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Five lights.

The storm in my chest stilled.

There was nothing left to say.

Only the drive remained.

The final light blinked on.

I took one last breath.

And let the monster out.

The lights vanished.

I launched.

Perfect clutch bite. Minimal wheelspin. I surged forward with violent grace, every muscle tuned to the machine around me. Behind me, engines screamed and tyres smoked, but they were just noise.

I was already gone.

Turn One came at 290kph. I braked later than was wise, later than was sane—right on the bleeding edge of adhesion. The rear twitched, but I caught it, threaded the needle. The city flashed by in chrome streaks and neon blurs. Seoul’s brand-new street circuit was tight, technical, brutal.

Good. Let it fight me.

I didn’t lift.

By lap three I’d broken DRS range.

By lap five, I was three seconds clear.

Mac was in my ear again. “Gap to Rivers: 3.2. Your pace is surgical. Keep this rhythm.”

Surgical? No. I wasn’t slicing.

I was carving my legacy into the tarmac.

Every corner was a test, and I passed them all. Brake late. Downshift crisp. Ride the kerbs. Use the wall to judge the inch-perfect line. Others flinched at barriers. I kissed them.

Let the track come for me. Let the world think I was broken. Let them whisper that Obsidian made me.

Today I was the blade, not the hand wielding it.

And I would cut.

Mid-race pit stop—tight, clean, efficient. Back out in clear air.

“Everything’s green. You’re untouchable right now.” Mac said, his voice calm and collected.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was too far inside the rhythm. Every cell in my body vibrated to the song of the car—engine pitch, tyre feedback, g-forces like a drumbeat in my skull. This was more than control. This was flow.

This was why I did it.

Not for the podiums. Not for the headlines.

Not even for the titles.

For this feeling.