Saturday morning over Interlagos shimmered like an invitation written in fire. The qualifying session loomed—a gateway only ten could pass. Twenty racers, each a master of speed, would duel the stopwatch on this storied Brazilian circuit. And only half would see the grid on Sunday.
The garages were tense, cloaked in silence save for the occasional burst of compressed air or the electric hum of tire warmers. Engineers murmured to each other, final tweaks being whispered into execution. Sukhman Singh sat in the cockpit, his gaze fixed beyond the windshield, where the sun reflected harshly off the tarmac.
Qualifying format was simple: three flying laps, only the best time counted. The top ten advanced. The rest packed up early. But nothing about it felt simple. Especially not when the circuit punished the smallest misstep.
"Remember," Nandini said into his earpiece, "no heroics in Sector 1. Play it smart there. We gain in Sector 2, as always."
"Copy that," he replied. His voice was steady. His pulse wasn't.
---
The pit lane opened.
The first few cars shot out with aggression. Finn Carter, in his trademark sea-blue overalls, was the first to post a flying lap: 1:10.522. The marker was set.
Soon after, Callum Graves came across the line: 1:10.639. Then Ayanda Nkosi: 1:10.661. The top three were separated by less than a blink.
Sukhman went out late. He waited for track evolution—the brief golden period when rubber gripped rubber, and the sun had baked consistency into the curves.
First lap: 1:11.202. Clean, but conservative.
Second lap: 1:10.984. He climbed to 12th.
The final lap had to count. Ahead of him, others faltered. Isabella, the fierce fourth-place contender in the championship leaderboard, coasted to a stop just past Ferradura. Smoke curled from her engine. Gasps rippled through the paddock. A heartbreaking end.
Then came Sukhman's third.
He attacked. Committed in Descida do Lago. Nailed the Esses. Carved through Juncão with millimeter precision.
Crossed the line.
1:10.899.
Nandini whooped. "P10! You made it. By thirty-two milliseconds!"
Sukhman exhaled. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath.
---
Final Qualifying Results
1. Finn Carter – 1:10.522
2. Callum Graves – 1:10.639
3. Ayanda Nkosi – 1:10.661
4. Lukar Meier – 1:10.724
5. Omar Irani – 1:10.756
6. Daan Vermer – 1:10.790
7. Luciana Fernandez – 1:10.802
8. Charlotte Reid – 1:10.828
9. Ming Jao – 1:10.851
10. Sukhman Singh – 1:10.899
11. Ryan Brooks – 1:10.931
---
Media Reactions:
"Carter Conquers: Finn Overshadows Dominance of Graves and Nkosi" — Racing Pulse
> "In a qualifying session where precision mattered more than flair, Finn Carter delivered a masterpiece. With a blistering lap time that left even Callum Graves and Ayanda Nkosi a step behind, Carter reminded everyone why he's been quietly dangerous all season. Graves, usually dominant in the qualifying rounds, admitted in the post-session huddle that he 'just couldn't hook up the second sector.' Nkosi, meanwhile, looked calm in defeat but promised a fiery response on race day. Carter, though, walked away without fanfare—helmet on, eyes down, focus forward. This isn't just a lap. This is a statement."
---
"Daan's Redemption: A Qualifier for the Soul" — Speed Journal
> "After weeks in the shadows of scandal and public torment, Daan Vermer proved that class is permanent. While not a pole-winning lap, his sixth-place qualifying was a thunderclap for those who thought he'd lost his edge. Watching him power through sector 3 was like witnessing an old master find his brushstroke again—smooth, precise, and unyielding. His garage erupted the moment he crossed the line, but the loudest reaction came from Ana Vermer, seen cheering from the paddock, tears in her eyes. Henrik Maes only said four words after the run: 'He's still got it.' The world listened."
---
"Tragedy at Turn 8: Isabella's Title Hopes Take a Hit After Mechanical Failure" — The Apex Report
> "Title contender Isabella Moretti suffered heartbreak when her car lost drive midway through Q2, grinding to a halt at Turn 8. Her radio message, a strained voice repeating 'No power, no power,' echoed through the broadcast feeds. Mechanics later confirmed a suspected MGU-H failure—a cruel twist of fate in a championship fight where every point counts. With six races left after São Paulo, Isabella's hopes now hinge on a miracle. Her rivals won't wait. The cruel nature of motorsport isn't in the crashes. It's in the quiet stutter of a machine deciding it's had enough."
