I hope this chapter touched you the way your reactions always touch me. Please keep sharing your thoughts, your interpretations, your feelings… I read everything, and your input truly shapes this world. And if there’s anything you'd like to see — a moment, a confrontation, a soft scene, a painful one — just tell me. I’ll try my best to bring it to life.
Chapter 18: Chapter 18
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Caitlyn knew Vi’s driving the way other people knew weather.
It wasn’t in the lap times—those came later. It was in the way Vi placed the car. The way she didn’t lean on the rear like she normally did, didn’t flirt with the limits. Vi always flirted with the limits.
Now she was cautious.
Caitlyn stood behind the Mercedes monitors, hands folded neatly in front of her, posture perfect enough to fool anyone who didn’t know her. The screen showed Vi entering Turn 6 a fraction early, lifting when she never lifted, letting momentum bleed away like she didn’t trust herself to take it back.
“That’s not her,” Rhea said quietly beside her.
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
Purple flashed on Caitlyn’s own sector times. Her lap was clean. Sharp. Aggressive. Wrong in a different way.
Vi’s next lap dropped again. Pushing, then backing off. A car driven by someone whose mind was somewhere else.
And Caitlyn knew exactly where that somewhere else was.
This is my fault, she thought—not for the first time, not even the tenth.
She had been so careful. So controlled. She’d told herself that distance was necessary, that silence was cleaner than confusion.
But watching Vi now—watching her unravel quietly, politely, like she didn’t want to inconvenience anyone with her pain—Caitlyn felt something twist low in her chest.
FP1 ended. Cars rolled back into the pit lane.
Caitlyn barely noticed her own session. She noticed Vi stepping out of the Red Bull garage, helmet under her arm, shoulders tight. Vi didn’t look toward Mercedes. Didn’t hesitate.
That hurt more than she expected.
Before she could overthink it, Caitlyn moved.
When FP1 ended, Caitlyn watched Vi climb out of the car without so much as a glance toward Mercedes. No anger. No defiance.
Just absence.
That was worse.
Caitlyn hesitated. She shouldn’t do this. She knew that. But letting the distance calcify again felt unbearable.
She found Vi near the paddock barrier, helmet resting beside her boots, elbows braced on the railing like she was holding herself upright by force alone.
“Vi.”
Vi stopped.
She didn’t turn right away. Just stood there, back rigid, like the word itself weighed something.
“…Caitlyn,” she said eventually.
Caitlyn approached slowly, stopping a careful distance away. Close enough to speak. Far enough not to corner her.
“I watched your session,” Caitlyn said.
Vi let out a short breath. “Yeah? Congrats on purple sectors.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Vi finally turned.
Her expression wasn’t angry. That somehow made it worse. She looked tired. Guarded. Like someone braced for disappointment rather than a fight.
“What do you want, Caitlyn?” Vi asked.
The directness stung, but Caitlyn didn’t flinch.
“I wanted to apologize,” she said quietly. “For the coffee. For the way I handled it.”
Vi’s jaw tightened. “You mean the PR stunt.”
Caitlyn nodded. “Yes.”
Silence stretched.
Vi looked away first. “Okay.”
It wasn’t acceptance. It was permission to continue.
“I didn’t realize at the time how dismissive it would feel,” Caitlyn went on. “I was focused on damage control. I didn’t consider how it would land with you.”
Vi laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. You’re good at not letting things land.”
Caitlyn absorbed that without defense.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
Vi studied her for a moment, eyes searching Caitlyn’s face like she was trying to find the version of her she used to know.
“Is that all?” Vi asked.
“No,” Caitlyn said softly. “You weren’t yourself out there.”
Vi’s shoulders tensed. “Don’t.”
“I’m not criticizing your driving,” Caitlyn said quickly. “I’m… concerned.”
Vi scoffed.
“You’ve every right to be upset with me.”
Vi turned fully toward her now. “You don’t get to say that like it fixes things.”
“I know.”
The honesty disarmed her a little.
“You told me I disappeared,” Vi said. “That I didn’t make any effort after the hospital.”
Caitlyn nodded. “That’s how it felt.”
Vi swallowed. Her voice dropped. “Because I thought you made it clear you didn’t want me there.”
Caitlyn frowned. “I never said—”
“You didn’t have to,” Vi interrupted. “You were calm. Cold. You told me I broke your trust. You looked at me like I was a liability.”
That memory still burned.
“I was in pain,” Caitlyn said quietly. “And frightened. And angry.”
“I know,” Vi said. “But I was ashamed.”
She exhaled, shaky. “I broke your trust. I couldn’t stand the idea of looking you in the eye and seeing that again. So I stayed away.”
Caitlyn’s fingers curled slowly at her sides.
“I wanted to be there,” Vi continued. “Every physio session. Every night you couldn’t sleep. But I kept thinking—she doesn’t want me here. She’s better off without me complicating things.”
“That wasn’t true,” Caitlyn said.
Vi shook her head. “It felt true.”
The words landed heavy.
“I was already tearing myself apart over Jinx,” Vi went on. “Over everything she’s done, everything I failed to stop. Over your crash. Trying to protect me.”
Her voice cracked despite her effort to keep it steady.
“You got hurt because of my mess. And I didn’t know how to live with that.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught. “Vi—”
“I spiraled,” Vi admitted. “I drank. I fought. I let myself fall apart because it felt like punishment I deserved.”
Caitlyn looked at her, really looked at her, and understood too late what that silence had cost.
“I didn’t reach out either,” Caitlyn said slowly. “Because I thought if I did… you’d come back before I was ready to face you.”
Vi’s eyes flashed. “So we both waited.”
“Yes,” Caitlyn whispered.
“And somehow,” Vi said bitterly, “that turned into you thinking I didn’t care enough to try.”
Caitlyn swallowed hard. “It hurt. Seeing the tabloids. Knowing you were hurting.”
Vi's jaw tightened “I didn’t think I deserved you.”
That confession hung between them, fragile and sharp.
Caitlyn stepped a fraction closer. “I never wanted you to disappear.”
Vi laughed softly. “Then you shouldn’t have treated me like a rumor you needed to manage.”
The words weren’t cruel. They were exhausted.
“I see that now,” Caitlyn said. “And I’m sorry.”
Vi looked at her for a long moment, eyes wet but steady.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Vi said. “One minute you’re distant, the next you’re worried. You can’t keep reaching for me and pushing me away at the same time.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes briefly. “This is not easy, Vi."
“I know but i'm the one getting cut,” Vi replied.
Silence.
“I can’t do this halfway anymore,” Vi said quietly. “I can’t keep guessing whether I’m welcome or just… tolerated.”
Caitlyn’s voice was barely audible. “I don't know what to do. This is not only about us now."
Vi nodded, like she’d expected that answer.
“Then I need to step back,” Vi said. “Because staying this close hurts more than being away.”
Caitlyn felt something in her chest fracture—not break, not explode, just… crack.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she said.
“I know,” Vi replied. “But you did.”
