The Interlagos circuit slept quietly beneath the golden morning sun. No grandstands roared. No cameras rolled. No pitboards flashed team orders. The usual madness of a Grand Prix weekend hadn't yet begun—but there was something special brewing at Turn 1.
A one-on-one race. No points. No contracts. No politics.
Just two drivers. One veteran. One rookie.
---
Sukhman arrived early, stepping out of the paddock tunnel with his race suit half-zipped and the Interlagos breeze tugging at his hair. Nandini walked beside him, handing over his gloves.
"You sure about this?" she asked.
He gave her a confident nod. "I want to see where I stand."
"You're not here to prove a point."
"Maybe not. But he needs this." Sukhman looked toward the garage. "And so do I."
Across the pit lane, Daan Vermer stood suited up in the white-orange livery of his team. The Dutch flag stitched on his collar fluttered as he adjusted his gloves. He looked up when Sukhman approached.
"You showed up," Daan said with a tired smile.
"I said I would."
"You're brave, kid. Or stupid."
Sukhman chuckled. "Both, probably."
Henrik Maes stood behind them, arms crossed and eyes sharp. "Listen," he said, stepping between them. "This isn't just some fun run. Daan, I want you to push yourself. Not for us, not for the media—but for the driver in you."
Daan nodded. "I know."
Henrik turned to Sukhman. "And you—don't hold back. I want him to feel the pressure of this new generation breathing down his neck."
"With pleasure, sir." Sukhman said.
---
The mechanics had prepared two identical time attack specification cars—machines carefully engineered for purity of performance. These weren't the full-blown beasts used on Sunday race days, but they weren't underpowered either. In fact, these cars might've been even more unforgiving.
Stripped-down from their usual Grand Prix trim, these cars had all the excess removed—no Drag Reduction System (DRS) to aid in overtakes, no Energy Recovery System (ERS) to give a burst of hybrid boost on the straights. What remained was the car in its rawest form: manual throttle control, raw engine mapping, and full mechanical grip.
This setup meant there would be no gimmicks—no clever systems to mask a driver's flaws or make up time through button-presses. It was all driver and machine, connected by reflex, instinct, and trust in the limit.
Both cars ran the same medium downforce package, tuned for Interlagos's balance of long straights and technical corners. Identical tire compounds. Identical fuel loads. Even ballast weights were matched to the kilogram.
In motorsport, fairness rarely exists. But today, through careful engineering and mutual respect, the stage was as equal as it could ever be.
This isn't about who had the faster car.
This was about who is faster. Who is skillful.
The rules are simple:
Five laps.
Rolling start.
Whoever finishes ahead wins.
The track is theirs alone.
As they settled into their cockpits, the silence was deafening. No commentary. No crowd. Only the hum of engines awakening.
Sukhman adjusted his wheel. His HUD (Head-Up Display) blinked to life—tire temps cold, track temp 42°C. He took a deep breath. This wasn't a race for glory. It was a test of souls.
---
The formation lap was calm. Daan led the way, taking each curve with care, studying the track like it was a memory he didn't want to forget.
Sukhman followed close, watching every brake light, every gear shift. Daan's style was smooth—veteran smooth. No jerks, no overcorrections. Years of discipline refined into every corner.
As they approached Juncao and prepared for the final straight, the green light flashed.
Go.
---
The first lap was chess.
Daan held the inside through Turn 1 and 2, defensive but graceful. Sukhman tucked into the slipstream, waiting. At Turn 4, he peeked inside—but Daan shut the door just enough to send a message: Not that easily, rookie.
Sukhman smiled under his helmet. Alright. Let's play.
They roared down the back straight, both cars vibrating with tension. Into the Senna S on lap two, Sukhman lunged deep—but Daan braked earlier, maintaining line and composure.
"Damn. That's definitely a good move," Sukhman muttered.
In the paddock, Henrik and Nandini watched silently on telemetry screens. Their sectors blinked in near-sync—green for both drivers, lap after lap.
---
Lap three.
Now it is war.
Sukhman went full attack mode—taking risks, cutting millimeters closer to apexes. He brake-tested Daan at Descida do Lago, then swung wide at Ferradura to bait a defensive move. Daan didn't flinch.
But he is slower.
"You see it?" Henrik said aloud to no one in particular.
Nandini nodded. "Daan's losing tenths in Sector 2."
"He's hesitating."
---
On lap four, Sukhman made his move.
He got a better exit out of Turn 3, hooked the slipstream, and slingshotted past into Turn 4. Daan tried to defend, but the younger driver braked later—just enough to slide inside cleanly.
It isn't reckless. It is precision. Clinical.
By the end of the lap, Sukhman is a second ahead.
---
Final lap.
The roar of engines echoed across the empty grandstands. Daan pushed. You could see it now—he was on the limit. Rear tires screaming out of Mergulho. He wasn't trying to beat Sukhman anymore.
He is trying to beat himself.
Through Juncao, both cars surged up the hill. And as they crossed the line, Daan was just behind—0.7 seconds adrift.
---
Back in the pits, Sukhman climbed out first, drenched in sweat. The crew clapped lightly—not a victory celebration, but a salute to what they'd just witnessed.
Daan parked seconds later. When he stepped out, he didn't look bitter or broken. He looked... proud.
"You didn't hold back," he said.
"No point if I did."
Daan nodded. "I felt it again."
"What?"
"The edge. The danger. The fire." He extended a hand. "Thank you."
Sukhman shook it. "Anytime."
---
Henrik approached, putting an arm around Daan.
"You still have it," he said.
Daan let out a long breath. "Yeah. Maybe I do."
Nandini joined them, smiling. "Well, looks like we've got another rivalry brewing."
Henrik laughed. "Let's hope so. Motorsport needs it."
As they left the pit lane, the sun began to lower in the São Paulo sky. The engines had gone quiet again. But something had changed. Something important.
Two drivers—one nearing the twilight of his career, the other just rising—had met not to beat each other, but to remind each other why they race.
And they both won something.