Chapter Text
Sunghoon is in hospitality when he finds out, playing with the rim of his coffee cup, fiddling with his personal phone. He hates receiving work-related notifications on his personal time, specifically in the rare moments during a race weekend where he can pretend he’s not at a racetrack, but his eyes trail to the incoming notification regardless.
Mercedes announces reserve driver Kim Sunoo will be taking over current reigning world champion Lee Heeseung’s seat for the remainder of the season. The 22-year-old tested for Mercedes in both 2024 and 2025 in Bahrain, performing better than Oracle Red Bull Racing drivers Sim Jaeyun and Par… Click to read more at www.racingnewstar.com.
Opening the notification does not help. It couldn’t have been that bad, he reasons, but he knows it is—he saw the aftermath, the photos, the videos, the get-well-soons—it clearly wasn’t an average day injury, it wasn’t something Mercedes could just brush off, no matter how well-managed their PR team was. It was something potentially career-ending, bringing Heeseung’s brilliant blaze of glory to a cruel, rapid end.
He shakes his head mindlessly, putting his phone away. It doesn’t matter what happens to Heeseung—he was fine enough to respond to Jungwon’s immediate concerns in the group chat, before it had all returned to radio silence, just like it was previously.
He sips his coffee. It’s the cheap kind he sends his manager to buy to fill his portable coffee machine instead of going down to drink the fancy promotional sponsored coffee they have—if it works just as well, what does he care?
The sim glides under his hands, wheel worn and familiar. Ease on the throttle, late brake into the turn. Red glow of the false horizon ahead, turning under the day sun, the inundations of the energy in the night. Sunghoon can see it all. Feel it as if he was truly there.
The car listens when Sunghoon speaks.
He’d met Sunoo for the first time when they were both karting in the FIA Karting European Championship in the OK category, back when everyone knew Jake was confirmed to be the next Toro Rosso driver, and they were all envious, despite not voicing it.
The race was held at Campillos, a snaky, pretty track in Spain stretched over a broad expanse of flat land, the turns tight though uniform. He still misses the open-air of the kart, the rush of the wind on their suits, the spin of the wheel and the motion of the kart.
Sunoo had been short, shorter than he was and loud, laughing while holding his purple helmet. Sunghoon had noticed the colours first, then his smile, then his eyes. He was talking to someone else—animated and giggly, in a way that was oddly entrancing, oddly familiar.
Sunghoon had shaken his head and moved on from a brief moment’s falter. His father was waiting. A race was waiting.
He gets caught by Jay as he’s trying to leave the track, a flash of navy to his red. Jay’s never competed against Sunoo directly; he doesn’t remember Sunoo the way Sunghoon does.
“How bad do you think it is?” Jay’s elbow hits his as they dodge a photographer and his many bags. Sunghoon artfully dodges the eyes of a fan still lingering in the paddock, tugging his hat further down his head.
“Fine enough to type,” he replies. A little bit of paddock gossip never hurt anybody, but it never bodes well to gossip where anybody can pick it up. “But if he’s off for the rest of the season, it must be really bad.”
Jay exhales, playing with the straw of his water bottle. Knowing that it’s probably anything but Redbull, Sunghoon represses a laugh. “I heard that the first surgery was fucked up.”
Sunghoon stops in his tracks. The Mercedes motorhome—aptly coincidental—looms over them in their quiet alleyway. “Seriously?”
“It was worse than it seemed at first. Metacarpal fracture, broken hand—he’d have been back by summer break. But something must’ve happened, especially for Mercedes to drop the news on media day.”
Sunghoon considers it. Mercedes plays a fine PR game—especially around Heeseung, the current reigning world champion for the past two years, who was just as enigmatic as he was open. He’d become a sort of emblem for the sport, headlines exploding the first time he won over eleven years ago as the sport gained traction with modern fans. “Maybe an administrative thing, then. Have Sunoo race a season and Heeseung-hyung to take it slow. It also could’ve been his choice.”
“Maybe. What sucks most is that he can’t even use his sim rig anymore,” Jay says, accompanied by a laugh. The discomfort growing in Sunghoon’s stomach at the thought of a possible full retirement from Heeseung abruptly stops and fizzles, Jay’s laugh bringing him relief.
Sunghoon feels the tension dissipate. Jay’s easy like that, a sort of mutual understanding that passes through them both, from their shared rookie year to their established careers now. He’s always been easy to talk to, the kind of easy understanding that what happens on the track is different from what happens off of it. “How did Jake take the news?”