She took a step back, creating distance Caitlyn didn’t try to close.
“Take care of yourself, Caitlyn.”
“Vi—”
Vi shook her head gently. “Not today.”
And she walked away, leaving Caitlyn standing there with the echo of her own restraint, finally understanding that silence could wound just as deeply as betrayal.
From the monitors behind her, Vi’s name sat low on the timing screens.
Caitlyn stared at it, guilt heavy and unavoidable, knowing she’d asked Vi to be patient—
without ever asking how much patience was costing her.
The motorhome was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind—nothing ever was, not lately—but the hollow kind. The kind that pressed in on Vi’s ears until her own breathing sounded too loud, too sharp, like she was intruding on her own space.
She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, elbows on her knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. Her race suit lay discarded on the floor where she’d kicked it off hours ago. She hadn’t bothered to shower. The smell of rubber and sweat clung to her skin like proof she’d still existed earlier that day.
She kept seeing Caitlyn walking away.
Not angry. Not cold.
Just… done.
Her phone buzzed.
Vi didn’t look at it at first. She just stared at the floor, willing the vibration to stop, to leave her alone like everything else had.
It buzzed again.
Then again.
“Fuck,” she muttered hoarsely, snatching it up.
Ekko.
She answered without a greeting.
“Vi,” Ekko said. He sounded breathless. Not panicked—but tense, like he was holding something sharp and didn’t know how to set it down safely. “You sitting?”
Vi frowned. “Yeah. Why?”
There was a pause on the line. Too long.
“Ekko,” she said. “What happened?”
Another pause. Shorter this time. Like he’d decided there was no good way to say it.
“They got her,” he said quietly.
Vi’s brain stalled. “Got who?”
“…Jinx.”
The word hit her like a physical blow.
Vi inhaled sharply, like the air had been knocked out of her lungs. “What do you mean, they got her?”
“She tried something,” Ekko said. “Councilor convoy. Snatch-and-run. Enforcers were already tight after the last attack. She didn’t even get close.”
Vi’s vision blurred at the edges.
“She’s alive,” Ekko added quickly. “She fought like hell, but—yeah. She’s alive.”
Vi let out a broken sound that wasn’t relief. It wasn’t grief either.
It was guilt—pure and suffocating.
“This is my fault,” she whispered.
“Vi—”
“No,” Vi said, voice cracking hard now. “This is my fault. I warned Caitlyn. Caitlyn warned her mother. Security got tighter.”
Her hands started shaking. She pressed them together, but it didn’t help.
“I pushed her,” Vi went on, words tumbling out like she couldn’t stop them. “I backed her into a corner. I thought—if I told Caitlyn, if I did the right thing for once—”
Her voice collapsed completely.
“I did this.”
Ekko didn’t interrupt. He let the silence stretch, heavy and deliberate, like he knew Vi needed to hear herself say it.
Finally, he said gently, “You didn’t put a gun in her hand.”
“I betrayed her by helping Piltover close in.”
She covered her face with her hands, shoulders curling inward.
“She’s my sister,” Vi choked. “And I handed her over.”
Ekko’s voice softened. “You tried to stop her from hurting people.”
“And I failed,” Vi said. “I failed everyone. Her. Caitlyn. Myself.”
She slid off the bed, knees hitting the floor as her strength gave out. She didn’t remember deciding to move—only the sudden, cold press of carpet beneath her palms.
“I ruined everything,” she whispered. “Caitlyn was right to walk away. I break things. I always do.”
The tears came hard now, violent and uncontrollable. Her chest heaved like she was trying to outrun something inside herself and couldn’t.
Ekko was there moments later—she didn’t remember unlocking the door, didn’t remember hearing him come in. She just felt a presence drop down beside her, solid and familiar.
“Hey,” he murmured, crouching in front of her. “Hey. Look at me.”
She didn’t.
He didn’t force her.
Vi broke completely.
She cried into his shoulder, fists clutching his jacket like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her breath hitched, sobs tearing out of her in jagged pieces.
“I tried so hard,” she gasped. “I tried to be better.”
“I know,” Ekko said quietly, one hand steady between her shoulder blades. “I know you did.”
“She’s going to hate me,” Vi whispered. “Both of them.”
Ekko rested his chin against the top of her head. “Jinx made her choices. Caitlyn made hers. And you—” He pulled back just enough to look at her. “You chose to protect people, even when it cost you everything.”
Vi shook her head weakly. “Doesn’t feel like protection.”
“No,” Ekko agreed softly. “It feels like loss.”
They stayed like that for a long time—Vi crying herself empty, Ekko holding her without judgment, without trying to fix what couldn’t be fixed.
Outside, the paddock lights glowed bright and indifferent.
Somewhere else, Jinx sat behind reinforced walls.
And somewhere across the circuit, Caitlyn Kiramman slept with the weight of choices pressing just as hard on her chest—never knowing that, at that exact moment, Vi was on the floor, shattered by the belief that loving too fiercely had finally destroyed everything she touched.
The call woke her.
Not the shrill kind—the kind that vibrated once, insistently, against the nightstand, like it already knew it wouldn’t be ignored.
Caitlyn reached for her phone before she was fully awake. One look at the screen made her sit up despite the protest from her ribs.
Mother.
“Mother?” she said, voice still rough with sleep.
“Caitlyn,” Cassandra said. No preamble. No pleasantries. That alone set her nerves on edge. “Are you aware of the events that occurred last night?”
Caitlyn’s grip tightened around the phone. “No. What happened?”
“They arrested her,” Cassandra said.
The words landed clean and brutal.
Caitlyn drew a sharp breath. “Who?”
“Jinx.”
Silence flooded Caitlyn’s ears. For a moment, she could hear nothing but her own pulse, loud and uneven.
“When?” she asked finally.
“Shortly after midnight,” Cassandra replied. “She attempted to abduct one of the councilors during a routine transit. Enforcers intercepted her before she could move the target. She is in custody.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes.
Relief came first—hot and overwhelming—followed immediately by something colder, heavier. The image of Vi rose unbidden in her mind: the way her hands shook, the way guilt hollowed her eyes when she talked about her sister.
Alive, Caitlyn reminded herself. Jinx is alive.
“And Vi?” she asked quietly.
There was a pause on the line.
“Vi is not implicated,” Cassandra said carefully. “At least not officially.”
Caitlyn exhaled, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in her chest. “You said ‘at least.’”
“Yes,” Cassandra acknowledged. “Because this brings me to the reason for this call.”
Caitlyn straightened instinctively, the pain in her shoulder flaring and then dulling as she forced herself to stay still.
“Caitlyn,” Cassandra said, and now there was something sharper in her voice, something dangerously close to personal, “did you know that Violet and Jinx—formerly known as Powder—are sisters?”
The question sliced through her.
“Yes,” Caitlyn answered without hesitation.
Another silence—longer this time.
“You knew,” Cassandra repeated.
“Yes,” Caitlyn said again. Calm. Steady. “I’ve known for some time.”
“And you chose not to tell me,” Cassandra said.
