F1: The Speed Legend

Kai’s focus was absolute. He felt every transition—from road to bridge, and from bridge back to road—never missing a single change in the surface beneath him.

The Mini Cooper and the Shelby were side-by-side, but Kai had the inside line, giving him the advantage for the first corner. He had no intention of wasting it.

Half a second early, he tapped the brakes. His left hand snapped the gearstick down a gear while his right foot feathered the throttle with surgical precision. It felt as if he could sense every detail of the contact between the tires and the pavement, the feeling traveling from his fingertips all the way through his body. The series of inputs kept the car perfectly glued to the road as he deliberately cut toward the inside guardrail.

The vibrations from the cobblestone seams rattled the steering wheel, but Kai was unmoved. He held his line, controlled the throttle, and bled his speed down to eighty-five kilometers per hour. The car’s side nearly scraped the barrier, its tires whining as they fought for grip in the cracks, carving a smooth, fluid arc through the corner.

His toes danced on the pedals, mastering the throttle. As he braked, he simultaneously blipped the accelerator to prevent the wheels from locking up, using threshold braking to keep the car on the perfect racing line. The front wheels hovered on the very edge of locking, the brake pedal kicking back against his foot, but by then, he was already at the end of the corner.

The Mini hugged the guardrail, taking the tightest possible radius. The suspension compressed to its limit and the chassis shuddered, but the tires never lost their bite.

The instant the braking force eased, Kai was off the pedal and flooring the accelerator. The Mini shot forward like an arrow released from a bow. The rear end gave a slight, almost imperceptible wiggle before he corrected it, the car instantly becoming as docile as a kitten. He’d lost no speed, no time, and in a flash, he was rocketing onto the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II.

In the blink of an eye, the Mini Cooper was decisively ahead of the Shelby Mustang.

The crowd, which had swarmed to the end of the bridge, couldn’t believe their eyes. They waved their phone lights wildly, their cheers and gasps of astonishment surging through the night.

Unbelievable!

From the very start, the Mini Cooper had completely dominated the Mustang, leaving Matteo staring at its taillights!

How on earth was this happening?

Matteo was losing his mind. He couldn’t believe—refused to believe—what was happening. His face was a mask of grim fury. All reason fled him as he mashed the accelerator to the floor.

Now that they were on a straightaway again, the Shelby’s power advantage returned. In a heartbeat, its engine roared back to life, blasting the car past one hundred kilometers per hour. It became a streaking blur on the city streets, where the speed limit was a mere fifty. Matteo chased recklessly, the gap between them slowly shrinking.

But this time, he wasn’t going to wait. The moment the Mustang’s nose was level with the Mini’s tail, he jerked the steering wheel to the left. The muscle car, like the Incredible Hulk, lunged sideways for a full-contact assault, trying to use its brute force and weight to simply destroy its opponent.

BANG!

Kai’s eyes sharpened. His heart hammered, but his breathing remained steady. The more dangerous the moment, the calmer he became; the more thrilling the situation, the more composed he was.

Dirty tricks like this were common in underground racing.

The Mini’s left side slammed against the guardrail, erupting in a shower of sparks. An image of Lorenzo’s pained expression flashed through Kai’s mind, and he couldn’t help but smirk.

He acted instantly: downshift, throttle to the floor, full counter-steer. The engine screamed as the revs shot to their limit. Just before the Mustang could fully pin the Mini’s tail, he executed a perfect fishtail maneuver, a violent whip of the car’s rear that broke him free. During the grinding impact, the Mini’s left-rear wheel even lifted off the ground for a split second, drawing a collective gasp from the spectators on the sidewalks.

The next second, Kai had already cut back hard to the right. The Mini’s rear, like a Corgi’s chubby butt, nudged the Mustang’s big, dumb nose out of the way and completed the counter-overtake.

He hadn’t just held his position—he’d stolen the racing line.

Matteo could only watch, stunned, as his own car was thrown violently from side to side. For a brief moment, he completely lost control.

Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?