Jay furrows his brows. He’s silent for a moment. “Well,” he says carefully. “He’s doing okay.”
“Same as usual?” Sunghoon says quietly, as a flurry of photographers pass by the building, laughing, disharmony lit aglow in the setting sun.
“Same as usual,” Jay confirms. Or as good as he could be, his eyes convey.
Sunghoon remembers the first time Heeseung had ever won a race—it was halfway through his rookie season, lit like the sun in the Spanish limelight, gold with the beam of his teeth and his victory. Sunghoon had been fourteen then, entranced by the television, the promise of a future yet to be.
Heeseung had been sprayed with champagne by the other two podium finishers—names that he’d outgrown in this new era of racing, the one that he established. He was shyer then, avoiding the cameras, the side comments, all modest during the press conference. It hadn’t been until the next season until his aggressive racing style surfaced, and Formula One became only his currently unconquered league. He’d been controversial then, with the minimal security measures and the outdated regulations, but a household name now.
He’d won his third season, making him the youngest champion ever, with the least amount of experience.
Sunghoon remembered how he’d looked with his eyes closed, champagne trails dripping from his hair down to his chin. The smile on his face—not for the cameras, but for himself. His win. And he’d thought—no, he’d known—he’d be there too.
His manager wakes him up, three sharp raps to the door at the same time his alarm goes off. Sunghoon fights off the urge to snooze it and tell his manager he doesn’t feel well enough to drive the damn car (though the paperwork was often worse for that one).
Dragging himself out of bed, he fumbles for his phone. “Shit,” he murmurs, rummaging around to find a cord. In his haste to sleep last night, he’d clearly forgotten to plug it in. He’d gotten used to the wireless charging ports at home, and it seemed he didn’t quite get the memo here.
He avoids looking into the mirror, knowing he’ll only look tired. They’d been making pity edits of him all throughout last season, and that trend would probably continue into this season. As if career death wasn’t inevitable for everyone. He’d just chosen for it to come early, with nothing to show for it—nothing to dispute that there might’ve not been much of a career in the first place, anyways.
At least, not at the pity party that was Ferrari.
Sunghoon gives up and takes his phone. It’s nearly dead, but it’ll have to work. He just needs to get through two practices. Easy enough.
He feels the hum of the car, the same as if he were in the real one. The only thing missing is the hammering of his heart. It never fades, not even after nearly two decades in karts and then a full half-decade in Formula One.
The jackrabbiting of his pulse has never changed, coupled by the thrill and the rush of adrenaline that keeps him steadily focused on hours of racing around the same circuit.
The sim calls to him. Sunghoon finds it hard not to listen.
He catches Jake’s eye from across the room when he slides into the Ferrari seats for the drivers’ meeting. There’s a buzz in the room, more hushed than it usually is, a murmur going round and round about something clearly nobody wants to talk about explicitly.
Jake seems tired, eyes sunken. Not shaken—he rarely is, if Sunghoon is being honest—but affected. As they all are.
Mercedes is seated behind him. He saw the designations on the empty seats, so he doesn’t bother turning around when the drivers and the team principal shuffle in, and the meeting promptly starts.
An FIA official drones on about track expectations, safety regulations, and the potential of an updated regulation in the upcoming races.
Sunghoon shifts in his seat, eager to get out. He catches Jay’s eye from across the room, Jake seeming listless and quiet beside him, uncharacteristic of his typical being.
Jay nods at him, a quirk to his lips. Sleepy, he mouths. Sunghoon represses a laugh.
The FIA official is still somehow continuing, giving a reminder of the schedule, including required timings, then a query about any questions.
When does this meeting end? Jay mouths at him. Sunghoon looks away to avoid laughing.
He’d always felt, compared to older drivers, at least, he’d gotten along better with his fellow drivers. But that could’ve been easily attributed to their childhoods spent in expensive karts and foreign countries.
Boyhood never seemed so fatally easy now.
To win beside Lee Heeseung felt like an implausibility, at first. By the time Sunghoon had clawed his way out of Renault and into Ferrari, the Formula One car felt dangerously unfamiliar. Every year brought different expectations, and with it, the easy days of constantly winning in Formula Two disappeared. It became whether or not he’d make it to Q2, let alone Q3, and then whether he could remain in the points.