“I chose not to weaponize it,” Caitlyn replied.
Her mother inhaled slowly on the other end of the line.
“You understand the implications of that decision,” Cassandra said. “Politically. Publicly.”
“I do,” Caitlyn replied. “And I would make the same decision again.”
Cassandra’s voice cooled. “You are asking me to believe that the champion driver of Red Bull, with her public record of volatility, has no involvement—direct or indirect—in the actions of the most wanted criminal in Zaun. A criminal who happens to share her blood.”
“I’m asking you to believe the truth,” Caitlyn said. “Vi is not Jinx. She never has been.”
“And yet,” Cassandra countered, “she warned her before an arrest. She interfered. I have eyes everywhere, Caitlyn."
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “She tried to save her sister from being brutalized by a system that has never treated Zaun fairly. That does not make her complicit in Jinx’s crimes.”
“It makes her dangerously conflicted,” Cassandra said.
“Yes,” Caitlyn agreed. “It does. And that conflict has cost her more than you realize.”
Cassandra didn’t interrupt.
Caitlyn continued, voice soft but unyielding. “Vi came to me to warn Piltover. She came to me because she knew something was coming. She tried to stop this.”
“And failed to do that the first time.” Cassandra said.
“So did everyone else,” Caitlyn replied. “Including the council.”
That earned her another pause.
“You are defending her,” Cassandra said slowly. “Very fiercely.”
“I am telling you who she is,” Caitlyn said. “Not who it’s convenient to make her.”
Cassandra exhaled. “If this connection becomes public, Caitlyn—”
“She will lose everything,” Caitlyn finished. “Her career. Her freedom. Her chance at a life that isn’t defined by her sister’s destruction.”
“And you believe that’s unjust,” Cassandra said.
“Yes,” Caitlyn said immediately. “I believe it would be cruel.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and loaded.
“When did you learn the truth?” Cassandra asked again, more quietly this time.
“Since last season. ” Caitlyn answered.
“And knowing that,” Cassandra said, “you still trusted her.”
“Yes.”
“And after everything that followed?” Cassandra pressed. “After you nearly died. After I was injured.”
Caitlyn’s voice wavered—just barely. “Yes.”
Another breath on the other end of the line. Slower now. Heavier.
“You are asking me to protect Violet,” Cassandra said. “To suppress information that would be… politically advantageous.”
“I’m asking you to protect someone who did the right thing for the wrong reasons and is paying for it anyway,” Caitlyn replied. “Someone who warned us. Someone who did not run.”
Cassandra was quiet for a long time.
When she spoke again, the steel had softened—but only slightly.
“I will not disclose the familial connection,” she said. “Not now.”
Caitlyn’s chest loosened just enough for her to breathe. “Thank you.”
“This will not be easy,” Cassandra continued. “There will be pressure. Leaks. Questions I cannot permanently deflect.”
“I know,” Caitlyn said. “But even time helps.”
“Yes,” Cassandra agreed. “Time helps.”
Another pause.
“Does Violet know?” Cassandra asked.
“I dont think so,” Caitlyn said.
“Then you should tell her,” Cassandra said. “She deserves to hear it from someone she trusts.”
Caitlyn swallowed. “I will.”
Cassandra hesitated, then added, “You’ve put yourself in a difficult position, Caitlyn.”
“I know,” Caitlyn said quietly.
“But,” Cassandra continued, “you’ve always had an unfortunate tendency to do that for people you care about.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes.
The call ended.
She remained sitting there, phone still warm in her hand, the weight of everything pressing down on her at once.
Jinx was arrested.
The immediate danger was over.
But Vi—
Caitlyn pressed her thumb to the screen, opening her contacts.
Vi’s name sat there, unchanged.
She didn’t hesitate this time.
Whatever distance existed between them—whatever hurt, whatever walls—this was something Vi needed to hear from her.
And Caitlyn would not let her face it alone.
Caitlyn stood outside Vi’s door longer than she should have.
The corridor was quiet in that late-night way—lights dimmed, carpet swallowing sound, the paddock finally asleep after a day that had taken more than it gave. She could hear movement inside the room. A chair scraping. Footsteps. Vi was there.
Alive. Breathing. Hurting.
Caitlyn lifted her hand and knocked.
Once. Soft.
Nothing.
She swallowed and tried again, firmer this time. “Vi,” she called, keeping her voice low. Controlled. “It’s me.”
Silence pressed back at her.
“I know you’re in there,” Caitlyn said, quieter now. “Please… open the door.”
Her shoulder throbbed as she leaned closer, forehead nearly touching the wood. She hated that this—standing outside, asking to be let in—felt harder than any debrief, any race start, any recovery milestone.
“I’m not here to argue,” she added. “I just need to talk to you. About Jinx. About… everything.”
Still nothing.
The quiet inside wasn’t empty. It was thick. Intentional.
Caitlyn closed her eyes, breath catching just slightly. “Vi, please. You shouldn’t hear this alone.”
For a moment—just a moment—she thought she heard something shift on the other side of the door. A breath. A muffled sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob.
Then footsteps approached from behind her.
“Hey.”
Caitlyn turned.
Ekko stood a few feet down the hall, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, expression tired in the way of someone who’d been holding the line for hours. He glanced once at the door, then back at her, and the understanding in his eyes made Caitlyn’s chest tighten.
“She’s not gonna open it,” he said gently.
Caitlyn straightened. “She needs to know.”
“She knows,” Ekko replied. “Enforcers didn’t exactly do this quietly.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “Then she needs someone with her.”
Ekko shook his head, slow and careful. “She needs space.”
The word landed hard.
“I’m not trying to push,” Caitlyn said. “I just—” Her voice faltered, just slightly. She steadied it.
Ekko studied her for a moment. Really studied her.
“I know,” he said. “And I’m not saying you did anything wrong.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But Vi’s been carrying this for a long time. Guilt stacked on guilt. Tonight just… tipped it.”
Caitlyn looked back at the door. At the barrier she couldn’t cross.
“She thinks she deserves this,” Ekko continued quietly. “Every bad thing. Every consequence. She’s in that headspace where letting people in feels like cheating.”
Caitlyn’s fingers curled at her side. “I never wanted her to feel alone.”
“I know,” Ekko said. “But she feels like she lost you already. And right now, seeing you might make that worse.”
Caitlyn’s throat tightened. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.”
“I know that too,” Ekko said softly. “But Vi doesn’t. Not tonight.”
Silence stretched between them.
Caitlyn rested her palm against the door one last time—light, reverent, like touching something fragile through glass.
“Vi,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I’m here. When you’re ready.”
No answer came.
Ekko placed a hand gently on Caitlyn’s arm. Not to stop her—but to ground her. “Come on,” he said. “Let her breathe.”
Caitlyn hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded.
She stepped back.
The distance felt wrong immediately—like leaving someone behind in a burning room even when you know there’s no way back in without making it worse.
As she turned away, the door remained closed.
But behind it, Vi was listening.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
FP2 began the way Caitlyn had learned to hide things best: with routine.
