April 24.
Race Day.
Morning settled over Monaco beneath a blanket of shifting clouds.
Not dark enough to threaten.
Not light enough to promise safety.
The air carried weight.
Humidity.
Salt from the sea.
And something else—
Anticipation.
The streets had transformed once again.
Barriers tightened.
Marshals in position.
Engines warming in distant garages.
Today—
Was the day.
The day everyone had been waiting for.
Yesterday had decided the grid.
Qualifying.
Though for many watching around the world—
It had been… frustrating.
A broadcasting issue.
No live feed.
No social media coverage.
No television relay.
Only timing boards.
Fragments of information.
And word of mouth.
But inside the paddock—
Everyone knew what happened.
Session E.
The class of mid-1970s Formula One.
The era of raw machines.
Minimal downforce.
Maximum consequence.
And at the very top—
Silence Suzuka.
Driving the McLaren M23D.
Pole Position.
1:30.548
Not just fastest—
Commanding.
Clean.
Controlled.
Precise.
Beside her on the front row—
A familiar name in historic racing circles.
Stuart Hall.
Driving a McLaren M23.
His lap—
1:31.066
Close.
Respectable.
But still—
Half a second behind.
The front row told a story on its own.
Two McLarens.
Two eras.
One—
A championship-winning machine from 1976.
The other—
An earlier evolution.
Still dangerous.
Still capable.
And between them—
A contrast even sharper than the machinery.
Experience—
Versus instinct.
History—
Versus something entirely new.
In the paddock—
Mechanics made final checks.
Tire pressures.
Fuel loads.
Linkages.
Every bolt tightened with care that bordered on ritual.
Above them—
Clouds drifted slowly across the sky.
Rain wasn't certain.
But it lingered in possibility.
And on a circuit like Monaco—
That possibility changed everything.
Grip could vanish in seconds.
Braking points—
Gone.
Confidence—
Tested.
For Suzuka—
It didn't matter.
Pole position meant one thing.
Clear track ahead.
No traffic.
No compromise.
Just her.
The car.
And Monaco.
And somewhere beyond the garages—
The sound of the crowd was building.
Because soon—
The engines would fire again.
And this time—
It wouldn't be practice.
It would be war against time—
Barriers—
And history itself.
Midday in Monaco.
The earlier races had come and gone.
Classes A1, A2, B, C, and D—
Finished.
Decided.
Celebrated.
The podium ceremonies had just wrapped up.
Champagne still clung to the asphalt in faint, drying streaks.
Now—
The focus shifted.
To the final spectacle of the day.
The front straight was alive.
Not chaotic—
But controlled chaos.
Cars were being pushed into position.
One by one.
Each machine guided carefully into its grid slot based on yesterday's qualifying results.
Mechanics surrounded them like surgeons.
Final checks.
Fuel lines.
Suspension bolts.
Tire pressures.
Nothing left to chance.
Drivers stood nearby.
Some focused.
Some pacing.
Some silent.
VIPs walked the grid.
Cameras rolled.
Owners hovered close to their machines.
And at the very front—
Pole position.
The McLaren M23D.
Suzuka sat low in the cockpit.
Still.
Helmet secured.
Gloves on.
Harness tight.
She blinked once.
Slow.
Measured.
No unnecessary movement.
No wasted energy.
Then—
Her gaze shifted.
Right.
Her friends stood just beyond the barriers.
Watching.
Waiting.
A hand tapped another shoulder.
Forever Young stepped away from the group and approached.
She crouched beside the car.
"Hey."
Suzuka nodded slightly.
"Hey."
Forever Young glanced briefly behind the grid.
Scanning.
Then leaned in again.
"Where are the Americans?"
A smirk.
"Left behind?"
Suzuka chuckled softly.
"Looks like they couldn't keep up in qualifying."
Forever Young's ears twitched.
She leaned closer.
"Huh?"
Suzuka leaned slightly toward her harness.
"I said they got left behind."
A grin spread across Forever Young's face.
"Yeah."
A nod.
"I can tell."
She stood up and returned to the barrier.
Nearby—
King Halo was on her phone.
Her expression—
Tense.
Her ears slowly folded back.
Her mother's voice crackled through the speaker.
"All this tuition I pay—and you leave the country? Why not use that time to improve your running?"
King Halo's brows lowered.
A controlled sigh.
"Mom… I pay for my own tuition."
A pause.
"With my money. From my winnings."
Static.
Then—
"Oh? So you're that rich now? Funny how you don't call your own mother often."
King Halo's grip tightened slightly.
Her jaw set.
"…Uh-huh."
Flat.
"I've got to go. The race is starting."
Click.
She lowered the phone slowly.
Then shoved it into her pocket.
"…Seriously."
Forever Young looked over.
Disgust clear on her face.
"Jeez…"
"Is she always like that?"
King Halo nodded.
"Unfortunately."
Forever Young crossed her arms.
"You've got no races for the next three and a half weeks."
A nod.
"You're undefeated this season."
Another step closer.
"You can sustain yourself without them."
King Halo nodded again.
Silently.
Forever Young exhaled sharply.
"Then what does she even want?"
King Halo tapped her heel against the asphalt.
Arms crossed tightly.
"I don't know."
A bitter breath.
"When I won the Arima Kinen two years ago…"
"She barely cared about me."
Her voice lowered.
"She was more interested in the other runners."
Forever Young blinked.
"…What?"
King Halo shook her head.
Frustration building.
"I've won the Satsuki Sho."
"The Yayoi Sho."
"The Nakayama Kinen."
"The Takamatsunomiya Kinen."
She raised her hand slightly.
Counting.
"Nineteen career wins."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I've got eight more wins than her."
A pause.
Then sharper—
"I don't know what her problem is."
Her voice dropped.
Cold.
"But when I win the Triple Crown…"
"I'll prove I'm a first-rate Umamusume."
Her fist tightened.
"I've already got fourteen G1 wins."
"That's more than her entire career."
A breath.
Heavy.
"…Why does she keep dragging me down?"
Silence hung for a moment.
Then—
A small voice.
"Can we call your mom a bitch?"
Everything froze.
King Halo's eyes widened.
She snapped toward Haru Urara.
"…Urara?!"
Maruzensky jolted upright.
"Oh—!"
King Halo crouched quickly in front of Urara.
"Urara, don't say things like that!"
Her tone firm.
"But not harsh."
"That's rude."
She blinked.
Then added—
"…Where did you even learn that?"
Urara answered instantly.
"Seiun-san said it's okay if someone's being rude!"
King Halo raised a finger.
"No."
A shake of her head.
"Don't say that, okay?"
Urara nodded obediently.
"Yes, King-san!"
King Halo stood back up.