Ferrari was lackluster for the first handful of years. But somehow, somewhere, with the internal shift as mechanics were passed around and race engineers changed and developed, Sunghoon felt like they really might have a shot in 2023.
Enter Lee Heeseung, a year into a multi-year Mercedes contract. Enter Lee Heeseung, world champion who’d been fighting for single-digit points all of 2022. Enter Lee Heeseung, world champion who hadn’t won in a handful of years, and few believed he would truly ever win again.
It was a golden, fluorescent season for him—victories left and right, trophies, sponsorships—Mercedes had named him their ambassador, the silver loops of the logo embossed with his name into history. He’d emerged victorious a race before Abu Dhabi, smiling gloriously as headlines celebrated his insane comeback. The Mercedes Mercenary, came the whispers.
A song that was sung, once. History seemed never clearer, every year that passed the same regulations. Mercedes had an easy triumph: their one trump card used over and over again, pulling off impossible overtakes, each race better than the last.
2024 was an easy season for them, in retrospect. Sunghoon had gotten used to the lack of podiums, but a steady Q3. He had been confident in the car and its pace in 2025.
Australia had gone to Heeseung, and it seemed obvious who would win China, too. Sunghoon had gotten used to seeing the #1 on Heeseung’s helmet, and had expected him to carry it forever.
In hindsight, maybe it had been a curse.
The two Red Bull drivers tail him as he’s leaving. Jake grins at Sunghoon, an easy curl of his lips. For their dynamically toxic team environment, it seems the two drivers are at least unaffected.
“Same don’t-do-its,” Jay says with a crooked grin. He shrugs. “They always repeat the same things.”
“Like schooling a pack of kindergarteners,” Sunghoon says, feeling his smile lift his face. He spots a photographer prowling up ahead and nudges Jake in the elbow to deviate them into a different path to avoid more.
“So that’s it, then,” Jay says offhandedly, stretching his arms out. “Kim Sunoo is doing all the practice sessions, qualifying, then the race?”
“If he was at the debrief,” Jake says slowly. “So yeah.”
Sunghoon glances at him. He’s not sure exactly what Jake and Heeseung had going on over the past few years, but he’s run into Jake rather inconspicuously moving between hotels late at night during race weekends, or even surreptitiously seeing him out on late-night workouts back home in Monaco. Either Heeseung doesn’t move at all, or he moves in a better silence than Jake is capable of. “How’s Heeseung-hyung?”
Jake pauses, taken aback at the abrupt question. He mulls the words over in his mind. Sunghoon watches as he tenses his hand. They slow to a stop in front of the Red Bull motorhome, where Sunghoon will leave Jay and Jake to do whatever they need before they suit up for Free Practice 1. “He seems to be doing okay,” Jake finally says, clearing his throat. “Recovering now. But the injury seems worse than they initially diagnosed.”
The paddock feels different without the presence of Lee Heeseung, but none of them say anything. Under the weight of potential cameras, Sunghoon can never express himself truthfully.
Jay tilts his head thoughtfully, crossing his arms. A small breeze passes them by. Sunghoon hears the distant snap of a camera in the distance, and he’s careful to hide his face.
Sunghoon remembers the crash’s replay like it was yesterday. The rainy weather, the slippery track. A weird what-if from all the teams, wondering whether to put on inters or to stay on slick tyres. Where are the slicks losing grip? Where are the puddles on the track?
Then came the onslaught: the rain they saw coming fifteen minutes before it happened, a simple countdown. A massive race to the pits. Heeseung’s quiet yet confident call: not yet.
Not yet.
And it hadn’t been Heeseung’s fault, anyway—he’d been stuck in third like he’d been the entire sprint, locked behind Jake, and while Heeseung was capable of keeping calm under wet conditions even in low visibility, the rookies on the grid weren’t. And then there had been a flag, and as they were pulling to slow down, Jake had locked up, and Heeseung was on the gravel in Turn 16, and then he’d been in the wall. And then on the radio, saying he had pain all the way up his arm, tingling around his wrist and pinpricks shooting up to his shoulder.
It didn’t seem like it was a big deal. He was conscious getting out of the car. He was calm explaining the situation. The race proceeded like usual, only the last few laps to go, and they finished under the safety car, led by Sunghoon in his double victory—sprint and feature race.
But the headlines that made weren’t nearly enough to combat the headlines Heeseung made just hours after the crash had ended.
And then came the reserve announcement two weeks later.
“Radio check,” his race engineer calls into his helmet. Sunghoon adjusts in his seat, fiddling with the edges of his gloves.