Helmet on. Gloves tight. Visor down.
But her eyes kept drifting.
Every time the Mercedes rolled down the pit lane, every time she slowed at the end of an out-lap, her gaze cut left—toward the Red Bull garage. Toward flashes of navy and red. Toward the place where Vi should have been sharp, loud, impossible to miss.
She wasn’t.
Vi’s car sat longer than usual. Engineers leaned in closer. Hands moved faster. Nothing catastrophic—nothing obvious—but Caitlyn felt it anyway, a wrongness humming under her skin.
She swallowed and focused forward.
FP2 went green.
She launched hard.
Too hard.
The car bit into the tarmac like it had something to prove. Caitlyn fed it throttle with ruthless precision, braking later than the data suggested, carrying speed where caution lived. The steering wheel vibrated under her hands, a familiar tremor she refused to acknowledge.
“Alright, Cait,” Rhea’s voice came through the radio, measured but tight. “Build the lap. Don’t force it.”
Caitlyn didn’t reply.
Sector one: purple.
Sector two: purple again.
Her heart kicked harder—not with joy, not with pride, but with something closer to defiance. She pushed deeper into Turn 9, clipped the curb at Turn 11 so aggressively the car twitched.
“Caitlyn, you’re overdriving,” Rhea warned. “You’re gaining time but you’re stressing the rear. Dial it back.”
Caitlyn inhaled through her nose.
She didn’t dial it back.
She went faster.
The world narrowed to racing line and apex and the clean violence of speed. No hospital rooms. No closed doors. No voice on the other side of a wall telling her to leave.
Just the car.
Just control.
The lap lit up.
Fastest.
Not just session-fast.
Circuit record.
The timing screens exploded purple.
In the Mercedes garage, engineers erupted—cheers, claps, hands thrown into the air. Someone whooped. Someone slapped the pit wall hard enough to sting.
“New circuit record,” Rhea said, and this time there was no pride in her voice at all. “Caitlyn. Box this lap.”
Caitlyn complied.
The cooldown lap felt unreal, the adrenaline crashing too fast. As she rolled back into the garage, the cheers hit her again—congratulations shouted through helmets, hands reaching out to pat her shoulder as she climbed from the car.
She nodded.
Once.
Twice.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
Her gaze flicked, instinctively, back toward Red Bull.
Vi was P7.
The number sat heavy in Caitlyn’s chest.
She peeled off her gloves and helmet in silence.
“Cait,” one of the engineers said brightly, “that lap was insane.”
“Mm,” Caitlyn murmured.
Rhea didn’t join the congratulations.
She waited until the garage noise softened, until people drifted back to their stations, until the moment was no longer public.
Then she leaned in, voice low and sharp. “Drivers’ room. Now.”
The door shut behind them with a finality that made Caitlyn’s shoulders tense.
Rhea turned on her so fast Caitlyn barely had time to set her feet.
“What the hell was that?” Rhea snapped.
Caitlyn said nothing.
“That wasn’t confidence,” Rhea continued, pacing. “That wasn’t control. That was you throwing the car at the circuit like you didn’t care if it came back in one piece.”
“I was fast,” Caitlyn said quietly.
“You were reckless,” Rhea shot back. “You ignored three separate warnings. You were over the limit in half the corners and you know it.”
Caitlyn didn’t argue.
That seemed to make it worse.
Rhea stopped pacing and faced her fully, eyes blazing. “Do you want to die?”
The question hung there, ugly and raw.
“Because that’s what it looks like,” Rhea went on, voice breaking through its own anger. “It looks like you’re trying to finish what the wall didn’t.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.
“You’re distracted,” Rhea said. “You’re not here. Your inputs are aggressive, your corrections are late, and you’re driving like consequences don’t exist.”
Silence.
“Since the accident,” Rhea continued, more quietly now, more dangerous, “you’re not the same driver. And I don’t mean ‘changed.’ I mean you’re self-destructing.”
Caitlyn stared at the floor.
“I cannot do this,” Rhea said. “I cannot sit on the pit wall and watch you kill yourself because you won’t deal with whatever’s eating you alive.”
Still nothing.
“If this keeps up,” Rhea finished, voice tight with restrained fury, “I don’t want to be your engineer anymore.”
That landed.
Not like a slap.
Like something giving way.
Caitlyn’s hands curled slowly into fists at her sides. She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t defend herself. Didn’t apologize.
Rhea waited a beat.
Two.
Then she exhaled sharply, turned toward the door.
“I’ll talk to you about work,” she said without looking back. “Nothing else. Not until you wake up.”
The door slammed.
Caitlyn stood alone in the sudden quiet, the echoes of cheering still ringing in her ears like something obscene.
She sank down onto the bench, elbows braced on her knees, staring at nothing.
On the monitor outside, FP2 times scrolled on.
P1: Caitlyn
P7: Vi
For the first time all weekend, the record felt like a failure.
And the silence left behind by Rhea hurt worse than any reprimand ever could.
The paddock was a river of motion—engineers weaving past each other, cameras pivoting on shoulders, fans pressed against barriers hoping for a glance. Vi moved through it like a ghost, head down, jaw tight, every step driven by pure momentum.
“Vi.”
She didn’t stop.
“Vi, please.”
That did it.
She turned sharply, eyes blazing—not with anger, but panic. “Don’t,” she hissed under her breath. “Not here.”
Caitlyn stood in front of her, silver Mercedes polo stark against the chaos, eyes locked on Vi like the rest of the world had fallen away.
“We need to talk,” Caitlyn said.
Vi glanced around them. Heads had turned. Phones were already out. She felt exposed, flayed open. “You’re making a scene,” she muttered. “If you care even a little about your image—about mine—don’t do this here.”
Caitlyn didn’t even look around.
“I don’t care,” she said quietly.
Before Vi could step back, Caitlyn reached out and caught her arm.
It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t desperate.
It was firm.
“Hey—” Vi started.
“I’m not letting go,” Caitlyn said, voice low and steady, “until we talk. You can yell at me after. You can walk away after. But not before.”
Vi stared at her, stunned. “Caitlyn, people are watching.”
“Let them,” Caitlyn replied.
And then—without raising her voice, without urgency—she turned and gently but unmistakably guided Vi through the crowd.
Murmurs followed them. Cameras tracked. Someone whispered their names.
Vi stopped resisting somewhere between anger and exhaustion.
They ducked into a narrow service corridor, the noise of the paddock muffled behind concrete walls and a closing door.
The second it shut, Vi ripped her arm free.
“This is exactly what I didn’t want,” she snapped, pacing once, then stopping like she’d hit a wall. “I can’t do this right now.”
“I know,” Caitlyn said softly.
Vi laughed—a broken, hollow sound. “No, you don’t. Jinx is arrested. My sister is in a cell. And somehow it’s still my fault.” Her voice cracked. “It’s always my fault.”