Pinched the bridge of her nose.
As Urara skipped back toward Sirius Symboli, Halo muttered under her breath—
"…I swear I'm going to crucify Seiun Sky one day…"
Special Week chuckled softly.
"Didn't expect that from Urara-chan…"
Rudolf shook her head.
"That's Seiun for you."
A faint smirk.
"Lazy… but chaotic."
King Halo nodded.
"…Always."
She glanced toward Special Week.
"You're not going to wish Suzuka good luck?"
Special Week shook her head.
A gentle smile forming.
"No need."
"She already knows."
A small pause.
"And I don't want to break her focus."
Forever Young clenched her fist.
"I just want her to beat all the Americans."
Rudolf chuckled.
"Still upset about Dubai?"
Forever Young crossed her arms.
Heel tapping sharply.
"Hell yes I am."
She leaned forward slightly.
"Can you imagine losing to a teddy bear-loving American?"
Rudolf raised an eyebrow.
"…And how do you know that?"
Instant reply.
"Because Meydan was right next to her hotel room!"
Rudolf quickly raised a finger to her lips.
"Shh—"
Nearby—
A cameraman moved in.
Live broadcast.
The lens focused on Suzuka.
From the nose of the car—
Slow pan along the side—
Closing in toward the cockpit.
Suzuka noticed.
She gave a small wave.
Then a nod.
Back at the barrier—
Sirius Symboli watched the stream on her phone.
The commentators' voices came through clearly.
"This is the 1976 M23D—an iconic machine. That Red and white Marlboro and Texaco livery—instantly recognizable."
"That's right. And alongside her—another M23, but from 1973."
A pause.
Then—
"And it's incredible, really."
"First time here in the Monaco Historic—and she's topped everything so far."
"Fastest in practice."
"Fastest in qualifying."
A small chuckle.
"Could she take the win?"
Another voice answered—
"We'll see."
A glance toward the sky.
"It's cloudy."
"And there's still a chance of rain."
The grid display lit up across the circuit screens.
Driver names.
Positions.
Numbers aligned in perfect order.
Then—
The intercom crackled to life.
"Attention, ladies and gentlemen on the grid—please vacate the area immediately. The race is about to begin."
A hinged barrier along the pit wall swung open.
An exit back toward the pit lane.
Maruzensky glanced to her left.
VIPs.
Guests.
Grid personnel—
All beginning to clear out.
Moving quickly but orderly.
"I think that's our cue."
Rudolf nodded once.
"Let's not delay the race."
The group followed the flow.
Stepping off the grid.
Back behind the barriers.
And as they did—
Engines began to fire.
One after another.
The unmistakable scream of the Ford-Cosworth DFV V8s erupted across Monaco.
Raw.
Mechanical.
Unfiltered.
Then—
A different tone joined them.
Lower.
Richer.
The lone Ferrari Flat-12 roared to life somewhere behind the grid.
The entire circuit vibrated.
Back on pole—
Suzuka sat ready in the McLaren M23D.
Her radio crackled.
"Fire it up, Suzuka. It's go time."
She pressed the mic button on her chest.
"Roger."
Her right hand moved with precision.
Ignition—on.
Fuel—on.
Master switch—on.
Then—
The red starter button.
A sharp mechanical whir—
Compressed air engaging.
And then—
Ignition.
The DFV exploded into life.
RPM surged to 5000—
Then settled.
Suzuka pressed the throttle.
Once.
6000 RPM.
Again.
9000 RPM.
The engine barked in response.
Alive.
Hungry.
A marshal stepped onto the track.
Held up a board.
18
Eighteen laps.
He ran back to safety.
Suzuka's focus narrowed.
Clutch in.
Gear lever—
Left.
Up.
First gear engaged.
She began feeding in revs.
1000 at a time.
Building.
Holding.
Then—
Green.
She launched.
Throttle down.
RPM screamed to the limit.
Clutch out—
The car jolted.
Rear wheels spinning violently.
Struggling for grip.
The engine screamed past redline.
Hovering near 11,500 RPM.
Choking for air—
But still pulling.
Then—
Grip.
The rear tires bit into the asphalt.
Suzuka shifted.
And the race—
Began.
Behind her—
The rest of the field launched in unison.
A symphony of DFVs echoing through Monaco.
Suzuka led them into Sainte Dévote.
Clean.
Controlled.
Then uphill—
Toward Beau Rivage.
Her radio came alive again.
"Suzuka—focus on tire and brake temps. Warm them up properly."
She responded instantly.
"Roger."
She feathered the brakes.
Built heat.
Then began weaving—
Left.
Right.
Left again.
Tires scrubbing.
Brakes glowing internally.
Everything coming up to temperature.
Back in the pits—
The group had taken position along the wall.
Watching.
Waiting.
Even from a distance—
The sound of the DFV engines carried.
Sharp.
Violent.
Echoing through the buildings.
Maruzensky suddenly pulled out her wallet.
A grin forming.
"Anyone want to raise the bets?"
King Halo didn't even look.
"I'm sticking with one hundred thousand yen."
Special Week raised both hands quickly.
"I'm still not betting!"
Haru Urara nodded beside her.
"Same here!"
Sirius Symboli tilted her head slightly.
"…Bets?"
Maruzensky nodded eagerly.
"Yep."
She gestured toward the track.
"One hundred thousand says Suzuka wins by twenty seconds."
King Halo smirked.
"Oh?"
She crossed her arms.
"I say thirty."
Forever Young stepped forward slightly.
A confident grin.
"I'll be precise."
The group turned toward her.
"Twenty-nine point five seconds."
A pause.
Sirius Symboli raised a hand.
A smirk creeping in.
"Alright then."
"I'm betting this race ends under a safety car."
Maruzensky leaned back dramatically.
"Ooooh—spicy."
A laugh.
"And very bad for my wallet."
She turned toward Rudolf.
"And you?"
Rudolf lowered her head slightly.
A calm smirk forming.
"…Thirty point six seconds."
Maruzensky blinked.
"…You're getting specific now?"
Rudolf chuckled softly.
"I'm exhausted of simple bets."
Sirius Symboli's expression dropped instantly.
Her eye twitched.
"…A…"
She looked at Rudolf.
"Are you fucking serious?"
Rudolf smiled.
"Why so Sirius, Symboli?"
A beat.
Silence.
Then—
Sirius exploded.
"ARE YOU BEING INTENTIONALLY DENSE?!"
Rudolf nodded calmly.
"As dense as a tungsten cube."
A slight tilt of her head.
"Absolutely."
Sirius exhaled hard.
Dragging a hand down her face.
"…Why do I even bother…"
Out on track—
The formation lap continued.
And at the front—
Suzuka led the field.
Calm.
