The Trampos Racing garage was as silent as a graveyard when the sickening crunch echoed through the monitors, broadcasting the sound of Ansel Hahn's aerodynamic front wing gouging deep into the side of Luca's car. The collision was visceral as a tallic symphony of destruction as the front wing detached, taking with it part of Luca's suspension and turning his car into a violently tumbling projectile.
For a mont, the garage seed frozen in ti. Then McCauley and a few other engineers sprang into action, bolting out the door the instant the red flags were raised. They moved with desperate urgency, determined to reach Luca even before the marshals. As their footsteps faded, silence reclaid the garage—heavy, oppressive, quiet silence.
Mr. Grant broke this silence.
Calmly, he removed his headset, tapped the back of Ms. Vallotton's palm in a quiet reassurance, then left the teletry station.
He walked through the interior of the garage, the race comntary broadcasting loudly, sirens wailing through Riyadh's nightti air. Finally, he stepped out into the paddock, where a cool, crisp breeze awaited him. The air carried the cacophony of the crowd's cheers, the blaring sirens, and the comntators' urgent voices.
"…Ansel Hahn and Luca Rennick—both out of the race! The collision at Turn Seven has brought chaos to the track!"
Mr. Grant struggled to process the double DNF that had struck his team. DNFs were an accepted part of racing—drivers could suffer two, sotis three, in a single season. Until now, Luca had avoided any, while Ansel had only suffered one earlier in Budapest.
But for both drivers on the sa team to fail to finish due to a collision with each other? That was an anomaly—a rare and unfortunate occurrence in motorsport. While such incidents had happened before, even in Formula 1, Mr. Grant couldn't shake the belief that this particular crash had been entirely avoidable. Yet, it had happened.
Back in the garage, Ms. Vallotton leaned toward the radio, tapping her headset softly.
"Ansel, are you okay?" she asked, with a asured voice.
Ansel's car had co to a halt after the collision, and he still hadn't exited the cockpit. She needed to be certain he was unhard—they had to know the extent of what they were dealing with.
"Yes, I'm fine," Ansel replied, though his tone was heavy, his voice hoarse and distant.
Ms. Vallotton exhaled silently, nodding to herself. She removed her headset and rose with an unexpected grace, her expression composed.
"Alright. Take over. Job's done for tonight," she said to the engineers, her calm deanor catching them off guard. With a slight pause, she added dryly, "From 45 points to zero points. Impressive." Then, without another word, she turned on her heel and left the teletry room.
She stepped outside and joined Mr. Grant, burying her hands into the deep pockets of her coat. Together, they stood under the cool night sky, their eyes fixed on the massive screen mounted on a golden skyscraper across the pit lane. The live feed showed marshals lifting the collapsed streetlight and carefully extracting Luca from his shattered Dallara. They awaited confirmation of his condition.
Ms. Vallotton's gaze flicked montarily toward the neighboring Bueseno Velocità Jnr garage. It was quiet, but she could sense the restrained satisfaction emanating from within. They weren't celebrating openly—but the downfall of Trampos Racing tonight was undoubtedly a victory they were savoring.
"Luca, can you stand?" a marshal asked, crouching beside him.
Luca's helted head rested against the edge of the cockpit as they worked to free him.
Weakly, he shook his head, his voice strained. "I don't think so," he gasped, his breathing ragged. As one of the marshals began unfastening his helt, he winced sharply, gritting his teeth as a bolt of pain radiated from his side. "My legs… they're stuck," he added, his voice faint but clear.
"…We see movent! We see Luca Rennick! Luca Rennick is safe in this Saudi Arabian Grand Prix!"
A round of applause spread through the Riyadh Zenith Circuit.
"WOOOOHH!"
Mr. Grant had seen far worse crashes, so he was certain Luca would definitely survive. He nodded at Ms. Vallotton once the announcent rang out.
anwhile, McCauley and the Trampos crew sprinted to the crash site, arriving just as the dical and utility cars pulled up. The marshals were already at work stabilizing Luca, their hands bracing his torso to prevent any unnecessary movent. They started by hauling away the fallen streetlight, then used hydraulic cutters to slice through the tal, widening the cockpit to slip Luca out more easily.
"Save the engine," one of the workers called out as they worked.
The mont the fra began to give way, McCauley and another crew mber rushed to clear the remaining debris around Luca's legs. "We've got so clearance!" McCauley shouted as the pedals finally snapped free.
The dics moved quickly, carefully maneuvering Luca's legs out of the cockpit. He winced sharply, his hands clenching as pain shot through his body.
With the cockpit cleared, the team slid a rescue board alongside the car. Coordinating seamlessly, they lifted Luca from the wreckage, supporting his back and legs as they eased him onto the board. The dics secured him with straps, ensuring he wouldn't move during transport.
[Endurance 1]
"...A bad end for Trampos Racing and for Luca Rennick. At such a crucial stage in the competition, where all points were up for grabs, both drivers seed to miscommunicate and miscalculate, bringing calamity to their team and fans!"
"...Luca Rennick AND Ansel Hahn fail to finish the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix!"
"...Red flags remain waving! The other drivers are practically two positions up by now, and when the final lap restarts, Miles Bellingham will claim P1, Max Addams P2, and Sean Aaronson will take P3! Unbelievable closing scenes here in this Saudi Arabian Grand Prix!"
"WOOOOHH!"
McCauley stood with his hands on his waist, watching as Luca was carefully loaded into the waiting dical car. He took a deep breath, relief washing over him at the sight of Luca giving a thumbs-up and even a faint smirk as the doors shut. His arms were fine, and so were his legs, but McCauley couldn't shake the worried feeling because Luca had kept complaining that his side hurt really bad.
Recalling the collision where Ansel's front wings dented Luca's Dallara, McCauley was certain Luca wasn't just exaggerating the pain.
He turned his gaze to the mangled Dallara, where Dennis and a few others were already assessing the damage. That was a massive loss of money, and now all they could do was figure out what they could salvage.
"...Safety car will be on the track in the next one minute. All non-drivers and marshals, please exit the track imdiately!"
The sharp announcent over the loudspeakers snapped McCauley out of his thoughts. He waved at the team, rallying them to vacate the track. "Let's go, folks! Leave it for now; we'll deal with the wreck later!"
As they regrouped, McCauley noticed Ansel climbing out of his car, already removing his helt. The frustration on Ansel's face was plain, and he refused any assistance from the crew, marching toward the Trampos garage with a scowl.
Impatience boiling over, McCauley strode after him, catching up just as they neared the paddock. Grabbing Ansel by the arm, he spun him around. "Hahn! What the heck happened out there, huh?!" he barked, his voice louder than intended.
Ansel stopped walking, yanked his hand free, turned, and shot McCauley a wicked glare. "What is it now?!"
"You dare ask that?!" McCauley snapped, his frustration spilling over. "Why'd you let this happen?! You were supposed to hold Luca in P1! You know that!"
Ansel's jaw tightened as he stepped closer, his tone sharp and biting. "Maybe I don't want to play that damn ga anymore. Player A this, Player A that—it's a joke!" He hissed the words, his voice filled with bitter resentnt, before turning on his heel and walking away into the garage, passing Mr. Grant and Ms. Vallotton without sparing them a glance.
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