Caitlyn took a step closer. “Vi—”
“I ruin everything,” Vi went on, words spilling faster now, raw and unfiltered. “I try to protect people and they get hurt anyway. I lose everyone. My parents. My sister. You.” She swallowed hard. “You should’ve just let me disappear.”
“That’s not true,” Caitlyn said immediately.
Vi shook her head violently. “It is. Look at me. I break things. I break people. I break you.”
Caitlyn reached out again—hesitated for half a second—then gently placed her hands on Vi’s arms, grounding her.
“Look at me,” she said.
Vi didn’t want to.
She did anyway.
Caitlyn’s eyes were bright, but steady. Tender in a way that hurt more than anger ever could.
“You didn’t ruin me,” Caitlyn said quietly. “You didn’t ruin everything. And you didn’t lose me.”
Vi’s breath stuttered. “Then why does it feel like I did?”
“Because you’re carrying guilt that doesn’t belong to you alone,” Caitlyn said. “And because you think being strong means being alone.”
Vi’s shoulders finally caved. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m so tired, Cait.”
Caitlyn’s thumb brushed over Vi’s sleeve, slow, careful. “I know.”
For a moment, the world narrowed to just them—the hum of distant generators, Vi’s uneven breathing, Caitlyn standing closer than she had in weeks.
Vi leaned forward without realizing it.
Caitlyn didn’t step back.
Their foreheads nearly touched. Not a kiss. Not a reconciliation. Just a fragile, aching closeness that said I see you.
And then—
A shout. A door opening somewhere down the corridor. The click of a camera shutter, unmistakable even through walls.
They both froze.
Reality crashed back in.
Caitlyn exhaled slowly, resting her forehead briefly against Vi’s temple before pulling back. “We’ll finish this later,” she murmured. “This isn’t the end of the conversation.”
Vi nodded faintly, eyes glassy. “I know.”
They stepped apart.
When they walked back into the paddock, side by side but not touching, the cameras were waiting.
And somewhere online, the clips were already spreading—Caitlyn Kiramman grabbing Vi’s arm, shielding her, standing close enough to break the narrative everyone thought they understood.
The paddock clip didn’t need sound to spread.
It barely needed context.
By the time FP2 officially ended, the video was already looping across every platform that mattered—short, shaky footage of Caitlyn Kiramman stopping Vi mid-walk, of her hand closing around Vi’s arm, of Vi hesitating and then following. No shouting. No struggle. Just intent. Just urgency.
And that was what unsettled people.
Because this season, everything about them had been restraint.
The first headlines were cautious.
TENSION BETWEEN TITLE RIVALS?
UNUSUAL PADDOCK INTERACTION RAISES QUESTIONS
KIRAMMAN AND VIOLET: A PRIVATE MOMENT IN PUBLIC?
Journalists replayed it frame by frame on broadcast panels, pointing with pens and furrowed brows.
“Notice how Vi doesn’t pull away.”
“Notice how Caitlyn doesn’t look around first.”
“This isn’t heated. This is… deliberate.”
Commentators kept using the same word.
Different.
They’ve been different all season.
Social media, of course, skipped straight past restraint and went feral.
Twitter turned into a courtroom.
> “That’s not rivalry tension, that’s personal.”
“Vi followed her. She FOLLOWED her.”
Old clips resurfaced immediately—Vi dedicating a win to Caitlyn last season. Vi refusing interviews to stay at the hospital. Caitlyn’s hand on Vi’s shoulder during that podium champagne spray that had once looked playful and now looked loaded with meaning.
Fans started stitching timelines.
> “They don’t even look at each other this year and now THIS?”
“Something happened. You don’t go from hospital bedside to silence without fallout.”
Reddit threads ballooned overnight.
WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN CAITLYN AND VI? (MEGATHREAD)
People argued in paragraphs.
Some insisted it was a fight—bad blood, professional conflict, egos finally clashing.
Others pushed back hard.
> “If it was anger, Caitlyn wouldn’t touch her like that.”
“That was concern. She looked scared.”
TikTok edits followed—slow motion, soft music, zoom-ins on Caitlyn’s grip, on the way her thumb pressed lightly against Vi’s sleeve. On Vi’s shoulders sagging, just a little, when Caitlyn guided her away.
Then the photo surfaced.
Blurry. Cropped badly. Clearly taken through glass or from behind a corner. Two figures in a narrow corridor—Caitlyn’s hands on Vi’s arms, close enough to cage her without force. Vi leaning in. Their foreheads nearly touching.
No kiss.
No embrace.
No proof of anything definitive.
But Caitlyn’s face was visible enough.
Focused. Worried. Barely holding something together.
That was all it took.
The shipping side of the internet exploded.
> “YOU DO NOT LOOK AT SOMEONE LIKE THAT IF THEY DON’T MATTER.”
“THIS IS NOT PR. THIS IS NOT FAKE.”
“I DON’T CARE WHAT THEY SAY, THIS IS REAL.”
Neutral fans weren’t neutral anymore.
> “I came for racing and now I’m emotionally invested against my will.”
“Why does this look like a breakup aftermath?”
Even skeptics hesitated.
> “I don’t think they’re together, but something is clearly unresolved.”
By evening, the tone shifted.
From what happened
to why hasn’t anyone explained it.
Pressure mounted fast.
Paddock reporters hovered closer to both garages. Questions sharpened.
“Is there a rift between you and Caitlyn Kiramman?”
“Are tensions affecting performance?”
“Was the interaction personal or professional?”
Vi deflected.
Caitlyn gave nothing.
That silence only fed the fire.
By nightfall, insiders began whispering what everyone already knew:
Mercedes and Red Bull couldn’t ignore this anymore.
Not with speculation bleeding into narratives about focus, stability, team harmony.
Not with two championship drivers at the center of a story neither team controlled.
PR teams were already drafting statements—neutral language, firm boundaries, phrases like mutual respect and on-track competition ready to be deployed.
But online, no one believed a word they hadn’t even heard yet.
Because whatever Caitlyn and Vi were to each other—
Friends. Rivals. Something unfinished.
—one thing was suddenly undeniable.
This wasn’t nothing.
And everyone could feel it.
The joint statement dropped at 08:17 the next morning.
It hit every official channel at once—Mercedes’ clean silver graphic, Red Bull’s sharp navy, the FIA press list, the teams’ social feeds—two logos sharing the same block of text like that alone could drown a wildfire.
JOINT TEAM STATEMENT
Following yesterday’s footage circulating online, Mercedes-AMG Petronas and Oracle Red Bull Racing confirm there is no dispute or personal conflict between Caitlyn Kiramman and Violet. The interaction captured in the paddock occurred after Free Practice 2 and reflected a moment of support between two drivers who maintain mutual respect and a strong professional relationship. Both drivers remain fully focused on the race weekend.
No mention of the arm.
No mention of the corridor.
No mention of the photo.
Nothing that could be pinned down, nothing that could be cross-examined.
It was… neat.
And because it was neat, it immediately made things worse.
People screenshot the phrase “moment of support” like it was a confession.
> “THEY COORDINATED A STATEMENT???”