Controlled.
Waiting—
For the real start.
Right on cue—
The sound changed.
Louder.
Sharper.
More aggressive.
The field had returned to the front straight.
Formation lap complete.
At the front—
Suzuka eased off.
Letting the pack compress behind her.
Then—
Throttle.
Hard.
The rear tires broke loose instantly.
The McLaren M23D stepped sideways.
She countersteered—
Intentionally.
A controlled fishtail.
Heating the rear tires.
Then off throttle—
On the brakes.
Speed dropped again.
She repeated it.
Throttle down—
Engine screaming past redline.
The Ford-Cosworth DFV choking at the top end.
Rear wheels spinning again.
Then—
Lift.
Clutch in.
Gear lever—
Neutral.
She coasted forward.
Slow.
Precise.
Approaching her grid slot.
The yellow line came into view.
She feathered the brake.
Stopped.
Perfect.
Wheels exactly on the mark.
To her left—
From behind the barrier—
Special Week leaned forward, shouting at the top of her lungs—
"GIVE THEM HELL, SUZUKA-SAN!!!"
Suzuka turned her head slightly.
Gave a small nod.
Then—
Her visor came down.
Focus locked.
Silence inside the helmet.
A Lotus 72E rolled slowly into position further back.
The last pieces of the grid falling into place.
Then—
One red light.
Suzuka's right foot pressed down.
Revs climbing.
Two.
Engines across the grid screamed to life.
Every driver holding the edge.
Three.
The entire circuit held its breath.
Four.
The air trembled.
Five.
Suzuka pinned the throttle.
The DFV howled—
11,000—
11,500—
11,650 RPM.
Right at the limit.
Everything shaking.
Everything ready.
A heartbeat—
Then—
Lights out.
She dumped the clutch.
The rear wheels erupted.
Screeching.
Scrambling for grip.
The car shuddered violently—
Then—
It hooked.
Launch.
Clean.
Explosive.
She surged forward.
Immediate advantage.
Second gear.
Behind her—
The pack exploded into motion.
The McLaren M26 of Michael Lyons lunged forward—
Diving past the McLaren M23 of Stuart Hall.
Position change.
Right off the line.
Further back—
Chaos.
Cars squeezed together.
Wheel to wheel.
No room.
No margin.
At the very rear—
The Trojan T103 of Bonny hesitated—
Stalled.
Then finally lurched forward.
Too late.
Up front—
Suzuka was already gone.
Into Sainte Dévote—
Clean entry.
No lockup.
No hesitation.
Perfect line.
Behind her—
The midfield tangled through the corner.
Close.
Aggressive.
Barely avoiding contact.
But Suzuka—
Was untouched.
Untouched—
And already pulling away.
As the field climbed toward Beau Rivage—
Her lead began to grow.
Not by chance.
But by control.
She rowed through the gears—
Third.
Fourth.
The McLaren surged uphill toward Massenet, the DFV howling behind her back like a living thing trying to tear itself free.
Speed climbed.
221 km/h.
Then—
Brakes.
Hard.
Her body jolted forward against the harness. The nose dipped violently as the car shed speed.
Heel-and-toe.
Blip—
Down to third—
Blip—
Down to second.
Turn in.
Tight. Precise.
A flick of steering—
A measured stab of throttle—
The rear stepped out instantly.
Loose.
Alive.
The car rotated beneath her—
The tail drifting just enough—
Not chaos.
Not yet.
Suzuka held it.
Balanced.
Then—
Straight again.
Throttle.
Full.
The rear tires spun violently, clawing at the asphalt—
The engine surged—
Screaming past its comfort zone—
Suzuka lifted slightly—
Just enough.
Then back in.
Casino
She plunged downhill.
Lyons was there.
Still there.
Half a car length behind.
Close enough to smell the fuel.
The road dipped.
Weight transferred forward—
Then snapped rearward—
And the McLaren reacted.
Violently.
The rear stepped out—
Hard.
Suzuka's hands moved before thought—
Countersteer—
Catch—
Hold—
The wheel danced in her grip as the chassis fought her.
The engine screamed past redline—
11,000—
11,300—
Beyond—
Then—
Grip.
Sudden. Violent.
The car snapped straight.
She let it run wide—
Then subtly corrected—
Right to avoid the bump—
Back left—
Setting up for the next corner.
Third gear.
Behind her—
Lyons closed in again.
Relentless.
Mirabeau Haute
Brakes.
Heavy.
Late.
The rear danced under deceleration—
Unstable.
Alive.
Suzuka controlled it—
Blipped—
Down to first.
Turn in—
Tight.
Slow.
Controlled aggression.
She held the inside line perfectly.
Then—
Throttle.
The engine overrevved instantly—
11,400 RPM—
The DFV choking—
Screaming—
Protesting—
But still alive.
Grand Hotel Hairpin
Brakes again.
Full lock.
Her arms crossed over one another on the wheel—
Maximum steering angle.
The car crawled—
But even here—
It wasn't stable.
Throttle blip—
Rear loosened—
Rotated.
She held it—
Balanced at the edge of grip.
Then—
Exit.
Full throttle.
The rear wheels spun—
Scrabbling—
Fighting for traction on the polished Monaco surface.
But this time—
She edged away.
The gap behind—
Finally—
Started growing again.
Mirabeau Bas → Portier
Lift—
Turn—
Apex—
Throttle—
The rear fishtailed—
Snapped—
Caught instantly.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
Into Portier—
Smooth—
Precise—
She pointed the nose toward the tunnel—
Then committed.
Tunnel
Flat out.
The rear slipped for a fraction—
Then hooked.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
The engine screamed into the enclosed space—
The sound—
Exploded.
A violent metallic symphony echoing off concrete walls—
Deafening.
Relentless.
238 km/h.
The revs climbed again—
Overrevving—
The DFV gasping for air at the top end—
Still pushing—
Still pulling.
Behind her—
Lyons began to fall back.
From half a car—
To one—
Then more.
Nouvelle Chicane
100 marker—
Brake.
Hard.
The rear twitched—
Light—
Unstable—
The car felt like it wanted to rotate on its own axis.
Suzuka forced it straight—
Turn in—
Early—
Aggressive.
Aim—
For the barrier.
Commit.
Clip.
Inner apex—
Immediate transition—
Throw it across—
Outer apex—
The right-side wheels ran deep—
Beyond the curb—
The left stayed in.
Legal.
Barely.
No correction.
No hesitation.
Back on throttle.
Tabac → Piscine
Second—Third—
Into Tabac—
Fast.
Committed.
No lift.
The engine screamed again—
Overrevving—
The car barely settled—
Then through.
Out.
Into Louis Chiron chicane—
Too close—
Way too close—
Barriers flashing inches from the wheels—
Tires scrubbing—
But holding.
