While Trampos Racing buzzed with delight over the long-promised technical upgrades finally delivered by Ferrari, their sibling outfit, Jackson Racing, returned from South Africa too, but under a very different cloud.
This was the lingering aftermath of the South African Grand Prix, a race defined by a vehent pendulum, the cruelest of see-saws, and eventually resulting in a split reality for both teams. Where Trampos saw montum and future promise, the Silver Stallions carried frustration ho. The flight back to the UK was sober, heavy with unspoken questions and missed opportunities.
Di Renzo had crashed emphatically, Derstappen had finished in P9, taking ho just 2 points. It was safe to say their feelings were justified.
However, it wasn’t the scoreboard that haunted the Silver Stallions most. It was that single, dreadful lap.
Buoso’s crash refused to fit any familiar narrative in F1.
There was no contact with Jimmy, no squeeze toward the inside, no reckless overreach. Di Renzo hadn’t overcooked it, and he hadn’t truly lost control on his own. The car simply... turned against him.
Systems desynced, steering went numb, traction vanished, and within seconds, he was a passenger, tumbling through carbon fibre and broken purpose.
An unnatural crash? Yes. But what hurt Jackson racing deepest was the realization that this wasn’t a mystery at all. They knew exactly why it had happened.
As quickly as the need for a map in a maze, the English giants convened a full-scale eting just two days after the team returned ho. The Jackson Racing hierarchy sat in a very large room, consisting of their team principal–the new guy–the president, the chief technical officer, chief engineer, heads of aero and vehicle dynamics, and Di Renzo himself. While not a board mber, a driver is often called in to give a first-hand account of the "feel" of the crash.
With a JRX-97 reduced to fragnts, this was no team that could afford to lounge. Even a Ferrari representative attended, underlining just how serious the situation had beco.
After a brief recapitulation, the board concluded that the cause of the crash was indeed the sa plague that had haunted them last season. It was the sa invisible fault that had retired Rodnick twice and nearly claid Luca, who had only escaped by so miracle of instinct.
Thermal Ion Flux radiation from the Tempesta MkII had returned. This ti, it didn’t whisper a warning; it just struck like a hamr. In seconds, it overwheld Di Renzo’s systems so absolutely that it ended his race before skill could even fight back.
As a team operating at the upper echelons of technical heights, Jackson Racing knew this wasn’t sothing they could simply look away from.
The Thermal Ion Flux was a predator that fed on high-ERS capabilities, and the JRX-97 was the most susceptible non-super car. That was why they had been the only team to be affected ever since the introduction of the Tempesta MkII. That was the contradiction gnawing at them.
But the thing that confused Jackson Racing was that they had made modifications to the JRX-97, backed by the FIA, to keep them immune to the radiation. This was how they’ve raced multiple rounds so far this campaign without incident.
So why now? Had the counterasures begun to decay, losing effectiveness? Or had Bueseno Velocità found a way to weaponize their S-level engine, amplifying its radiation output to a level no one had prepared for?
If it is the forr, then Jackson Racing will simply reinforce the shielding and restore the 97’s immunity. Costly? Yes. But at least, technical problems are solvable.
But if it is the latter, then this ceases to be a garage issue and becos sothing more inimical.
FIA intervention... legal disputes... the list went on.
As for those on the board who had a sixth sense, they felt like this was associated with the sa Red Bull vs. Ferrari political undercurrents Luca had been orbiting all season.
~~~~~~
Luca had a whacky high-speed sail from continent to continent. Two flights instead of one stitched his journey together, so irregular that he barely felt the five-star luxury he received.
Sleep ca in crumbs. als were taken because soone said he had to eat. And his phone never stopped lighting up.
Luca found himself answering to "Mr. Rennick" far more than at any other ti in his career. It felt very strange and pioneering. He spoke like a student during a presentation. Every "pleasure to et you" and "we appreciate the partnership" felt like sand in his mouth. By the ti they touched down for a middle-of-the-night layover in Morocco, he missed swearing.
The break in Marrakech was held in a glass-dod conservatory, airy and extravagant. It was hosted by Sara’s new boyfriend, whom Luca had the chance to see again.
In this second encounter, he couldn’t even fathom the wealth he saw.
When he drifted away with his hands in his pockets, sothing enormous caught his eye.
It was an ancient Komodo dragon, sealed behind thick glass. It was larger than anything natural Luca had seen: a muscular tail, tough gray scales, and a snaky, forked tongue. It felt wrong to see such a symbolic creature frad like decor.
"Shoot."
The sight of the beast stung his mory. Amidst the chaos of the South African Grand Prix and the subsequent fallout, he’d completely missed his window for a savanna and sub-Saharan trip to see those unique African animals in the flesh—specifically, that hopeless leopard he’d watched in a docuntary.
The dragon blinked at him, cold and unimpressed, and for a second, Luca felt exactly the sa way about his own reflection in the glass.
Even now, moving faster than most people ever would, he realized there were entire worlds he kept passing by without truly seeing.
Upon returning to Germany, the bustle refused to loosen its grip. Luca stayed a ghost for four straight days. He almost made a ho in Frankfurt, which surprised him with how many more motorsport activities there were than in Berlin, where Trampos was based.
PR briefings turned into sponsor acknowledgents, and handshakes into cara flashes. There were so people he spoke to whom he’d rather forget existed; that was the noxious part of this dia world.
Sadly, more dia obligations awaited throughout the following week.
Eventually, ti did its work. Efficiently and kindly, his personal team shaved down the load piece by piece until Luca had next to nothing left to do. By the fifth day, he found himself back at his own property, with Manuela wishing him a well-deserved rest.
But rest was a phantom concept.
He forgot all about it the mont he had it, as he began chasing secondary matters. Things like his ex-teammate—Rodnick, for example.
Luca had assured him an audience with Laura and Martin, and he wasn’t the kind to let things like this decay into excuses. Everything, strangely, aligned. The German Grand Prix was next, aning no imdiate flights ahead. For once, the calendar allowed space for autonomy, and Luca welcod it.
Another round was coming, and this ti, he could afford to look inward before stepping back onto the grid.
Once he finally had the ti, Luca hit the road toward Grunewald, the route familiar enough to drive on instinct. He had already inford mother and son. Even so, a quiet anticipation followed him through the trees.
He had to admit he missed Laura and Martin most of all. That little boy was indeed special, and could be the only person on earth other than his mother who could ground him.
Halfway there, he called Manuela, letting her know this was an informal run so she could handle his calls. She acknowledged it easily, wished him a smooth drive, and hung up.
The mont the call ended, Manuela set the phone down on the table and stared at it longer than necessary.
All week, Luca hadn’t had happiness in his voice. It always surfaced when Laura—and her child—were involved. That alone made her uneasy.
She scoffed under her breath, shaking her head.
Laura and her spells. What a witch.
Manuela had seen through it the first ti she stepped into Luca’s house, all smiles and quiet persistence. Too calculated. Too patient.
And Isabella—sweet, driven Isabella—could not be allowed to lose Luca to that kind of woman. Manuela promised herself she wouldn’t allow it.
But telling Isabella outright would trigger a panicked chaos and resentnt that might drive Luca further away. No, she had to play this with a surgeon’s hand.
This was the reason she had called Isabella, inviting her to Germany for the Grand Prix under the guise of support and celebration.
If Isabella were present, in Luca’s house and properties, she would see the shifting tides for herself and how this cunning interloper, Laura, had been conquering in silence.
Manuela wouldn’t have to say a word; she would simply set the stage and let Isabella make the moves necessary to reclaim what was hers—with drama or without drama.
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