“If it was nothing, why do this together?”
“’No personal conflict’ is not the same as ‘nothing is happening.’”
The internet did what it always did: translated PR into subtext and called it proof.
Inside Mercedes, the statement was read in a room that smelled like coffee, warm laptops, and too little sleep.
Caitlyn stood with her hands behind her back. She didn’t sit. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her react.
The PR manager’s voice was brisk, practiced. “We’ll repeat it verbatim if asked. No improvising. No jokes. No ‘off the record.’ We kill it with consistency.”
Caitlyn nodded once.
Across the room, Rhea didn’t nod at all.
Her gaze stayed on Caitlyn as the statement scrolled on a screen, as if the words were less important than the person who’d forced them to exist.
When the meeting ended, people spilled out in efficient, polite waves—comms people returning to their phones, engineers to their data, mechanics to their lists.
Rhea didn’t move.
“Caitlyn,” she said quietly.
Caitlyn paused at the door.
Rhea’s tone wasn’t angry. That was what set Caitlyn’s nerves off first—the controlled edge of someone who’d already used up their rage yesterday and was left with something colder.
They were alone when Rhea spoke again.
“You built your image for years,” Rhea said. “Every interview. Every answer. Every measured smile. You’ve always known exactly how to hold yourself.”
Caitlyn’s eyes lowered to the floor for a beat. “Yes.”
“And in forty-eight hours,” Rhea continued, “you’ve driven like you’re trying to outpace your own pulse, dragged a rival through the paddock in full view of cameras, and helped sign a joint statement with Red Bull because you couldn’t just—” she cut herself off, jaw tightening, “—you couldn’t just let it be.”
Caitlyn didn’t flinch. She looked composed enough to be photographed.
Rhea stepped closer, stopping just in front of her.
“This is out of character,” Rhea said. “All of it. The recklessness. The impulsiveness. The part where you suddenly don’t care about the image you spent half your life crafting.”
Caitlyn swallowed. Her throat felt tight, dry. “I do care.”
“Do you?” Rhea asked, and there was no accusation in it—only exhaustion and something that sounded too much like fear. “Because it doesn’t look like it.”
Caitlyn drew a slow breath. Her shoulder protested in that quiet way they did when she tried to pretend pain wasn’t pain.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
It wasn’t the clean apology Rhea deserved. It wasn’t I’m sorry I terrified you or I’m sorry I ignored you or I’m sorry I’m turning into someone you can’t manage.
It was a thin offering. A reflex.
Rhea stared at her like she could hear every word Caitlyn hadn’t said.
“No,” she said flatly. “Don’t.”
Caitlyn’s brows knit, faint confusion flickering across her face.
“I’m not accepting that,” Rhea went on. “Not because I want to punish you. Because I’m not angry at you anymore, Cait. I’m worried.”
That landed differently.
Worry, from Rhea, was rare. Not because she didn’t feel it—because she hid it. She made it into bullet points, into action items, into contingency plans.
But now she let it sit bare between them.
“What is going on?” Rhea asked quietly. “Not with the media. Not with the statement. With you.”
Caitlyn held her gaze for a second.
Then her eyes drifted away, to the corner of the room, to the blank wall, to anywhere except Rhea’s face.
Rhea’s voice hardened. “Don’t shut down.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Rhea cut in. “You do this thing where you go still and polite and you think it’s control, but it’s just you disappearing in front of me. I’m your engineer. I’m the one on the radio when you’re about to put the car in the wall. I need you here.”
Caitlyn’s fingers curled once behind her back.
Rhea waited. Then: “And I’m going to ask the question you keep dodging.”
Caitlyn didn’t move.
“What is going on between you and Vi?”
The name hit like a stone dropped into water—no splash, just a heavy sink.
Caitlyn’s mouth opened, closed again.
Rhea’s expression softened, only slightly. “I’m not asking for gossip. I’m asking because it’s bleeding into the car. Into you. Into everything.”
Silence.
Rhea exhaled through her nose, patience thinning. “Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn’s shoulders stayed straight, but her gaze lowered. Not in shame. In calculation. Like she was trying to decide which truth would do the least damage.
Rhea’s voice went quieter, dangerous with sincerity. “Talk to me.”
Caitlyn’s throat bobbed. When she spoke, her voice came out controlled and small at the same time.
“I care about her,” she said.
Rhea didn’t blink.
Caitlyn swallowed hard, eyes still down. “In a… different way than I should.”
The air in the room shifted. Not dramatically. Just enough to make it feel like the walls moved an inch closer.
Rhea’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. More like recognition.
“Ah,” she said softly.
Caitlyn’s lashes fluttered. She didn’t look up. “Please don’t—”
“I’m not going to tease you,” Rhea interrupted, almost gentle. “I’m not twelve.”
Caitlyn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Rhea leaned back against the table, arms folding across her chest. Her tone went dry, but her eyes stayed serious.
“I suspected,” she admitted. “Last season wasn’t subtle, even if you thought it was.”
Caitlyn’s expression tightened, mortified despite herself. “It wasn’t—”
“It was,” Rhea said. “To everyone except you.”
Caitlyn went still again, and this time it looked less like control and more like something bracing for impact.
Rhea watched her for a long moment. Then her voice softened properly.
“So,” she said, “what happened?”
Caitlyn’s fingers flexed behind her back. The words didn’t come easily.
“She broke my trust,” Caitlyn said finally. “And then I… I tried to be rational about it. I tried to keep distance. I thought it was safer.”
Rhea nodded once, encouraging.
“But when I needed her,” Caitlyn added, voice going thinner, “I told myself she wouldn’t come. And when she didn’t… I convinced myself it meant she didn’t care enough to try.”
Rhea’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in judgment, in understanding.
“And now you’re watching her fall apart,” Rhea said quietly, “and your brain is doing what it always does. Trying to fix. Trying to control. Trying to make the outcome less painful.”
Caitlyn’s jaw clenched.
“I don’t know how to—” Her voice faltered. She steadied it. “I don’t know how to hold what I feel and what she did at the same time.”
Rhea pushed off the table and stepped closer, not crowding her, just… present.
“You don’t have to solve it in a day,” she said. “But you do have to face it.”
Caitlyn finally lifted her eyes.
They were bright in a way that made her look younger. Less like the composed Kiramman heir and more like the girl who’d learned early that softness was a liability.
Rhea held her gaze.
“You’re driving like you’re trying to outrun your own head,” Rhea said. “And you’re making decisions in public you’d normally calculate for weeks. People will start to catch the pattern.”
Caitlyn’s throat tightened. “They already are.”
“Yes,” Rhea agreed. “And the more you pretend nothing’s happening, the louder it gets.”
Caitlyn’s breath shuddered, almost imperceptible.
Rhea’s voice stayed steady. “Fix whatever is going on between you two.”
Caitlyn’s mouth tightened. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know,” Rhea said. “But leaving it like this?” Her eyes flicked toward the screens outside, toward the timing sheets, toward the statement they’d just signed. “This is affecting you. It’s affecting the team. And it’s affecting her.”