Then—
Piscine.
Faster.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
Hard right—
Rear nearly kissed the barrier—
Transition—
Second apex—
Clear.
Rascasse → Antony Noghès
Brake.
Into Rascasse—
Slow.
Technical.
She rotated the car early—
Apex—
Patience—
Throttle—
Rear spin—
She feathered it—
Controlled it—
Exit.
Final corner.
Antony Noghès.
Brake.
Turn—
Clip—
Perfect.
Behind—
Lyons lunged.
A sudden move—
A feint—
He swerved—
Almost touching Suzuka's rear-right.
Too close.
Way too close.
But Suzuka didn't flinch.
Main Straight
Apex out—
Then—
Flat.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
The McLaren surged forward—
Unstable—
Violent—
But fast.
Very fast.
The gap behind—
Exploded open again.
From inches—
To space.
From space—
To time.
She blasted past the pit wall—
And the board came out.
Clear.
Bold.
Unmistakable.
LYO: +1.270
Suzuka didn't react.
Didn't nod.
Didn't celebrate.
Didn't even blink.
Because she already knew.
She wasn't racing Lyons anymore.
She was racing the clock.
And the next lap—
Would be even faster.
Cars screamed past the pit wall—
One by one—
A relentless procession of raw, mechanical violence.
The sound of 1970s Formula One filled the air—
High-revving, unfiltered, unapologetic.
No hybrids.
No muffling.
Just engines—
And fury.
Maruzensky couldn't hold it in.
As the last car blasted past—
She jumped, fist raised high—
"YES!! HAHAHA!! THIS IS THE SOUND I LIVE FOR!!"
Her eyes sparkled—
Wide.
Alive.
"VERY GROOVY, MY FRIENDS!!"
Forever Young blinked.
"…Groovy?"
Rudolf chuckled softly, arms folded.
"A rather… vintage way of saying excellent."
Forever Young nodded slowly.
"Ah… got it."
She glanced back toward the track—
The thunder never stopping.
Lap 5
The race settled into rhythm.
Suzuka—
Already pulling away.
Gap to P2: 2.6 seconds.
Lap 8
The gap didn't just grow—
It exploded.
9 seconds.
Back on track—
Suzuka wasn't just driving.
She was controlling chaos.
Every corner—
The M23D fought her.
The rear never truly settled—
Sliding—
Squirming—
Threatening to snap loose at any moment.
And yet—
She held it.
Every time.
Lap 9
Through Portier—
Clean.
Precise.
Then—
Flat out into the tunnel.
Her radio crackled.
"Yellow flags, Suzuka. Yellow flags."
"We've got a wreck at Sainte Devote—pit exit. Advise caution."
No reply.
But—
She lifted.
Slightly.
Enough.
At the pit wall—
Haru Urara leaned forward, ears twitching.
"Whoa! Yellow flags are out, you guys!"
Maruzensky perked up instantly.
"Yellow flags?!"
She rushed closer—
The group following—
Eyes locked on the big screen.
Replay
The 1975 Penske PC3.
Charging down toward Sainte Devote—
Then—
Brakes.
Hard.
Too hard.
The rear right locked.
A moment.
A fraction—
Then—
Snap.
The rear stepped out violently—
Oversteer.
But instead of spinning—
It gripped.
Suddenly.
Sharply.
The car darted right—
Uncontrolled—
Unrecoverable—
Impact.
The nose slammed into the inner barrier—
Carbon and aluminum shattered—
The front monocoque crumpling inward.
Debris scattered across the escape road.
Silence—
Then—
The engine died.
The driver—
Still.
Then slowly—
He raised both hands—
Pressed them against his helmet—
Then dropped them to his lap.
Defeat.
A moment later—
He climbed out.
Unaided.
Unharmed.
Back at the pit wall—
Suzuka's group exhaled collectively.
"That looked nasty…" Special Week whispered.
Rudolf nodded.
"That corner punishes even the smallest mistake."
Maruzensky crossed her arms.
"Locked rear under braking… classic."
The wrecked Penske was quickly pushed behind the barriers—
Marshals working with precision.
And just like that—
Green flag.
Lap 12
Suzuka didn't hesitate.
Didn't slow beyond what was necessary.
Didn't lose rhythm.
She attacked.
Gap to P2: 13 seconds.
And she was still pushing.
Harder.
Further.
Beyond the car's limits.
Every corner—
The M23D danced on a knife's edge.
Rear stepping out—
Sliding—
Rotating—
Sometimes before the apex—
Sometimes after—
Sometimes all the way through.
And Suzuka—
Barely countersteering.
Minimal corrections.
Maximum commitment.
To the untrained eye—
It looked reckless.
To those who understood—
It was something else entirely.
The Art of Flat-Out Driving
Man—
And machine—
Locked together.
Not fighting.
Not resisting.
But moving as one.
Lap 13
No interruptions.
No yellows.
Just pace.
Relentless pace.
Gap: 17 seconds.
At the pit wall—
Even the McLaren crew had gone quiet.
They weren't watching a race anymore.
They were watching a statement.
Lap 15
Suzuka came through the final sector—
Clean.
Aggressive.
Unshaken.
She crossed the line—
+27 seconds.
The board went up.
Behind the barrier—
Maruzensky's jaw dropped.
"That's insane…"
Forever Young let out a low whistle.
"She's not racing anymore…"
Sirius Symboli narrowed her eyes.
"She's dismantling them."
Rudolf exhaled slowly.
A faint smile forming.
"…No."
She shook her head.
"She's rewriting the gap between eras."
Out on track—
Suzuka didn't see the reactions.
Didn't hear the crowd.
Didn't care about the margin.
Because even with a 27-second lead—
She still drove the same way.
Flat out.
And with three laps remaining—
She wasn't done yet.
Then—
Yellow flags.
Again.
Up ahead—
The No. 4 Tyrrell 007.
Into Sainte Devote.
Brakes—
Too hard.
The front-right locked instantly.
A puff of smoke—
Then a scream of tortured rubber.
The car refused to turn.
Straight on.
It shot past the apex—
Into the run-off.
Dust kicked up—
Gravel scattering—
The driver fought it—
Hands working—
Steering—
Throttle—
Brake—
Then—
A spin.
The Tyrrell rotated—
Half—
Full—
And somehow—
Pointed back toward the track.
The engine roared again—
And the car rejoined.
Green flag.
But Monaco—
Never forgives twice.
Moments Later — Beau Rivage
The same Tyrrell charged uphill—
Flat out—
Engine screaming—
Then—
Something broke.
Or maybe—
Just too much speed.
The car drifted slightly off line—
Too close to the outside—
Too committed—
Impact.
