A high-pitched ringing drilled through Miles' skull.
His breath was loud inside his helmet, shallow, uneven, fogging up his visor. His fingers twitched on instinct, gripping at nothing.
"What the hell…?" he thought.
The world was spinning, but he wasn't moving.
Blur and fog clouded his head, and the warning lights on his dashboard flashed erratically. As his vision slowly cleared, he noticed his steering wheel was tilted at an unnatural angle, completely skewed from the impact.
The side mirror was gone.
The front wings were twisted. Mangled.
What was once a sleek, million-dollar bodywork of a machine was now torn open, exposing its delicate internals to the rush of the celebratory air at Serpeggiare.
Miles' hearing returned fully, though everything sounded distant like he was underwater.
The air horns still blew loudly, and the announcements were going wild.
"....BANDIERA ROSSA!"
"...RED FLAG! RED FLAG!"
"...Ladies and gentlemen, the F2 Italian Mega Prix has just delivered one of the most shocking moments in Formula 2 history!"
The good news was that Miles was still alive and well. That much was clear from the way he groggily moved within his cockpit.
His shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths, his body sluggish, weighed down by the shock of impact.
Miles had no idea where Luca had bashed his car to. He was definitely not on the track.
He tore off his helmet, taking a deep breath of the polluted, colored air, before attempting to climb out of his wrecked Dallara.
Only then did he realize that he was right in the middle of the main advertisement pavement, the same place Kristensen had skidded away laps ago.
Beyond his crash site, billows of smoke rose from the grandstands, neon flares piercing through the growing dusk.
Marshals in bright orange vests rushed through the flares and smoke, toward the wreckage, fire extinguishers and medical kits in their hands.
"...Debris everywhere on the circuit—race control has immediately called a red flag...!"
"...It's absolute carnage on the circuit—Bellingham and Rennick's battle ends in disaster...!"
"...A high-speed collision into Turn 5, and the red flag is out...!"
This was the third time the red flag was raised in a race this season. The first went for Max, the second for Luca himself, and the third—on the finale in Monza—Miles had the most horrific front impact, courtesy of his former high school classmate.
The shock on Mr. Mancini's face couldn't be described. His eyes had sunk deep, his arms were still folded, and his expression wavered between fury, disbelief, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.
He was usually a pillar of composure, far more composed than Mr. Lugo, but now, it looked as though the weight of the entire season had just crashed down on him.
His engineers, who had been gripping their helmets, slowly removed them, staring at telemetry screens showing the sudden drop in speed and the spike in g-forces which were a brutal confirmation of the impact.
The entire Squadra Corse Jnr crew, spectators, and business owners were silent, their mouths moving soundlessly.
Even Trampos' garage was silent as well. No one was celebrating because everyone was in shock.
Mr. Ruben cleared his throat and spoke into the radio.
Luca heard the words crackle through the static, loud and clear, as if he were right there in the stuffy telemetry room with them.
**We might be looking at a penalty here, son**
Luca didn't reply. Instead, he steadied his car to match the speed limit required as the safety car was officially announced. The bright orange lights flashed ahead, its presence cementing the severity of what had just happened.
Sure, there'd be a debate on whether this deserved a penalty, but Luca was confident his verdict would be innocent.
The rules of the FIA stated that in a duel, especially during the slim entrance of a turn, contact was always a high possibility because of the curved trajectory. In that case, blame for a crash wouldn't simply be assigned based on impact alone.
It would depend on who pressed down the other, who left no escape route, or who deliberately forced contact while squeezing in.
In Luca's case now, the stewards would review whether he had genuinely gone for Turn 5, or if he had dived in specifically to wipe out Miles.
Luca already knew his answer.
He went for Turn 5. He took the gap. The opening was there, and he committed. All he did was swing the rear of his car after drifting into the gap, and smashing Miles into smithereens.
"...Marshals rushing to the scene now, let's hope Bellingham is okay, because it looks like Rennick is!"
"...Replays are coming in now… and oh my goodness, Luca dived in aggressively—was there enough space?! This is a controversial move!"
"...The marshals are already on the scene! What a disastrous moment for Squadra Corse Jnr!"
**Watch your delta to Addams. Safety car's out**
The marshals reached Miles in no time, swiftly helping him out of the wreckage. All around, the other Dallaras crept through Turn 5 at a controlled pace, weaving past the shattered debris, their engines humming low under the safety car's command.
Miles had a slight concussion, and the marshals kept a firm grip on him as he found his footing, offering him instant supplements to keep his head clear.
The camera drones dived through the thick air of blue, golden, and red smoke, capturing every moment as Miles was carefully escorted off the advertisement pavement toward the pitlane in the distance.
"...And what a heartbreaking turn of events for Miles Bellingham—just moments from potential glory...!"
"...We've been talking about the rivalry between Luca and Miles all season, Steve, and now it's ended in carnage for the Englishman, the white lion!"
"...The red flags are waving, Luca Rennick still holds ground after that bone-crushing contact, and when this is over, he might go on to claim P1!"
"...I'm very much pleased with your use of 'might,' Steve..."
"...Race Control is reviewing, Race Control is on it. Luca Rennick should get a good lawyer because it's not looking good...!"
"...Miles Bellingham subisce un ritiro!"