For the fourth time this season, Luca crosses the line first in the race. Above all, this one felt the most impeccably sculpted: no sun, Monaco’s renowned darkness, and gleam. Under the sparkle, Rennick’s Ferrari glided past the checkered flag confidently, as if it had been magnetized to the winning position.
The roar of the crowd throughout La Condamine and Monte Carlo was almost impossible to bear, echoing through the tight tunnels, solid walls, and steel barriers that made up Circuit du l’Etoile.
The Monaco Grand Prix was claimed by Luca magnificently, despite him not even being the favorite by current stats, to finish in P1. For the second time running, Stellar had marked his honor, and he had placed even more memorable achievements in Monaco.
"...and across the line—RENNICK DOES IT AGAIN!"
"...OH MY WORD, LUCA RENNICK TAKES THE FLAG IN MONACO! SIXTY LAPS OF PURE CONTROL, PURE COMPOSURE, AND ONCE AGAIN, NO ONE... NO ONE, CAN TOUCH HIM...!"
Luca felt breathless and energetic after speeding down the home straight in pursuit of 25 points while also fleeing from Jimmy Damgaard, in P2, who wanted it just as much.
While he slowed down after a massive dose of relief, Damgaard still swept past him with his RBioL, adrenaline still boiling in his veins. He finished in P2 after spending the last laps searching for a last-minute overtake, using the strength of his supercar. Unfortunately, Luca’s driving was too sly to read through Circuit du l’Etoile.
When it came to the home straight, Luca was sure he would get cold feet and succumb to Damgaard’s bravado on normal stochastics. However, Luca was smart enough to have stored sufficient energy ever since the 40th lap mark of the race. Although Stellar’s night was as cold as a running fridge, Luca managed to use that long timeframe to store enough energy through Heat-Energy Recycling to get away from his Norwegian Predator.
Furthermore, Trampos’s subtle rear wing tweak, which also went unnoticed in this race, supported his finishing speed significantly.
Luca, who had found the rear wing change dubious for the second race in a row, was assured of his suspicion after receiving two Yaw Flex points before the race was over.
[SYNC BAR: [][][][] 37.5%]
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"...he demands more than applause! He is utterly singular..!"
"... Four wins already this season out of six, and the two he didn’t win? He was still on the podium! This is dominance on a scale we haven’t seen in years! Rennick is charting new territory and raising the standard of this championship...!"
"...1st Place, Luca Rennick! 2nd Place, Jimmy Damgaard! 3rd Place, Ailbeart Moireach...!"
The fervor inside Trampos’ garage was beyond comprehension, a scene of euphoria the moment the Z24 screamed over the finish line. The VIPs of rival support watched with dislike as the Rising Suns burst from their stations in a wave of red, black, and yellow, flooding the pit lane with triumphant shouts as they punched their fists skyward.
The relief and elation that followed Luca’s claim of the checkered flag were indescribable because Jimmy’s relentless pursuit had every heartbeat in the garage spiking with each split-second update on the timing screens.
"...That’s their driver! That’s their win! Trampos takes Monaco! What a claim, what a jewel to add to their already glittering campaign...!"
"...this is a season like no other! The garage explodes in celebration—they’ve conquered the crown jewel of Formula racing, and they’ve done it in style! This will be remembered as one of the great moments in Trampos history...!"
Trampos celebrants roared past Squadra Corse’s garage with unrestrained celebration. A few, like McCauley, didn’t fail to notice the team, the shadow of turmoil that cloaked their garage darker than their signature color black.
As rivals, McCauley didn’t stop himself from yelling something wild at them while he continued with Trampos, leaping into the air and flooding the pit lane in triumph.
Squadra Corse, the champions, were standing frozen, watching with a mix of disdain, envy, quiet disbelief—you name it. They were a complete contrast to Trampos Racing, even though their result here in Monaco was far better than the majority of the grid.
For any team, being silenced by their rivals’ victory often stung more than their own performance. Squadra Corse were left in heavy silence after failing to win a Grand Prix six rounds into the season, a résumé so baffling when one remembers they are the defending champions.
Since Squadra Corse still hadn’t taken a single victory this season, Luigi’s winless streak remained intact. The blow couldn’t be sharper here in Monaco, where he had been touted as the clear favorite to win because of his fabulous qualifying and the drive to win that everyone perceived.
Not only did Luigi fail to capture the victory he was so convinced was supposed to be his, but he couldn’t even salvage a podium finish in the same race!
"...4th Place, Antonio Luigi...!"
"...IT’S A TRUE TURMOIL NOW, THERE’S NO DOUBTING IT! THIS IS REALITY FOR ANTONIO LUIGI, THIS IS REALITY FOR THE CHAMPIONS...!"
"...the defending champion has gone winless for six straight races in his title defense. Unbelievable. Here in Monaco, the stage that was supposed to reaffirm his dominance, he wouldn’t be climbing the podium...!"
Throughout the winding streets of Stellar, as fireworks for Luca blossomed in the sky, the reality was sinking in for everyone: supporters, rivals, and even the man himself, Luigi, as he exited his Mercedes. The atmosphere was electric and also uneasy as loyal fans, especially the VIPs in their exclusive balconies, roused themselves, disturbed by the outcome of the Monaco Grand Prix for their team and business.
Mocking chants immediately came from Trampos Racing mostly, jeering at the Italian giants that were slipping from the top of the triangle.
Luigi calmly removed his helmet and sock once his feet were on the pavement. His hair was damp and clingy because of the heat, and each heavy breath sent each strand dancing.
The cacophony of the echoing commentary, the roaring crowd, the loud chatter on the pit lane, the shaming, the disappointment—all flooded his thoughts, drowning him. He stared shallowly at his visor, the sheen reflecting Luca’s victory fireworks bursting against the night sky, brief flashes of triumph that only deepened the weight in his chest.
Also, he saw the hardened lines and reflection of his own darkened face, a silent portrait of a champion staring back at himself in defeat.
Squadra Corse crew were already moving toward Luigi before he’d even stepped out, and they had flanked him by the time he emerged, ready to guide him back to the garage with consolation.
Two of the six that were around him exchanged a glance, mentally asking each other if it would be wise to break into his silence now. The way Luigi stood with his head bowed, eyes fixed on the visor in his hands, was a bit alarming.
A braver crew member among the six, careless, maybe, wasted no time carrying out their work. He calmly placed his hand on Luigi’s shoulder.
Before the bloke could finish saying his name, the F1 World Champion spun around, his helmet slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor.
The guy’s collar was grabbed with enough force by Luigi to lift him off balance. Everyone, starting from the other five down to Squadra’s garage, was stunned and gasping.
Fury and frustration carved deep lines into the face of the champion as he hurled the unfortunate crewman across the pit lane’s pavement in one feral motion.