A violent hit at the start of Massenet.
The front-right corner took the full force—
And failed.
The suspension sheared off instantly.
The wheel tore free—
Bouncing away down the track.
The chassis slammed into the barrier—
Crushing metal—
Shaking the fencing—
Tearing part of the sponsor banner clean off.
Debris scattered.
Marshals rushed.
On track—
Suzuka approached.
Her radio crackled sharply:
"Suzuka, caution. Tyrrell in the barriers at Massenet, right side."
"Use caution in the area."
A click.
"Roger."
A second click.
Calm. Measured.
"Gap to the car behind?"
A pause.
Then—
"Thirteen seconds."
Suzuka didn't react.
Didn't celebrate.
Didn't push harder.
She simply adjusted.
Slight lift—
Slight correction—
Then back to pace.
Because even chaos—
Didn't change her rhythm.
Lap 16 — Midfield Chaos
Further back—
The race turned wild.
Out of the tunnel—
A train of cars charged toward Nouvelle Chicane.
Ferrari 312T2 (P10)
March 741 (P11)
Penske PC4 (P12)
Shadow DN1 (P13 & P14)
Ahead of them—
A slower car.
Surtees TS16.
Blue flags waved.
Furiously.
But space—
Was nonexistent.
The Ferrari moved first—
Diving alongside—
Then edging ahead of the Surtees—
Claiming the racing line—
The Penske didn't wait.
It went late on the brakes.
Too late.
Almost.
Three cars—
Three wide.
Into the chicane.
The Ferrari braked—
Hard—
Committed—
The Penske—
Somehow—
Made it through.
Barely.
Clipping the apex—
Threading the needle—
Behind them—
The March locked both front wheels.
Smoke exploded from the tires—
A high-pitched screech filled the air—
No grip.
No turning.
The car slid straight—
Past the Ferrari—
Missing it by inches.
The crowd gasped.
The March cut across the chicane—
Completely straight-lined it—
But—
No throttle.
The driver hesitated—
Careful—
Aware.
No acceleration.
No advantage taken.
Avoiding a penalty.
Just survival.
Pit Wall Reaction
The group jumped in unison.
Maruzensky's hand shot to her head.
"OH!!"
Special Week turned away—
Hands over her eyes.
"I can't watch!!"
King Halo didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Her eyes were wide—
Locked onto the screen.
Haru Urara blinked rapidly—
A bead of sweat forming—
"That was close…!"
Forever Young exhaled slowly—
Low—
Tense.
"That's not racing anymore… that's war."
Sirius Symboli crossed her arms—
Eyes narrowed.
"Midfield's collapsing under pressure."
Rudolf nodded once.
"Monaco always exposes the limits."
Back to Suzuka
Up front—
None of it mattered.
No battles.
No pressure.
No mistakes.
Just—
Precision.
Control.
Speed.
Suzuka exited Portier—
Clean.
Into the tunnel—
Flat out.
The engine screamed again—
Echoing violently—
Relentless—
Unforgiving.
She wasn't part of the chaos behind.
She was above it.
And as Lap 16 closed—
With the gap still sitting comfortably—
The question was no longer if she would win.
It was—
By how much.
And with only two laps remaining—
Even now—
Suzuka wasn't lifting.
Not even slightly.
The race pressed on—
Relentless.
Unforgiving.
Then—
Rascasse.
The Trojan T103 came in too hot.
Brakes—
Too late.
The nose dipped—
The rear went light—
And—
Impact.
Straight into the tyre wall.
Front-first.
Violent.
The nose crumpled inward—
Front-left suspension twisted—
Dead.
The driver climbed out quickly—
Unhurt—
Leaning against the barrier beside the wreck—
Helmet tilted down.
Watching the race continue without him.
But it wasn't over.
Behind—
One of the Shadow DN1s approached.
Brake—
Lock-up.
The front tires screamed—
The car slid—
Straight toward the stranded Trojan.
Gasps from the crowd—
At the last second—
The driver avoided it—
Barely.
But the car stopped awkwardly.
Half-angled.
Blocking space.
Then—
It began to reverse.
And that—
Was the mistake.
Behind it—
The second Shadow DN1 arrived.
No room.
No time.
Contact.
The reversing Shadow's rear-right tyre struck the other's front-left.
A sharp crack—
Suspension snapped—
The wheel jerked violently off-angle.
Momentum carried both cars—
Forward—
Unstable—
Entangled—
Then—
Another hit.
The second Shadow's rear-left collided with the first's rear-right.
Rubber against rubber—
Metal against metal—
Both cars crippled.
The corner—
Blocked.
Suzuka — Approach
Suzuka saw it.
All of it.
In an instant.
Her eyes widened.
Brakes.
Hard.
The front wheels locked momentarily—
A chirp—
A protest—
The car refusing to slow cleanly.
She forced it.
Turned in—
Aggressively—
Aiming for the apex—
Searching for space—
Any space.
Then—
The front washed out.
Grip—
Gone.
Her eyes snapped down—
Just for a split second—
To the steering input—
To feel it—
To understand it—
Then back up.
Exit.
Always the exit.
Decision made.
Throttle.
Hard.
The rear stepped out immediately—
Spinning—
Struggling—
The engine screamed—
Climbing to redline—
Over it—
Suzuka modulated the throttle—
On—
Off—
On—
Fighting—
Balancing—
For grip.
The car slid—
Sideways—
Dangerously close to the wreckage—
But it cleared.
Barely.
She slipped past the chaos—
Out of Rascasse—
And into Antony Noghès.
Alive.
Radio
Click.
Her voice sharp.
Controlled—
But furious.
"Rascasse is wet! This is insane!"
"The track is partially blocked there!"
No hesitation.
No panic.
Just information.
Then—
Focus.
Lap 17
Across the line.
She didn't back off.
Didn't play safe.
Didn't protect the lead.
She attacked.
Now—
It wasn't about the gap.
It was about the lap.
Sainte Devote
Markers flashed past—
100—
50—
Brakes.
Hard.
Front tires chirped—
Rear danced—
Heel-and-toe.
Perfect.
Third—
Second—
Turn in—
Sharp.
Precise.
Throttle blip—
The rear stepped out—
Controlled.
Balanced.
A perfect four-wheel drift.
Exit—
Full throttle.
The car slid wide—
Too wide—
The barrier rushed toward her—
Missed.
By inches.
Massenet → Casino
Third.
Fourth.
Speed climbing—
215 km/h.
Brakes.
Downshift—
Third—
Second—
Turn in—
Tight—
Rear loose—
Rotate—
Catch—
Straighten—
Back on power—
The rear spun violently—
Engine surged—
Lift—
Into Casino.