---
"Ryan's Roulette: Hot and Cold Season Continues for the American Golden Boy" — Trackside Times
> "If Ryan Brooks had a catchphrase this season, it would be: 'Almost.' Once hailed as the future of American racing, Ryan's 11th place finish in qualifying adds yet another streak of near-misses to his erratic season record. Just 0.032 seconds off Sukhman Singh in P10, Brooks looked visibly frustrated post-session, throwing his gloves onto the pit wall before disappearing into the team truck. Analysts believe it's more mental than mechanical—his driving remains sharp, but the consistency is gone. 'He's playing roulette every weekend,' one engineer noted. And right now, it's not landing on red or black—it's spinning in limbo."
Sukhman watched the headlines scroll across his tablet in the motorhome. He didn't smile. But he didn't frown either. P10 wasn't glamorous. But it was a door still open.
---
In the garage, Daan walked over.
"Told you, kid," he said in a taunting way. "Speak with the throttle."
"Glad I got to whisper in its ear."
They shared a laugh.
---
Back at his hotel, the adrenaline had finally worn off. The whine of engines, the cheers from the stands, the glare of the track lights—all of it faded into the soft hum of São Paulo's nightscape. Sukhman sat by the window, hoodie half-zipped, elbows resting on the small table as he stared out at the flickering skyline.
His phone buzzed.
Harinder.
A grin formed before he even picked it up.
He answered, voice mock-accusing, "Oye, finally remembered me?"
A familiar laugh spilled through the speaker. "Bai… mainu laggda si tu Brazil ch mere ton vi vad busy ho gaya."
[Bro… I was starting to think you'd gotten even busier in Brazil than I am.]
Sukhman chuckled, rubbing his temple. "Nahi yaar, bas thoda dimag race te set karna si."
[Nah man, just had to focus my head on racing.]
"FP2 da result vekheya. Tenth, haan? But inside the top ten. That's what matters. Respect."
"Barely made it. Ek wrong apex te sideline ch honda."
[Barely. One wrong apex and I'd be on the sidelines.]
"Sanu tuhadda confidence ch kahda kami lagda hai?"
[When did you start doubting your own confidence, huh?]
There was a quiet beat on the line, like the sigh of an old friendship breathing in.
Sukhman leaned back in his chair, phone pressed against his ear. "Honestly, bro… this place is wild. Pressure. Heat. Constant expectation. Feels like I'm walking a tightrope some days."
Harinder's voice softened, a mix of tease and truth. "Tightrope? Bruh, tu oh hi banda hai jisne Mumbai trials pe hairpin 260 km/h te lia si te camera wal wave kita si. Don't tell me you've changed."
[You're the same guy who took a hairpin at 260 km/h in Mumbai trials and waved at the camera. Don't tell me you've changed.]
Sukhman smirked. "Bas grow kita hai thoda."
[Just grown up a little.]
Harinder paused. "Fair enough. But hoya ki, honestly? You sound heavy."
Sukhman sighed. "Just… expectations, man. From the team. The media. Even myself. Sometimes it feels like I'm not allowed to mess up."
"Sun ve, jadon tu Gujrat ch galli ch race karde si, ki kade plan karke jittda si? Nahin. Tu bas drive karda si. Oh instincts wapas le aa."
[Listen, when you were racing in the streets of Gujrat, did you ever win with a plan? No. You just drove. Bring those instincts back.]
Sukhman smiled faintly. "It's not as simple now."
"Maybe not. But jo banda apne kar vajhon engine sound sun ke tire wear predict kar sakda hai, oh banda race ch kabhi chhota nahin ho sakda."
[But the guy who could predict tire wear from just the sound of his own engine is never going to be small in any race.]
Sukhman looked out at the lights. They shimmered in the glass reflection like distant dreams.
"I needed this call, bro."
"I know. Tu call na kare, mainu pata lag jaanda. Your silence gets louder when something's off."
They shared a long silence. Comforting. Familiar.
A sound in the background—probably Harinder's shift starting. Someone calling out orders.
"Mera shift start ho reha. Bas kehna si… proud of you, bai. Jo vi hove, podium hove ya na hove… tu already jit chukka."
[My shift's starting. Just wanted to say… I'm proud of you, bro. Whether you get a podium or not… you've already won.]
Sukhman didn't say anything right away. But his eyes softened. Voice low.
"Thanks, Harinder. Really."
The line disconnected.
The room felt lighter.
For the first time all week, the silence didn't weigh on him.
It rested.