Caitlyn’s shoulders sank a fraction, the first visible sign of exhaustion.
Rhea’s tone softened again, almost kind. “I’m not asking you to win her back. I’m asking you to stop bleeding out quietly and calling it professionalism.”
Caitlyn blinked once.
Then, quietly: “What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”
Rhea’s expression didn’t change, but something in it warmed. “Then you still try,” she said. “Because you’re Caitlyn Kiramman, and if there’s one thing you’ve never been, it’s someone who gives up when something matters.”
Caitlyn’s lips parted like she might argue.
She didn’t.
Rhea watched her for another beat, then stepped back, letting Caitlyn breathe.
“Get your head back before qualifying,” Rhea said, voice returning to business—only now it carried something else beneath it. “And Cait?”
Caitlyn looked up.
Rhea’s eyes were steady. “I don’t care about the gossip. I care that you come back from this weekend in one piece.”
Caitlyn’s throat tightened again.
“I’ll try,” she whispered.
Rhea didn’t smile. But her voice softened one last time.
“Try harder,” she said. “For once—not on the brakes. On yourself.”
And then she left Caitlyn alone in the quiet room, with the joint statement still glowing on a screen somewhere outside, and the truth finally said aloud:
Caitlyn didn’t just care.
She cared enough that it was starting to show.
The Red Bull briefing room felt smaller than it should have.
Not physically—there was space, glass walls, screens looping telemetry—but emotionally. The air was tight, compressed, like someone had shut all the vents at once.
Vi stood in the center of it, helmet tucked under her arm, race suit half unzipped, shoulders slumped in a way she would’ve mocked anyone else for.
Sevika didn’t sit.
She paced.
That alone was a warning.
“You know what this is,” Sevika said, voice low and controlled, the kind of calm that only came after anger had burned itself down to embers.
Vi nodded once. “FP2 wasn’t great.”
“That’s an understatement,” Sevika snapped, spinning on her. “You were P7. You missed braking points you’ve hit blindfolded since karting. You lifted where you never lift. You hesitated.”
Vi clenched her jaw. “I was managing—”
“You were distracted,” Sevika cut in sharply. “And don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”
The telemetry screen flickered behind her, lines spiking where they shouldn’t, dipping where aggression used to live.
Sevika jabbed a finger toward it. “That’s not tire management. That’s a driver who isn’t mentally in the car.”
Vi swallowed. Her throat felt raw. “I’ve got a lot going on.”
Sevika laughed once, humorless. “Everyone does.”
She stepped closer, boots echoing against the floor.
“You think Viktor didn’t have a mess in his life? You think Steb didn’t race through grief? This is Formula One, Violet. You don’t get to fall apart because your personal life is inconvenient.”
Vi flinched at the name.
“I’m not falling apart,” she muttered.
Sevika’s eyes hardened. “Then explain why Caitlyn Kiramman just broke a circuit record while you looked like you were driving with the handbrake on.”
That one hit.
Vi’s shoulders tensed visibly.
“She’s hungry,” Sevika continued. “She’s focused. She’s fighting like she wants this championship carved into her bones.”
Vi’s voice came out hoarse. “So am I.”
“No,” Sevika said flatly. “You were.”
Silence slammed down between them.
Sevika crossed her arms. “I don’t care what’s happening between you and her. I don’t care about rumors, arm-grabbing, corridor moments, or whatever the hell the paddock is whispering about.”
She leaned in, close enough that Vi couldn’t look away.
“I care about results.”
Vi stared at the floor.
“You are here to win,” Sevika went on. “Not to spiral. Not to self-destruct. And definitely not to let a rival live rent-free in your head while she runs circles around you.”
Vi’s hands curled into fists at her sides.
“This team backs champions,” Sevika said. “Not liabilities.”
Vi’s head snapped up. “You think I’m a liability?”
“I think,” Sevika replied calmly, “that if this continues, you will be.”
The words landed heavy and final.
Sevika straightened, voice turning clinical. “You are on thin ice, Vi. Keep driving like this—keep letting your emotions bleed into the car—and I will start looking at options.”
Vi’s breath caught. “You’re threatening to drop me.”
“I’m stating reality,” Sevika said. “Contracts are built on performance. And right now, Caitlyn Kiramman is outperforming you in every way that matters.”
That was the knife.
Vi’s laugh came out sharp and broken. “So that’s it? One bad day and—”
“This isn’t one bad day,” Sevika interrupted. “This is a pattern. You’ve been slipping since the break. And the paddock sees it.”
Vi’s voice cracked despite herself. “I just need time.”
Sevika’s gaze didn’t soften. “Time is the one thing this sport does not give.”
She turned toward the door, then paused.
“You’re one of the best drivers on the grid,” she said without looking back. “But talent doesn’t protect you from consequences.”
The door opened.
Sevika stopped once more, her voice quieter now—but more dangerous for it.
“Figure out what’s tearing you apart,” she said. “Because if you don’t… this team will move on without you.”
The door shut.
Vi stood there alone, the hum of the screens suddenly deafening.
Caitlyn’s name glowed at the top of the timing board.
P1.
Again.
Vi dragged a hand down her face, teeth clenched hard enough to hurt.
Get it together, she told herself fiercely.
But for the first time since she’d clawed her way into F1, a cold, terrifying thought crept in and refused to leave:
What if wanting to hold onto Caitlyn was costing her everything else?
The hallway outside Vi’s hotel room smelled faintly of cleaning solution and stale carpet. Too quiet. Too neutral. Caitlyn hated places like this—places designed to hold people temporarily, never long enough to notice when something went wrong.
She knocked once.
Then again, softer.
“Vi,” she said. “It’s me.”
There was movement inside. A chair scraping. A pause long enough that Caitlyn almost turned away.
The door opened.
Vi stood there barefoot, hair damp like she’d dragged a hand through it too many times, Red Bull hoodie hanging loose on her shoulders. Her eyes were red—not crying exactly, but close enough that the difference felt meaningless.
Caitlyn’s gaze dropped before she could stop herself.
A bottle sat on the small table by the window. Half-empty. Cheap. The kind of thing Vi drank when she didn’t care if it burned.
Something tight twisted in Caitlyn’s chest.
“May I come in?” she asked quietly.
Vi hesitated, then stepped aside. “Sure. Why not.”
The room was dim, curtains half-drawn, city lights bleeding in like a dull bruise. Caitlyn shut the door behind her, the click echoing too loudly.
She gestured toward the table. “It’s race week.”
Vi followed her gaze and huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking,” Caitlyn said—not sharp, not scolding. Just factual. Concern wrapped in restraint.
Vi dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees. “I don’t care anymore.”
The words were flat. Worse than anger.
Caitlyn took a careful step closer. “Vi—”
“Sevika already made it clear,” Vi went on, voice cracking despite herself. “One more slip and I’m done. My sister’s arrested. My career’s hanging by a thread. My life’s a mess.” She laughed, brittle. “So yeah. I had a drink. Sue me.”
