Emerging out of the bend, Luca was glad that he had closed up enough space that Aaronson was keen on enlarging.
The Hatcherk Motorsport driver had set his sights on stealing Ansel's spot just ahead, and judging by the speed and momentum with which he was approaching Ansel, Luca suspected Aaronson might capitalize on Addams and Ansel's brawl at the lead, slipping into their line of space before they could even realize it.
"Won't happen," Luca muttered, slamming the throttle. His body jerked back violently, as if an elephant had rammed into him. His car roared past a Bueseno Velocità Jnr flag being waved from the crowd. The barricades and grandstands pressed too close to the track, and flags like these could easily poke into the drivers' view.
But Luca wasn't about to let a flag interfere with his pursuit to reclaim 3rd Position. The blue fabric whipped wildly in the air as he zipped through, and if the spectator hadn't held it firmly, Luca was certain it would've flown onto the track and caused mayhem.
A straight was just ahead, engines roaring close together, with no driver confident or comfortable in their position. Luca's gaze flicked between the track and the data flashing on his steering display. A small engine heat-up warning—nothing critical, it would cool down soon.
Luca scoffed and adjusted his brake balance to the rear, anticipating the next sharp bend where he planned to make up even more ground on Aaronson.
His fingers hovered over the ERS button, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash the energy boost he'd been holding back. Another glance at his tire temperatures confirmed they were still in the optimal range for the speed he was about to push. His focus snapped back to the delta on his dash, tracking his pace against Aaronson, who was already accelerating hard.
Finally exiting the simple corner—at least simple compared to the others at George Park—Luca toggled the DRS button with his thumb, the rear wing flattening to reduce drag. He braced himself for the G-force as his Dallara surged forward, the engine screaming. The track ahead began to blur slightly at the edges of his vision, but his focus remained razor-sharp on the rear of Aaronson's car.
A quick glance at his side mirror confirmed that Oliver and Miles were now locked in a fierce battle for 5th.
"Good, keep 'em busy," Luca said out loud as his car zoomed past, barely inches from the barricade, before approaching the next bend. "Fuck this circuit," he cursed, easing off the throttle to decelerate.
Luca tilted his wheel mid-lane, deliberately positioning his car to slice through the center rather than hugging the outer edge of the track. He flicked the wheel sharply to the side, initiating a drift through the tight curve. His tires shrieked in protest, fighting the asphalt, leaving a swirling trail of white smoke in their wake.
The rear end skidded wide, creeping dangerously close to the barricade—close enough that Luca could almost feel the heat radiating from the concrete.
The crowd erupted in a frenzy, their cheers growing louder as smoke billowed into the air, the acrid scent of burning tires fueling their excitement in the forth section of the circuit.
Luca, however, stayed calm and steady, guiding his Dallara through the drift with pinpoint precision, his gaze locked onto Aaronson's car just ahead. He felt the rear tires itching to break free, but the front tires held firm, doing just enough to keep them in check as the car whipped through the tight curve with wild momentum.
[You made a 3.5 g drift, host.]
Luca's eyes widened, adrenaline flooding his veins as he realized the drift slotted him perfectly beside Aaronson. Their cars now ran nose-to-nose, metal beasts locked in a furious race down a short but crucial straightway, every second crackling with tension.
Aaronson shot Luca a quick sideways glare, disbelief etched across his face. Their engines screamed in unison, the thunderous roars fusing into one overwhelming sound that drowned out the wild cheers from the grandstands. The crowd was on its feet, urging one of them to launch and take the lead earlier on.
Aaronson spat a curse under his breath and forced his focus back onto the track. Both cars tore down the asphalt, trailing just behind Ansel and Max Addams like missiles locked on target. His gloved fingers hovered over the DRS button, itching to deploy the boost and leave the rookie in his dust. But the moment to engage had to be precise—he still needed space to maneuver first.
His eyes flicked to his left mirror, tracking Luca's car as it clung dangerously close, almost a phantom shadow stalking his every move. "Get off my flank," Aaronson growled, tightening his grip on the wheel. The next corner loomed just past the grid, forcing him to hesitate.
Engaging DRS now could backfire with the sharp bend approaching, and the rookie was still right there—too damn close for comfort.
The F2 veteran tapped his brake lightly with his left foot to reduce speed just enough to nail the upcoming corner. This tactic was capable of disorienting a rival who had been focused on keeping to your rhythm; the sudden abrupt change throwing them into confusion and hastily adjustment.
However, Luca didn't fall for this; he was relentless. He seemed almost glued to Aaronson's car, refusing to back down, his engine growling with the same defiance reflected in his driving.
The subtle deceleration backfired, leaving just enough room for Luca to slip even closer alongside him. His attempt to disrupt the rookie's rhythm had only granted Luca more ground. "Ugh, great," Aaronson grumbled as both cars hurtled toward the treacherous spaghetti curves that snaked ahead like a coiled viper.
Luca, sharp as ever, noticed the shift in Aaronson's line. He adjusted without hesitation, tilting his wheel to match the arc. It was a dance of precision—there was no room for mistakes. The leaderboard flickered with names, but none of it could be trusted just yet. Kristensen had fended off Miles for now, but their battle was far from over.
Miles clung to Kristensen's tail like a bloodhound, and Kristensen was visibly struggling to keep him at bay.
Engines roared viciously, the sound slicing through the cool air as both drivers began their deceleration. Their tires screeched, carving a tight U-formation as they sliced through the curves, flashing glimpses of their sleek frames to the ecstatic crowds.
Luca's eyes scanned the track, his focus unrelenting—until he spotted debris scattered along the asphalt. Plastic cups and stray litter dotted the racing line, hazards the marshals hadn't managed to clear in time. One of the cups wobbled dangerously close to the edge of the path, threatening to roll directly into the line of his tires.
"Why's Australia ?!" Luca muttered under his breath as he corrected away from the cups by adjusting his trajectory while still snaking through the left-right chicanes.
[DATA DISPLAYED IN REAL-TIME:
-Operational Status: 85% (Good)
-Breathing: Calm & Steady
-Distance covered: 32000 m