The road dipped—
Weight shifted—
The rear snapped.
Hard.
Suzuka reacted instantly—
Countersteer—
Hold—
Balance—
The engine screamed—
Past redline—
Beyond—
Then—
Grip.
The car snapped straight.
Third gear.
Mirabeau Haute → Hairpin
Brakes.
Heavy.
Down to first.
Turn in—
Tight—
Slow—
Controlled.
Throttle—
The engine overrevved—
11,400 RPM—
Then—
Brakes again.
Grand Hotel Hairpin.
Full lock.
Arms crossed.
Throttle blip—
Rear loosened—
Rotate—
Exit—
Full throttle.
The rear wheels spun—
Fighting—
Scrabbling—
Portier → Tunnel
Lift—
Turn—
Apex—
Throttle—
Rear fishtail—
Caught instantly.
Into Portier—
Clean.
Then—
Flat out.
Into the tunnel.
The rear slipped—
Then hooked.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
The sound—
Exploded.
Echoing violently—
A metallic scream bouncing off concrete—
Relentless.
238 km/h.
The revs climbed—
Overrevving—
The DFV gasping—
Still pulling—
Nouvelle Chicane
100 marker—
Brake.
Hard.
Rear twitch—
Light—
Unstable—
Turn in—
Early—
Aggressive—
Aim—
For the barrier.
Clip.
Inner apex—
Transition—
Throw it across—
Outer apex—
Right-side wheels ran deep—
Beyond the curb—
Left side—
Still in.
Legal.
Barely.
Then—
Throttle.
Flat again.
And still—
She wasn't done.
Even after surviving chaos—
Even after threading through wreckage—
Even with a massive lead—
Suzuka kept pushing.
Because for her—
There was no such thing as enough.
Only—
faster.
Then—
Her radio crackled again.
"Suzuka… Safety Car deployed. Safety Car deployed."
Instantly—
Marshals leaned out from behind the barriers—
Double yellow flags waving.
Suzuka lifted.
The throttle eased—
The violent scream of the DFV softened into a controlled growl.
She let the car coast—
Bringing it down—
From the edge—
To something manageable.
A sharp exhale left her lips.
"…Jeez."
From pit exit—
The Safety Car emerged.
A bright yellow A90 Toyota Supra—
Modern.
Out of place.
Yet commanding.
It rolled onto the circuit—
Waiting.
For her.
Sector Three — Under Safety Car
Suzuka flowed through—
Tabac.
Louis Chiron.
Piscine.
Slower now.
Measured.
Controlled.
Through Turns 15, 16, 17—
Then into—
Rascasse.
She slowed further.
Ahead—
The wreckage remained.
Three crippled Formula One cars—
Still sitting where they had died.
And then—
The sky shifted.
The drizzle thickened—
Drops striking her visor—
One—
Two—
Then many.
Rain.
Light—
But enough.
The surface darkened.
Shining.
Treacherous.
Suzuka guided the McLaren through carefully—
No risks.
Not now.
Out of Rascasse—
Through Antony Noghès—
And back onto the main straight.
Pit Wall
Maruzensky slammed a hand against the barrier.
"Damn it!"
She turned to Rudolf—
Frustrated.
"Can we just call it at Lap 16?!"
King Halo shook her head immediately.
"No. We agreed. Full 18 laps."
Maruzensky's ears dropped.
Her shoulders followed.
She crossed her arms tightly.
"God damn it…"
Rudolf chuckled softly.
"Maruzen…"
Maruzensky shot her a look.
"What."
Rudolf smirked.
"Expect the unexpected."
Beside them—
Sirius Symboli tried—and failed—to hold back laughter.
"I… I'm sorry you guys…"
She chuckled.
"Looks like you all just lost to the weather."
Final Lap — Under Safety Car
Suzuka crossed the line.
Final lap.
She caught the Safety Car.
Ahead—
A lapped March 761.
The order formed.
Safety Car.
March (lapped).
Suzuka.
Then the rest—
Closing rapidly.
The gap—
Gone.
From seconds—
To nothing.
The field compressed—
Four cars now bunched together—
While the rest of the grid lagged behind—
Most of them already lapped.
But it didn't matter.
Not anymore.
Suzuka knew.
The race—
Was hers.
Rascasse — Final Moments
They rolled slowly into Rascasse again.
The Safety Car stopped.
The wreck still blocked part of the racing line.
All four cars halted.
Rain tapping steadily now—
Tyres slipping slightly on the damp surface.
Engines idling.
Waiting.
Ten seconds.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Then—
The Safety Car moved again.
Guiding them through the gap.
One by one—
They followed.
Out of Rascasse—
Through Antony Noghès—
The March crossed first—
But a lap down.
Irrelevant.
And then—
Checkered Flag
It waved.
Suzuka raised a hand—
Pumping it once.
She crossed the line.
P1.
Victory.
Pit Wall — Eruption
The group exploded.
Fists raised—
Voices shouting—
All at once.
"Suzuka! Suzuka! SUZUKA!!"
Haru Urara jumped the highest—
Arms in the air—
"She did it!! Suzuka-san won!!!"
Maruzensky laughed despite herself—
Rudolf smiled proudly—
King Halo nodded, satisfied—
Forever Young grinned wide—
Sirius just shook her head, impressed.
Suzuka — In Car
Suzuka lifted her visor—
Rain speckling her face—
Sweat still clinging beneath.
She rocked forward—
Back—
Energy bursting out of her.
"YES!! YES!! LET'S GO!!"
Her radio crackled—
"W-well done, Suzuka-san! P1! Fantastic drive!"
"That was incredible to watch!"
She smiled.
Breathing steady.
Heart still racing.
Then—
A car pulled alongside.
Another McLaren M23.
Stuart Hall.
He looked over—
Raised a fist.
Respect.
Suzuka nodded back—
Returning a thumbs up.
No words needed.
Final Result
At the end of it all—
McLaren.
One.
Two.
Three.
A complete domination.
And at the very front of it—
A driver who didn't just win—
She mastered the chaos.
She mastered the machine.
She mastered Monaco.
Rain continued to fall lightly over the circuit.
Engines cooled.
Crowds roared.
History—
Rewritten.
They rolled slowly along the circuit.
The chaos at Rascasse was already being cleared—marshals in orange overalls guiding the battered machines away, bits of carbon and rubber scattered like remnants of battle. The rain had eased slightly, but the track still shimmered under a thin reflective layer.
As Suzuka approached the start-finish straight once more—
Three boards stood ahead.
P3.
P2.
P1.
Hers… was waiting at the very front.
She gave the throttle three sharp stabs—
BRAAAP—BRAAAP—BRAAAP—
Each rev slammed into the upper limits of the Ford-Cosworth DFV, the engine screaming past ten thousand before choking against its mechanical ceiling.
