Clap! Clap! Clap!
Applause rang out.
Nicolas Todt and Frédéric Vasseur exchanged another look, their faces splitting into wide grins, their eyes shining with a shared, surging excitement.
The suspense—which had just seen Zhou Guanyu make his move—was extinguished in an instant.
It wasn't just the speed. It was the observation, the calculation, the judgment, the strategy, and the execution. In the middle of that high-speed chaos, Kai had remained in total control, never getting flustered by his rivals' attacks or losing his way during the unexpected VSC. That was the real surprise.
In racing, being "fast" is important, without a doubt. But it's not the only important factor.
They had come to Maranello with high expectations, which had only climbed after learning of Jean Todt's involvement. But they had never imagined that seeing it in person would still manage to surprise them this much. It was a rare feeling.
Their blood began to pump.
Marchionne, standing to the side, took all this in. He remained externally calm, offering a polite, almost cursory round of applause, as if this were all perfectly normal. As if Kai hadn't even shown his full potential yet.
But inwardly, he was screaming and running victory laps.
He glanced at Monfardini, who was the only one in the room who truly looked calm, as if this were just another day at the office.
A wave of pride swelled in Marchionne's chest.
It had all started with the "Catfish Effect," and now, that plan had achieved results far beyond his wildest expectations. The catfish was becoming the main event.
The pit garage was buzzing, but no one was celebrating just yet. In Formula racing, disaster is always just a millisecond away; a tiny mistake can erase all your hard work. It's not over until you cross the finish line.
But what about Kai?
He was returning to the pit garage. He was done.
He was... just... packing it in early.
From start to finish, he'd done two flying laps. And that was it. He was recalling the troops.
"A total of nine laps," Martin Brundle noted, looking at the data. "His flying laps were on Lap 3 and Lap 8."
"This set of tires theoretically has at least ten more laps in it. But he's not staying out. He's clearly not willing to burn up his tires in the dirty air just to chase a meaningless time. But... he's leaving a massive window, the entire second half of qualifying, for his rivals to beat him."
Though Brundle didn't say it, the subtext was obvious: was this confidence, or was it stupidity?
Brundle looked at his partner, stunned. Is that kid sure? What is ART doing?
The other drivers in the paddock felt it as a provocation. Was this outsider mocking them? Just dropping a time and daring them to beat it?
Amidst the shocked whispers, David Croft, however, was impressed. "He has a plan. He knows what he's doing. Clean, decisive. I'm already looking forward to the feature race."
In Croft's view, this wasn't arrogance; it was a declaration of confidence. ART was making a statement.
Croft was right. Kai had no intention of being provocative. He was simply following the plan he and Borreipaire had laid out. He'd done two flying laps, and the tires were already showing significant wear. There was no point in staying out. It was better to save them, just in case he needed them for the races.
But Kai couldn't control what other people thought. And the paddock was convinced: this was a declaration of war.
They would rather die fighting than surrender.
If the pole for the season opener went to this rookie... they would all become a laughingstock, the stepping stones for his grand entrance. No one was willing to accept that.
The track was on fire.
"Russell! He improves his personal best! 1:34.468! But it's not enough, he's still P3!"
"Hubert... oh, a small lock-up on the exit, he's lost time."
"Whoa, a surprise! Boccolacci is fast! 1:34.380! He goes P3, ahead of Russell!"
"Wait, Alesi... he's far too aggressive into 9 and 10, he's almost hit a slow car! The other driver moved over, but Alesi's braking point was so late he's forced him off the track! That's dangerous. A terrible piece of driving."
"And that incident is now under investigation by the stewards."
The air was burning.
"And now, all eyes are on Jack Aitken. This is his final flying lap."
The air was shimmering with heat. This was the golden window, the last chance to set a time.
In the stands, Matteo had his hands clasped in prayer, praying for Aitken. If the other ART driver couldn't beat him, who could?
Not just Matteo. Croft and Brundle were on the edge of their seats. They never expected the GP3 season opener to be this dramatic.
Thousands of eyes were locked on the #1 ART car.
Aitken was in the zone. He'd forgotten Kai, forgotten his career struggles. He was just... driving.
Ninety seconds, gone in a flash, yet it felt like an eternity. He crossed the line. The magic was broken. The crowd erupted.
All eyes snapped to the timing pylon.
Matteo froze. He just stood there, devastated.
Lorenzo didn't cheer. He didn't jump. He just raised his sign high, like a king, and slowly turned it 360 degrees for everyone to see.
"KAI - POLE POSITION."
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