The private jet touched down in London under a pale morning sky, the kind that looked permanently tired. Luca Moretti stepped off into the soft drizzle, the air sharper and colder than back home. Everything smelled of metal, tarmac, and rain.
Waiting for him on the runway was a black SUV with tinted windows. The driver, a quiet man in a Razor GP jacket, offered only a nod and took Luca's bag. No welcome banners. No cameras. No red carpet.
Just silence, speed, and expectation.
The car cut through the English countryside like a bullet—green fields flying past, sheep barely looking up. Razor GP's facility came into view an hour later: a sleek cluster of modern buildings with dark glass, surrounded by empty roads and wind-swept fences. No flashy colors. Just sharp lines and steel. Everything about it said: we're here to work.
Inside, the reception was minimalist. One logo. One long hallway.
"Mr. Moretti." A voice echoed. "Olivia Pratt."
She strode toward him in a black coat, tall and sharp-eyed, like a general sizing up a young recruit. Her handshake was quick. Firm. Professional.
"Welcome to Razor," she said. "Follow me."
No small talk.
They passed wind tunnel chambers, tire simulation rooms, server racks buzzing with telemetry data. Everyone moved with purpose. Engineers barely looked up from their monitors. A few pit crew members gave Luca curious glances — one or two whispered as he passed.
At the end of the hall: the car.
The 2025 Razor GP challenger sat under spotlights, silver and red livery gleaming. It looked more like a fighter jet than a car. Angular. Aggressive. The rear wing curved like a blade.
"This is where you earn your seat," Olivia said. "Not with your mouth. Not with your name. In here." She tapped the side of the cockpit.
Luca ran his hand over the carbon fiber. It was warm under the lights, almost alive. He imagined it at 320 km/h, vibrating, screaming, on the edge of grip.
He nodded. "When do I drive?"
Olivia's eyes narrowed, almost amused. "Eager. Good. You'll start in the simulator. If you survive that, we'll see about testing."
As she turned to leave, she added, "Oh, and Moretti—there are no second chances here."
The simulator room was colder than expected—lights dim, screens everywhere, cables snaking across the floor. The rig itself looked like a small spaceship: curved monitors, hydraulic base, molded cockpit.A young man in a hoodie introduced himself as Tom, Razor's sim engineer. "You'll run Barcelona first. We want to see your brake modulation and tire wear control. You've got 12 laps."
Luca slid into the seat. It fit like a glove. He pulled on the VR headset. The hum of the engine filled his ears. His heart was pounding again—but now it was anticipation, not nerves.
The lights went out.
Green.
He launched into turn one, pushing hard but not reckless. Every bump, every corner spoke a different language than F2. The power delivery was smoother but faster. The braking—violent, almost unnatural. He could feel the tires protesting at every apex.
After three laps, sweat poured down his back.
Lap five: he missed a downshift.Lap eight: he clipped the curb too hard and nearly spun.
Lap ten: something clicked.
He flowed. He adjusted. He adapted.
Twelve laps later, Tom pulled off the headset and stared at the data on the screen.
"Sector 3's still a bit hot," he muttered, then looked at Luca with a grin. "But that? That was good."
Luca wiped the sweat from his forehead. "How good?"
Tom shrugged. "Better than the guy you replaced."
Outside the sim room, Olivia watched silently through the one-way glass.
She turned to her assistant. "He's not ready," she said. Then paused. "But he might be."