The miracle didn't happen.
1:34.187. That was Jack Aitken's final time.
He hadn't just set a personal best; he had beaten Kevin Korjus's 2013 lap record by a hundredth of a second. It was an impressive statement, a sign that his move to ART was a true championship assault.
But it wasn't enough.
Or, to put it another way, a miracle had happened. It just wasn't Aitken's. It belonged to the nobody, the dark horse who had come from nowhere and completely rewritten the script for the new season.
This was the ultimate upset.
In the face of Kai's "1:33.889," Aitken's brilliant lap was completely overshadowed. It was the story of his entire career. He was the "genius" who had been praised his whole life, but the moment he'd entered the world of Formula racing, he'd hit an invisible wall, a barrier between himself and the truly elite.
And the worst, most cruel part?
By pitting halfway through the session, Kai's cool, calculated confidence had made all their last-minute, desperate efforts look foolish. His "rookie" performance in free practice hadn't been incompetence; it had been a brief, methodical adaptation period.
And then... it was over.
The other drivers were left to swallow the bitter pill.
"Wow."
"And that's the end of qualifying. Kai Zhizhou is on pole."
"Aitken is second, Boccolacci third, and Russell fourth."
"I don't think anyone could have predicted this. Kai Zhizhou has just appeared out of nowhere, like a tornado, and completely demolished the field to take pole position. The feature race this afternoon just got very interesting."
"But, qualifying and the race are two different things," Brundle cautioned.
"Qualifying is about a single, all-out lap. The race is about managing your pace and handling crises over a much longer distance. We've seen the surprise in qualifying, and now we have every reason to expect more in the race."
"Who would have thought the GP3 season would kick off like this? I think anyone who missed qualifying today needs to go and catch the replay."
In the commentary box, Croft and Brundle were buzzing. Every year they talked about "watching the rookies," but the reality was that the junior formulas always struggled for attention and sponsorship.
But this year felt different.
It wasn't just the lap time. It was the way it had happened—the story, the miracle, the X-factor. In one afternoon, Kai had made the two old veterans genuinely excited about GP3 again.
The stone had been dropped, and the ripples were spreading.
And what about Kai?
He was in a debrief.
He hadn't even watched the second half of qualifying. It wasn't because he was arrogant; it was because he knew he had given it his all.
If someone had beaten his time, he would have been the first to congratulate them. The real battle was the race, and that required a completely different strategy.
He and Borreipaire were deep in analysis, poring over the data, discussing the track conditions, the temperature, the wind, and the car's behavior. He was getting ready for the race.
He knew he lacked experience, and he was a sponge, soaking up every piece of information he could.
When the meeting finally ended, he pushed the door open and was met by a wall of sound.
Clap, clap, clap!
The entire ART pit garage was on its feet, looking at him, whistling and cheering, holding nothing back.
Kai froze, completely confused. He looked at Borreipaire, who just smiled, took a step back, and began to applaud, ceding the spotlight to his driver.
A figure rushed toward him—the "bookworm," Antoine Hubert, his face beaming. He threw his arms around Kai in a joyous hug.
"Pole, Kai! Congratulations, pole!"
Kai, caught off guard, stumbled back. "Antoine, did you get pole?"
Hubert just laughed. "You! You! Wow, your first-ever race weekend, and you take pole! Amazing!"
Kai finally smiled. "Thanks. You get some of the credit. How did you do?"
Hubert threw up his hands in mock despair. "Tenth. God, that final sector, I just can't get the braking point right."
Kai looked at him. "Antoine, don't calculate it," he said, tapping his own head. "Feel it." He then tapped his chest. "Yes, we have to trust the data, but we can't be a slave to it."
He paused. "We can look at our data together later, if you want?"
Hubert threw his head back and laughed, clapping Kai on the back.
A voice cut in, in French. "Antoine, even if you hit him, you're not going to hurt him."
Charles Leclerc, wearing his red Prema team suit, walked into the garage. As last year's ART champion, he knew everyone here, and he breezed in, greeting the mechanics as he made his way to Kai.
Leclerc had just taken pole for the F2 race yesterday. He'd been watching the GP3 qualifying session, and the second it ended, he'd grabbed his scooter and come over.
He bumped Kai's shoulder. "Congratulations."
Hubert's eyes went wide. "You're not surprised at all! You knew this was going to happen! Charles, why didn't you warn me?"
Hubert, Leclerc, and Gasly—the "French-speaking-trio"—had grown up racing together. Leclerc, clearly more relaxed, just shrugged and replied in French, "You'll see for yourself this afternoon, won't you?"
Kai was about to complain about his "zero-level French listening skills," but he spotted a figure in the distance. He had no time to banter. He whipped out his phone, turned the volume all the way up, and hit play. A funky, familiar drum beat filled the garage.
And then the first line: "I'm bringin' sexy back... Them other boys don't know how to act..."
Was that... Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack"?
Across the garage, George Russell, who had just walked in, froze.
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