The lurching car felt like a bumper car at a cheap carnival. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he felt a sudden urge to vomit.

In that brief moment of disorientation, Matteo watched helplessly as the Mini Cooper’s driver got back on the power, accelerating away and vanishing from his view.

He wasn’t just looking at taillights anymore. Now, the Mini was actually pulling away.

Gasp!

Another wave of shock swept through the crowd in Piazza Cavour. Who could have imagined that the Mini Cooper would be this aggressive, bullying the Shelby Mustang for the entire race?

Who was it that called the Mini a kitten?!

Standing by the riverbank, Lorenzo felt the cool night wind on his face. He was in a fantastic mood. A smile played on his lips as he let out a dramatic, mournful sigh. ”It’s over already. He couldn’t even last through the first corner.”

Amidst the bustling, ecstatic crowd, Todt and Samuel wore equally thrilled expressions.

Todt stroked his chin, a spark of excitement in his eyes. ”That kid’s braking technique and his choice of line… doesn’t it remind you of Senna at Monaco?”

Samuel’s mouth fell slightly agape. He was stunned. He knew the kid in the Mini was good, but Senna?

That was going too far.

”The tight corners at the Spanish Steps,” Samuel said, remaining cautious. ”That will be the real test.”

Todt didn’t argue. His face was filled with eager anticipation. The Mini and the Shelby, one after the other, disappeared into the labyrinth of Rome’s narrow streets. They were out of sight, but the air remained electric as people with phones and walkie-talkies gave a live commentary of the race.

Curves in the straights, and potholes in the curves.

This was Rome, after all. The straight-line distance from the bridge to the Spanish Steps was only 1,500 meters, but the narrow alleys and chaotic layout were fraught with danger.

The tiny lanes barely allowed two cars to pass side-by-side. One wrong move and you’d need a new paint job. The ancient cobblestones, still damp from a recent rain, reflected the buttery yellow glow of the Roman night, tracing the silhouettes of the surrounding Baroque architecture. Spectators who had arrived early on skateboards and scooters held up their phones, providing a live feed for the crowd back at the bar.

The downhill section at the Spanish Steps was famous for its series of tight, snake-like S-curves, which demanded lightning-fast reflexes and impeccable car control.

There was a reason the speed limit in central Rome was fifty kilometers per hour. Right now, both the Mini and the Mustang had earned enough speeding tickets to last a lifetime.

Kai led the way, his navy-blue car a submarine parting the waves, weaving nimbly through the tight confines.

A light touch on the brake, a downshift. The jarring bumps of the cobblestones seemed to be completely absorbed by the suspension. The Mini moved like a serpent gliding over the ground, a low-flying antelope hurtling forward at seventy-five kilometers per hour. In his rearview mirror, the Shelby was still in hot pursuit. Kai knew this was his chance.

A chance to break away for good. Otherwise, once they were back on a straight, Matteo would just use his engine advantage again.

And so, he set the trap.

At the first left-hand turn, Kai deliberately braked half a second early, taking an extreme inside line that nearly scraped the stone pillars lining the road. The shriek of the tires on the wet surface sounded like chalk on a blackboard, sharp enough to make your hair stand on end.

From Matteo’s perspective, this was his opening.

Though his Mustang was already sliding slightly on the slick stones, its tires struggling for grip, Matteo drove with the brute-force courage of a man with nothing to lose. He kept the throttle pinned, not just maintaining speed but accelerating, pushing past ninety kilometers per hour. He showed a desperate, reckless determination to catch up, the car practically flying.

In that instant, he saw the Mini Cooper slowing down. His heart leaped into his throat.

An opportunity!

He deliberately braked half a second late, maximizing his acceleration zone, and aimed to force an overtake around the outside of the corner.

As his car, pushed to its absolute limit, reached the apex, he saw the overtaking line open up. He turned the steering wheel to exit the corner, but to his horror, the car didn’t respond. It didn’t turn left. It just kept going straight, barrelling directly towards the flowerbed ahead, about to fly off the road entirely.

Crap.

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!