“Check, check,” Sunghoon echoes.
“Alright. As always, we value your input.” The voice comes slightly muffled, a bit tinny through the headset. The engineer in front of his car steps back, arms up, before he pulls an arm back, pointing him out of the garage. “Front wing adjusted for higher
Foot to the pedal, Sunghoon follows.
He peels out of the pitlane, ramping up the speed as his heart pounds—a familiar feeling he’s never been able to shake since his karting days. Since Formula One became real, tangible, an absolute dream that he’s finally met after years and years of working hard. Trophies to hold, medals to wear, races to win.
The adrenaline that comes with every weekend is the taste of what keeps him coming back. With the car in strong contention this year, Sunghoon leads the championship off of Heeseung’s initial victory in Australia, a bubbly feeling in his chest. If he holds onto this momentum, if the team keeps it together for the rest of the season and nothing goes catastrophic—they really might just have a chance.
Suzuka has those brilliantly intricate esses in Sector 1; cruel, little twists that keep a driver in check after a pure straight past the pitlane. They were fast-paced too, just past the 200 kilometer per hour mark. He lets the tyres warm up, keeping to the slower lane, letting a Racing Bull pass him on its lap.
He warms the tyres up, periodically checking the mirrors. He lets the cars on their hot laps pass him, echoing the sentiments from the drivers’ briefings, his race engineer’s voice ringing in his mind.
Racing is a tunnel focus for him. He thinks of nothing but the turns ahead and the intricacies of focusing across all 53 laps to ensure optimal performance.
In Formula One, every race weekend was either a normal weekend or a sprint weekend. Normal weekends had three practice sessions, followed by a qualifying session that determined the positions of racers for the race, and the feature race itself on the final day. Teams collected data during practice sessions to optimise strategy and set-up for the final Sunday.
Sunghoon crosses the start line into the first sector’s esses. Suzuka is unforgiving—any mistake on its turns lead to a rippling effect on the next turns, and he feels that in this lap. The simulation can’t touch the feeling of Suzuka—
“Turn 3,” his radio crackles. “You can try to manage the oversteer. Three tenths off-pace.”
“Yep,” Sunghoon mutters in response. Focus broken, he finishes the lap but his mind is elsewhere. His engineer says nothing; it’s pointless in his pursuit of perfection.
Sunghoon’s eyes feel red and inflamed as he washes his face, moving his contacts’ container aside. He hasn’t gotten eye issues in ages—his contacts haven’t been irritating him as much lately, but he’s been struggling with other aspects his trainer would probably diagnose as too much stress, not enough rest.
He fumbles blindly for a towel, cursing when he knocks the hotel-provided toiletries—shampoo and conditioner that he’s not technically contractually allowed to use as per his sponsorship—in his haste, before wiping at his face with one he finds on a shelf.
It’s disorientating. He forgets how frustratingly lonely the season can feel after the few months he’d spent with his family and friends, off his phone, and away from a race track.
He stares at the mess he’s made accidentally. Whatever was building within him—whatever emotion he’s been bottling up—he lets it churn and then slip away. He has a race in two days.
Sunghoon knows what’s most important.
Turn 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—he spins through the esses over 200 kilometres per hour, feeling the track sing underneath his tyres. He sees nothing yet everything—the car comes alive underneath him; he hears nothing but the gears and the engine.
Turn 8, 9—fast on the first corner and brake into the second. Avoid run-off. It’s the Spoon Curve next, and he turns, feeling the speed on the kerb, 300 kilometres on the drag, then a double-apex turn. The first apex leads into the second, and he can’t be too aggressive, unless he risks sliding.
“And that’s provisional pole1-1, Sunghoon,” his race engineer crackles into the radio. “Only Red Bulls left on track for final lap.”
Sunghoon knows how Jake can get when there’s a target in front of him. And he knows, too, that that last lap was not his best.
“... and Park Sunghoon on provisional pole once again, Sim Jaeyun only four hundredths behind—but the two Red Bulls are still on track!”
“This is an incredibly interesting strategic call from Red Bull—sending both drivers out at the same time for a second lap. We’ve seen wonderful drives from both of them this weekend, haven’t we?”
“Yes, we definitely have, but will it be enough? Park Jongseong crosses the line and he’s into P2, in front of his teammate but he just misses the mark off of pole—but wait, Sim through the Spoon, and he’s purple1-2 in Sector 2, two hundredths off of our provisional pole holder, Park Sunghoon—but will that be enough?”