Then—
She slipped the car into neutral.
Let it roll.
Slow.
Controlled.
Until the nose aligned perfectly with the P1 board.
The McLaren came to a gentle stop.
And just like that—
Silence.
Well… almost.
The ticking.
The metallic clicking.
Heat dissipating from the engine block, exhaust headers, suspension arms.
A living machine… finally at rest.
Inside the cockpit—
Suzuka didn't move at first.
Her chest rose.
Fell.
Then—
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Then another.
She reached up, slipping her fingers through the gap beneath her visor, wiping them away quickly as cameras zoomed in.
But it didn't matter.
The emotion was already there.
Visible.
Raw.
Real.
She flicked off the switches.
Fuel.
Ignition.
Everything went dead.
The DFV fell completely silent.
Click.
Her harness released.
She planted both hands on the cockpit edges—
And lifted herself up.
Standing tall on the narrow seat.
Above the car.
Above everything.
Her fists clenched—
Then shot upward.
"LETS GOOOOO!!!"
Her voice echoed across the straight.
"THANK YOU!!! THANK YOU ECLIPSE!!!"
Ahead—
Beyond the barrier—
Her people.
Her team.
Her friends.
Already cheering.
Already jumping.
Already losing their minds.
Suzuka didn't hesitate.
She dropped down from the car—
Boots hitting asphalt—
And broke into a run.
Straight toward them.
Impact.
A full collision into a wall of arms.
Laughter.
Voices overlapping.
Everyone shouting at once.
They wrapped around her—
Jumping.
Cheering.
Shaking her.
A storm of celebration.
"SUZUKA!!!"
"YOU DID IT!!!"
"THAT WAS INSANE!!"
Haru Urara was practically bouncing off the ground.
"We won! We won! We won!!"
Maruzensky laughed loud and unfiltered.
"THAT SOUND—THAT DRIVE—PERFECT!!"
King Halo smiled, calmer—but her eyes said everything.
Rudolf simply nodded once.
Firm.
Proud.
Forever Young crossed her arms with a grin.
"Told you to beat that American."
Suzuka laughed breathlessly.
"Consider it done."
Eventually—
She stepped back.
Still smiling.
Still catching her breath.
And walked back toward the McLaren.
One by one—
The gear came off.
Helmet.
HANS.
Earpiece.
Gloves.
Balaclava.
Each piece placed carefully into the cockpit.
Almost respectfully.
Like returning something sacred.
Then—
An official approached.
Holding a wreath garland.
"Congratulations, Suzuka."
She bowed slightly.
The garland was placed over her shoulders.
A symbol of victory.
Tradition.
Honor.
At the front—
She met Stuart Hall.
A firm handshake.
"Congratulations, Suzuka! Brilliant drive."
"You too," she replied with a nod. "That was a strong race."
Then Nicholas Padmore.
Another handshake.
Another exchange of respect.
"Where's Michael?" Suzuka asked.
Nicholas shook his head.
"Not classified. Car issue, I think."
Suzuka's expression softened.
"…That's unfortunate."
Racing.
It gives.
It takes.
Before she could say more—
A reporter stepped forward.
Microphone raised.
"Silence Suzuka! What an incredible race!"
She gestured toward the track.
"You drove on the absolute limit—especially in the rain."
Then pointed at the tires.
"Slicks. In these conditions."
She leaned in slightly.
"Was it even drivable?"
Suzuka scratched the back of her head.
A small, honest laugh escaping.
"…Not really."
A few chuckles from nearby.
"The car understeers. Then suddenly oversteers. And on slicks—any mistake… you spin."
She glanced up at the sky.
Still grey.
Still heavy.
Then smiled faintly.
"…I think maybe Ayrton sent a bit of rain. Just to test us."
The reporter smiled.
"And your first Monaco Historic race—winning on debut."
"Did your previous experience help?"
Suzuka looked at the McLaren.
Then back.
"It helped… but these cars are different."
"Completely raw. Mechanical. No safety nets."
She paused.
Then added, quietly—
"…And I loved it."
"More than the modern ones?"
A beat.
Suzuka nodded.
"…Yeah. I think so."
The interview wrapped.
Applause followed.
And Suzuka returned to her group briefly—
Just long enough for one more exchange.
Forever Young smirked.
"So… how'd our bets go?"
Suzuka tilted her head.
"…Badly?"
"Very badly," Forever Young sighed.
Then pointed at Sirius.
"She's the only one who won."
Sirius Symboli grinned.
"Told you. Safety car."
Just then.
Suzuka had barely taken a few steps back toward her group when an official approached briskly.
"Suzuka, we need you by the podium."
She paused.
Then gave a small nod.
"Got it."
She turned back to her friends—offering a quick wave, a reassuring smile—before stepping away and heading toward the podium staging area.
The noise of the crowd followed her.
Cheering.
Applause.
Cameras clicking endlessly.
But as she moved closer to the podium entrance, everything seemed to narrow—her focus sharpening again, just like before a race start.
Ahead—
Three table stands were set.
Marked clearly.
P3.
P2.
P1.
Standing beside them were the other two finishers.
Stuart Hall.
Nicholas Padmore.
Both already out of their cars, helmets off, suits slightly damp from sweat and the lingering mist in the air.
They turned as Suzuka approached.
Stuart broke into a grin immediately—clapping once before stepping forward and extending his hand.
"Hey! There's the winner! Thought you'd gone home already!"
Suzuka let out a soft laugh as she took his hand firmly.
"Not at all. Just got caught up with my friends."
Stuart chuckled.
"Fair enough. Hell of a drive out there."
Nicholas was already stepping forward next, hand extended.
Suzuka turned and shook it.
"Great race," she said sincerely.
"You too," Nicholas replied with a nod. "You were on another level today."
Suzuka tilted her head slightly.
"Say… where's Michael?"
Nicholas exhaled through his nose, giving a small shrug.
"I don't know exactly. Heard he wasn't classified."
Suzuka's eyes widened slightly.
"…What? That's so unfortunate…"
Nicholas nodded.
"Probably something mechanical. Happens a lot with these cars."
Suzuka's expression softened for a moment.
A reminder—
That even in victory, the margin between finishing and falling out was razor thin.
Before the moment lingered too long—
Another official approached them.
Professional. Direct.
"Gentlemen, Suzuka—please proceed to the stairs. Order is P3, P2, then P1. Wait for your names to be called."
All three nodded in unison.
They turned—
And began walking toward the doorway that led to the podium stairs.
The corridor ahead was narrow.
Dimmer.
Quieter.
A brief calm before stepping back into the spotlight.
Behind them—
The trackside atmosphere had completely shifted.