Caitlyn swallowed. “I’m sorry about Jinx.”
Vi flinched like the name was a physical blow. “You shouldn’t be.”
“I am,” Caitlyn said. “For what it’s worth.”
Vi shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Caitlyn sat on the chair across from her instead of the bed—close, but not invading. She folded her hands together, forcing them to stay steady.
“You don’t have to go through this alone,” she said gently.
Vi looked up, eyes sharp now. “That’s the problem, Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn’s breath stilled.
“Things went downhill after your crash,” Vi said. “Everything. I watched you almost die, and then I watched myself become the reason you shut down.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” Vi interrupted. Not cruel. Just exhausted. “Whatever we had… whatever we thought we were doing—it stopped being something good the moment the stakes got real.”
Caitlyn felt the words land like fractures, small but cumulative.
“I care about you,” Caitlyn said softly.
Vi’s mouth twisted. “I know. That’s why this hurts.”
She stood abruptly and crossed the room, pacing once, then stopping by the window. The city lights reflected off the glass, throwing shadows across her face.
“This—” she gestured vaguely between them, “—it’s affecting both of us. You’re driving like you’re trying to outrun something. I’m driving like I’ve already lost. Teams are noticing. Media’s noticing.”
Caitlyn rose slowly. “We can manage that.”
“No,” Vi said, turning back to her. “We can’t.”
There was no anger in her eyes now. Just resignation. The kind that scared Caitlyn more than shouting ever could.
“There’s no timeline,” Vi continued. “No world. No version of this where it works. Not with your mother, not with the council, not with my sister, not with this sport. We don’t get a quiet life. We don’t even get a stable one.”
Caitlyn’s voice wavered despite her best effort. “You don’t know that.”
Vi stepped closer, close enough that Caitlyn could see the tremor in her hands. “I do. Because everything I touch turns into a war zone. And I won’t do that to you.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” Caitlyn said, pain threading through her composure.
Vi looked at her then—really looked—and her expression broke.
“I’m deciding it for me,” she said hoarsely. “Because I can’t keep choosing you and losing everything else. And I can’t keep watching you fracture because of me.”
Caitlyn reached out, fingers hovering near Vi’s sleeve, stopping just short. “You think this is easier?”
“No,” Vi whispered. “I think it’s necessary.”
Silence pressed in, thick and unbearable.
“So that’s it?” Caitlyn asked. “We just… stop?”
Vi nodded once. “We stop before this destroys us both.”
Caitlyn’s throat burned. “I came here to check on you.”
“I know,” Vi said softly. “And I’m sorry you had to see me like this.”
Her gaze flicked to the bottle again. Shame passed over her face, quick and sharp.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Vi added. “I don’t hate you. I never could.”
That somehow hurt the most.
Caitlyn lowered her hand. Let it fall back to her side.
“Then I won’t stay,” she said quietly. “But I won’t pretend this doesn’t matter either.”
Vi nodded, eyes glistening. “That’s fair.”
Caitlyn took a step back. Then another.
At the door, she paused. “For what it’s worth,” she said without turning around, “I don’t believe the universe is that cruel.”
Vi didn’t answer.
When the door closed, the sound felt final in a way neither of them were ready to name.
Inside the room, Vi sank back onto the bed, staring at the bottle she no longer wanted, chest aching with the certainty that she’d just done the right thing—
—and that it might cost her the one person who ever made the fight feel worth it.
Qualifying felt loud in all the wrong ways.
When the checkered flag fell, Caitlyn crossed the line with a lap so clean it felt unreal—every corner precise, every braking point exact. P1 flashed across her dash in violet numbers. Pole. Again.
The Mercedes garage erupted.
Cheers broke out, engineers hugging, hands slapping shoulders. Someone shouted her name. Someone else was already pulling up the data, voices overlapping in excitement.
Caitlyn barely heard them.
Her eyes were fixed on the timing screen.
She scrolled once.
Twice.
And then she found it.
P11 — Vi.
Her chest tightened.
Not shock—she’d seen the struggle all weekend—but something sharper. Concern edged with guilt edged with fear. Vi outside Q3. Vi frustrated. Vi already on thin ice with her team.
Rhea caught the shift immediately.
“You’re on pole,” she said quietly, not unkind. “Try to look like it.”
Caitlyn nodded once, the motion automatic. She pulled off her helmet, accepted the congratulations, the headset noise blurring into something distant. Her mind was already elsewhere—running through Vi’s laps, the hesitations, the corrections that came half a second too late.
By the time she reached parc fermé, the cameras were waiting.
The interviewer smiled brightly. “Caitlyn, incredible lap. Pole position again—how does it feel?”
“Good,” Caitlyn replied, measured. “The car was strong. The team gave me exactly what I needed.”
Safe. Polished.
Then the question shifted.
“Vi struggled today—P11 after a difficult weekend. As someone who knows her well, what’s your take on her performance?”
The air changed.
Caitlyn felt it—felt the weight of the question, the bait hidden in it. She didn’t look toward the Red Bull garage. She didn’t flinch.
“Vi is an exceptional driver,” she said calmly. “One difficult qualifying doesn’t change that.”
The interviewer raised an eyebrow. “But it’s been a rough weekend for her.”
“It happens,” Caitlyn replied. “To everyone. She’s still one of the strongest competitors on the grid. I have no doubt she’ll fight back.”
No pity. No distance.
Support.
Genuine. Unforced.
“She’s resilient,” Caitlyn added quietly. “People shouldn’t underestimate her.”
Somewhere behind the cameras, murmurs rippled. That wasn’t the answer they’d expected.
When the interview ended and the microphones pulled away, Caitlyn finally exhaled.
Rhea watched her closely as they walked back toward the garage. “You didn’t have to say all that.”
“Yes,” Caitlyn said softly. “I did.”
Because this—this—was the line Vi had drawn. The clean break. The quiet ending.
And Caitlyn was not going to accept it.
She had listened to Vi tell her there was no world where they worked. She had listened to her say it was over, that distance was safer, that love was a liability.
But love didn’t disappear just because it was inconvenient.
Caitlyn had survived a crash, months of pain, nights where breathing hurt and mornings where getting out of bed felt impossible. She had learned one thing very clearly:
You don’t walk away from what matters just because it scares you.
Vi was hurting. Spiraling. Being pushed to the edge while pretending she didn’t care.
Caitlyn wasn’t going to stand on pole and let her suffer alone.
Not this time.
Not ever.
Tomorrow, she would race from the front.
And after that—no matter how much Vi resisted, no matter how many walls she put up—Caitlyn Kiramman was done choosing silence.
She was in love.
And she was going to fight for it.
Notes:
Thank you all so much for the incredible comments, thoughts, and support — I’m honestly overwhelmed in the best way. Reading your reactions, analyses, and emotional responses means more to me than I can properly put into words.
I’d love to hear what you think about where things are heading, and if there’s anything you’d like to see explored next — moments, conflicts, or ideas you’re curious about — feel free to share.
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