“I think it might just be; we’ve seen Sim be strong throughout Sector 3 all weekend, and as he takes the final turn, 260 kilometres to cross the chequered flag—and he takes provisional pole from Park Sunghoon!”
“Purple in Sector 3, he takes pole off of Park Sunghoon by five hundredths, a risky margin—and there’s your front row locked for tomorrow, with Sim Jaeyun and Park Sunghoon on the front row, with Park Jongseong in the second Red Bull close behind!”
Jake has a good start in the race; Sunghoon reacts the slightest margin off. He starts and finishes the race in second.
Suzuka’s always been straightforward—qualifying determines the pace of the race, and Jake has always been unrelenting in defense. He pulls away at the start, leaving Sunghoon close but not close enough.
Sunghoon likes predictability only when he’s winning.
“Eleventh,” someone confirms near his side. Sunghoon’s cheeks hurt from smiling, every bit of his body aching from being scrunched into a tight space. “He came eleventh.”
His ears are still buzzing. He’ll never get used to the rush of crossing that finish line—much less the feeling of being on the podium. Hearing Park Sunghoon, adding yet another podium to the history books for Ferrari—it makes a smile flit to his lips again.
He’d gotten his fill of the cameras already, weaving away from the post-podium photo Ferrari had taken with him, his teammate, and the rest of the team.
Who came eleventh, he wonders, but it’s not that big of a deal. He’s stopped for a photo in the paddock and bends to sign the rim of a young fan’s hat. Everything’s a blur—always has been every time he gets out of the car, colours scattered under 300 kilometres per hour speed.
It’s thrilling, the addiction of it all.
“Isn’t that impressive,” someone echoes as he passes by some people wearing Sauber staff shirts. “Kim Sunoo in eleventh.”
Impressive? Sunghoon thinks. He’d just placed second in a Grand Prix. What does a reserve driver filling the seat of Lee Heeseung have against that, when he’s not even in the points?
“I saw the replay,” Sunghoon says casually, sliding into the seat beside Jay in the booth. Jay stretches his legs out, glancing over at him.
“He got in my way,” Jay says, but there’s no heat behind it. While he may be a true challenger on track, Jay rarely let his emotions bleed over to his real life, preferring to keep it light and casual.
“It was funny,” Sunghoon shrugs, pointing to the half-empty glass Jay has, courtesy of Red Bull quietly celebrating Jake’s victory and Jay’s third place before the second leg of the triple header in Bahrain next week. “Good recovery.”
Jay grins at him, sliding the glass over. With a single sniff, Sunghoon decides it won’t make tomorrow’s early flight feel too great if he were to drink it. But he has to admit: it’s nice to see his friend smile. “It’s about the one thing I have going on for me at the moment.”
“That’s not true. You got second in China like two weeks ago.”
Jay’s smile fades a little. He twists a ring on his hand, and Sunghoon resists the urge to mirror his movement, feeling the chain of his bracelet rub against his wrist. “I don’t think they’ll re-sign.”
“What?” Taken aback, Sunghoon scooches forward. He doesn’t care about wandering cameras here, not while Red Bull is mindlessly drinking their thoughts away. (A bit risky, if you ask him, especially in the middle of a triple header, but he knows any reason is a good reason for the soul-stolen employees in Red Bull.)
“I was too inconsistent last year,” Jay mutters. “And then they started prioritising Jake too late, and that led to a shuffle where he could’ve been in contention against Heeseung-hyung.”
“That’s no reason to sack you.”
“Not a reason to sack,” Jay huffs. “But enough of one to give me one-year extensions instead.”
“So you won’t re-sign,” Sunghoon presses. “They’re not offering multi-year?”
“And that’s useless, because I know they want to give a junior driver a superlicense next year to try and get him into Formula One in 2027 or 2028.” Jay takes a sip of his drink, his eyebrows furrowed and face tense.
“What are your options?” Sunghoon asks quietly.
“My manager’s been getting in touch with all of the teams, to be honest. Mercedes has been quiet—duh—and Ferrari isn’t taking on another—”
“Since my teammate is on till 2027,” Sunghoon finishes for him, tilting his head. “McLaren?”
“In the talks.”
“They have a good car. New regs next year too. It’s a good environment over there.”
Jay sighs. “I don’t know, man.”