The marshals opened access.
The crowd surged forward—filling the space near the podium barriers.
Phones raised.
Voices rising.
Energy building.
Among them—
Suzuka's group.
Clustered together near the outer edge.
Still buzzing from the race.
Still riding the high.
Special Week leaned forward slightly, peering upward toward the podium structure.
"Suzuka-san must be up there already…"
Maruzensky crossed her arms with a confident grin.
"Mhm… no doubt about it."
Her eyes gleamed.
"She's taking the top step. No question."
Rudolf stood just behind them, composed as ever.
She gave a small, approving nod.
"Another victory in her record…"
A brief pause.
Then—
"…Even if it's on a completely different battlefield."
King Halo watched quietly.
A faint smile forming.
Not loud.
Not exaggerated.
Just… certain.
Forever Young exhaled through her nose, arms crossed.
"…Yeah."
Then a slight smirk.
"She didn't just win."
"She dominated."
Above them—
Beyond the doorway—
Suzuka and the others began ascending the narrow staircase.
Step by step.
Each footfall echoing faintly.
With every step—
The roar of the crowd grew louder.
And at the top—
Waiting just beyond the light—
Was the podium.
The moment.
Then—
The speakers crackled to life.
A deep, clear voice echoed across the circuit.
"Now… please join us in welcoming our top three drivers!"
The crowd responded instantly.
Cheers swelling.
Hands raised.
Phones lifted high.
"In third place… driving the Number 5 Lotus 77…"
A pause.
"Nicholas Padmore!"
Nicholas stepped out from the side of the podium entrance.
A composed smile on his face.
He raised a hand—
Acknowledging the crowd.
The applause met him in full force.
He approached the podium, shaking hands with the two officials stationed behind it.
Then turned—
And took his place on the third step.
The announcer continued.
"In second place… driving the Number 5 McLaren M23…"
"Stuart Hall!"
Stuart emerged next.
More animated.
He walked straight toward the glass barrier overlooking the crowd below—
Leaning slightly forward as he waved.
The fans responded louder.
He grinned.
Turned back.
Met Nicholas halfway—
The two exchanged a quick, respectful dap.
A shared understanding.
A race well fought.
Then Stuart stepped up onto the second podium step.
And then—
A brief silence.
The kind that builds tension.
The kind that sharpens anticipation.
The announcer's voice rose.
"And in first place… in her FIRST outing in the Historic Monaco Grand Prix…"
"Driving the Number Eleven McLaren M23D…"
A beat.
Then—
"PLEASE WELCOME…"
"SILENCE SUZUKA!!"
The crowd exploded.
A wall of sound.
Cheers.
Shouts.
Applause crashing like waves against the circuit.
Below—
Haru Urara and Special Week jumped in place, fists raised high.
"SUZUKA! SUZUKA! SUZUKA!!"
Their voices barely audible over the roar—
But unwavering.
Suzuka stepped out.
Into the light.
Into the noise.
She paused.
Just for a moment.
Taking it in.
The crowd below.
The lights.
The atmosphere.
The weight of the moment.
Then—
She smiled.
Raised her fist—
A sharp, confident motion.
She walked forward.
Met Nicholas first—
A quick dap.
Then Stuart—
Another.
No words needed.
Just respect.
Then—
With a light step—
She climbed onto the top podium.
First place.
Moments later—
An official approached.
Then another.
And then—
The President of the Conseil National—
Thomas Brezzo.
Holding a large silver trophy.
He stepped forward.
Extended his hand.
Suzuka met it—
A firm clasp.
Then—
A quick dap.
A shared smile.
The trophy was passed into her hands.
Heavy.
Cold.
Real.
She gripped it by the handle.
Raised it slightly—
And the cameras flashed.
A storm of light.
Capturing the moment forever.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Brezzo stepped aside.
Suzuka stood alone at the top.
Then—
She lifted the trophy high.
Above her head.
The crowd roared again.
She lowered it—
Pointed down toward her friends.
A silent message.
A shared victory.
Then—
A gentle, almost playful gesture—
She kissed the trophy.
Another official stepped forward.
Holding a presentation box.
Inside—
A TAG Heuer Monaco.
Suzuka accepted it with a nod.
Another handshake.
Another flash of cameras.
Another frozen moment in time.
Then—
One more.
A different trophy.
Smaller.
But heavier in meaning.
The Niki Lauda Trophy.
Dedicated to the very era these machines came from.
To the drivers who defined it.
To the risks they lived with.
Suzuka received it with both hands.
A moment of quiet respect crossing her expression.
Another handshake.
Another photograph.
Behind her—
Stuart and Nicholas received their trophies as well.
Applause continuing.
Relentless.
And then—
For the final moment—
Suzuka turned slightly.
Looked at both of them.
"Come up here," she said.
A small smile.
"You two did great too."
They hesitated—
Only for a second.
Then stepped up.
Joining her on the top step.
The three stood side by side.
Trophies raised.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
A final image.
Three drivers.
One race.
One moment.
Below—
King Halo crossed her arms, smiling.
"Atta girl, Suzuka…"
The cheers carried on.
Echoing through Monaco's narrow streets.
Bouncing off the buildings.
Drifting out toward the sea.
And slowly—
Very slowly—
The night took over.
Hours passed.
The crowds thinned.
The lights dimmed.
The circuit returned to silence.
It was well beyond midnight.
1:30 AM.
High above the city—
In a quiet hotel room—
The balcony doors stood open.
Suzuka stood there.
Alone.
The cool sea wind brushed against her face.
Her hair swayed gently in the breeze.
The distant sound of waves barely audible beneath the quiet hum of the city.
She exhaled.
Softly.
Then smiled.
Not the confident grin from earlier.
Not the competitive smirk.
Something quieter.
Something deeper.
She turned.
Slowly.
Inside the room—
On the mirror table—
Rested the trophies.
The silver cup.
The watch box.
The Lauda trophy.
Reflections dancing across their surfaces from the dim lights.
The team had let her keep them.
Not just as awards—
But as memories.
Proof.
She stepped closer.
Reached out.
Her fingers brushing lightly against the cold metal.
Her reflection stared back at her—
Faint.
Blended with the shine of victory.
She closed her eyes.
Just for a second.
The roar of the engine.
The snap of oversteer.
The dance of the car at the limit.
The tunnel.
The rain.
The finish line.
All of it—
Still alive.
Still fresh.
She opened her eyes again.
"…We did it."
A quiet whisper.
To herself.
To the machine.
To the moment.
Outside—
Monaco slept.
But somewhere—
Deep in the silence—
The echo of a screaming DFV V8 still lingered.
And with it—
The story of a driver—
Who stepped into the past…
And mastered it.