Sunghoon shrugs, elbowing him in the shoulder. “Whatever. You still have twenty-one races to go. You’re a good driver, and you know it.”
Jay looks over at him wordlessly. “Thanks.”
The silence hangs over them like a quiet offering. Sunghoon had been prepping for the triple header ahead, deftly thinking of contacting his cleaner so his place won’t be dusty by the time he gets to return. There’s a churning feeling in his stomach at the thought of Jay no longer being in the classic Red Bull apparel he’d come to associate him with. “You’d be orange, dude.”
Jay groans, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. Never one to be so easily vulnerable with his emotions—well, Jay had been, but a sport so media-public like Formula One had changed that—he seems to at least be mildly at ease. “Not as much of an eyesore as that ugly neon Sauber.”
“Don’t let them hear you,” Sunghoon says, eyes twinkling. “They’ll take you out on the opening lap of the next race. Just like they tried to this week.”
Jay scoffs. “They’d have to overtake fifteen other cars first.”
“With that grid-place penalty, of course,” Sunghoon laughs. He gazes out at the sea of people dancing to the song, Jake nowhere in sight. “When’s your cut-off?”
Jay tugs his phone out of his pocket. Sunghoon sees a slew of unread notifications from an unsaved contact before Jay swiftly puts it away again. “Soon. Hotel at 11PM.”
Sunghoon whistles. “Where’re you staying?”
Jay looks at him suspiciously. “You’re not coming back with me. It’s a red-eye straight to Bahrain.”
Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “Come on, you can sleep on the plane. And I wasn’t interested in that—who’s the person spamming you on your phone?”
Jay fixes him with another look. “None of your business.”
“We were rookies together!” Sunghoon argues. “I knew you when you had your bowl cut and when you were nearly crying every night because you went from premium economy to flying private with Toro Rosso, come on—”
“It really is none of your business, you know,” Jay says, but his cheeks colour at the reminder, clear even in the dim club lighting. Sunghoon knows Jay’s an easy victim to nostalgia, and so he presses:
“You know I just want to see you happy,” Sunghoon insists. “And screw Red Bull, you know—if McLaren makes you happy, with Yang Jungwon—hell, even if you end up in a Williams, an Alpine, or even a Sauber, you know I’ll still be friends with you anyways—”
“Are you the drunk one, or am I?” Jay cuts him off, that same smile playing on his lips.
“Not drunk! Friendly,” Sunghoon corrects. “Where the hell is Jake?”
Jay glances around. He fidgets with his ring again, gold glinting under flashing lights. “He disappeared earlier.”
Haphazardly, and maybe against his better judgment, Sunghoon decides to steal a sip of Jay’s drink, leaning back and making himself comfortable against the back of the booth. “I’ll be right here when you decide to tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” Jay says, humour playing in his eyes. “It’s really nothing.”
He’d been caught off-guard when Sunoo first approached him after a kart race. He doesn’t quite remember what month it had been, or where the race was at, just that there was a boy in a white and orange race suit with some team emblazoned on the back and a big cube on the front—I-Land Racing?—striding towards him with his purple helmet still deftly on top of his head.
Horribly mismatched colour scheme, if he recalls correctly, which is only partly the real reason why Sunghoon had remembered him.
Sunghoon didn’t pay much attention—he’d been busy pulling his balaclava off, casting one eye at the shorter boy until—
“Hey!” the other says loudly, shoving into Sunghoon. “Turn 8! What was that?”
Sunghoon stumbles, catching himself. He’s always been good at balancing, at feeling the track under his feet; that feeling never changed from his gradual development into Formula One. But his innate ability didn’t seem to help much as the boy barrels into him, petulance clear in his body language.
He finishes pulling the balaclava off, fixing the other boy with a hard stare. “What was what?”
The other boy is silent now, but seemingly snaps back to reality. “Turn 8,” he repeats, but there’s none of the nasty fire that had been there before.
Sunghoon doesn’t remember the incident—if there’d even been one. He just remembers chasing number 16 on the line, dancing with the other karter’s oversteer. He doesn’t remember—doesn’t remember this I-Land racer at all.
And this boy doesn’t seem to want to take off his helmet, either, so Sunghoon doesn’t know what he wants from him.
Sunghoon sighs, sharp with his exhale. He needs to go over the race footage his mother recorded. He wasn’t completely satisfied with his initial overtakes; they’d taken too long, and he fumbled near the end as well. He needed to be better if he wanted to keep winning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “I don’t remember.”