AUTHOR'S NOTE: The rest of the chapters will basically just be fluffy stuff that ties up the plot points :) Hope that's okay <3

Chapter Theme:

Brian Tyler - Formula 1 Theme

When Wendy sees her coming across the parkinglot towards the Apex motorhome on Thursday morning the first thing she says is, ‘You’ve got a spring in your step today.’

‘Do I? Never noticed.’

‘Seriously, what’s got you so happy? Wait. Don’t tell me. Is it Irene?’

‘That obvious?’

‘Are you back together or something?’

Seulgi only shrugs, and it’s an answer in and of itself.

‘I’m guessing you talked it out and everything, then?’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says. ‘Something like that. Actually, completely like that. We sat down and talked it all out and basically realised that the time apart had helped both of us and it was healthy. I realised I was emotionally still quite immature and very short-sighted and probably a little bit selfish, too. And she realised it’s possible for her to go on living outside of F1 and outside of me. Not that we didn’t already know that. We just needed to figure it out. To come to terms with it.’

‘And she’s fine, then? Or better?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you are?’

‘You know I am.’

‘Got your confidence back,’ Wendy says, opening the motorhome door and letting Seulgi go in ahead of her.

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says. ‘Had it back for a while. I think maybe it was what Joy said to me, you know? In a strange way, her advice is actually pretty good sometimes. Win lose or crash. Kind of stuck with me.’

‘Don’t crash.’

‘I won’t. You know I won’t. What’s the forecast for this weekend? Still what we were expecting?’

Wendy nods solemnly, setting the coffeepot to boil and taking off her shoes and leaving them by the door. ‘Clear and cloudy tomorrow for practice, but light rain on Saturday for qualifying. And Sunday? Well.’

‘Is the storm still expected to hit?’

‘Yeah. From ten in the morning until way after the race. So…you know. I expect it’ll actually benefit us, if you drive even half as well as you did in Italy.’

‘We’ll see,’ Seulgi says.

‘Want one?’

She nods and puts her feet up on the couch to rest. Wendy pours them each a cup of coffee and hands it to her and sits across the table sipping it quietly. ‘You going in the sim tonight?’ she says.

‘Maybe. We’ll see how I feel. But I know this circuit like the back of my hand. I could drive it in my sleep. And if I’m not ready by now, I’m not going to ready in eighteen hours, am I?’

‘Suppose not. Have you seen any of the fans yet?’

‘A couple earlier.’

‘A couple?’

‘Couple hundred. Outside the hotel.’

Wendy gives her an expression that says: Makes more sense. ‘Sold-out crowd,’ she says. ‘Fastest sellout in Korean Grand Prix history. Even faster than the nailbiter Irene won a couple years ago.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Asked around. Heard a couple reports circulating about it. Even faster sellout than last year, and that was packed to the rafters. And you know why.’

Seulgi looks down into the steaming heart of her coffee and is quiet.

‘To see you,’ Wendy says. ‘You and her, going at it.’

‘And Yeri. And Joy and Jennie, too.’

‘Sure. But mainly it’s you and Irene. It’s down to the wire.’

‘It was last year too.’

‘Yeah, but you’re better now. You’re at the top. After Monza everyone’s seeing you in a different light. Last year it was the young upstart against the veteran champion. This year it’s the dominant racing prodigy against the failing oldie.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Alright, that came off a bit rude. I didn’t mean that. I guess more accurately – and positively – it’s to see you drive perfectly and Irene redeem herself. These past few races have really drummed up the intrigue. It’s crazy. I was out and about earlier and I could practically feel the energy everywhere, even away from here.’

‘Are you trying to tell me things you think will make me nervous? Because it’s not going to work. I told you, I’m over it now. I’ve got my confidence full-time, you know? Not just for one weekend. If that were the case, I’d have lost it after what happened in Mexico.’

‘That just wasn’t the track for our car. You gave it your all.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I mean, though.’

Wendy just looks at her for an answer.

‘I’m different now,’ Seulgi says. ‘It’s different. It wasn’t really my fault in Bahrain either but I still treated like it was. I still felt it. Told myself it was all on me. Mexico was practically the same, only the time apart was what I needed to clear my head and realise that win, lose, or crash, I’m still the same person. Still the same Kang Seulgi. Mexico was just an extension of that. You know, the only thing I felt after the race was pride.’

‘In Irene?’

‘Yeah. And in myself, and the team, for giving it our all. Was it you that told me you can’t win everything?’

‘Probably. I can’t remember.’

Seulgi smiles a wistful smile. The coffee steams in little helical coils in her hands. ‘She’s been good to me this year,’ she says. ‘Very good.’

‘Irene?’

‘Reve.’

‘Who is- oh, the car.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So you’re sticking with Reve, then?’

‘Why? Don’t you like it?’

‘No,’ Wendy says, ‘I like it. It’s just…you know.’

‘What?’

‘Never expected you to actually stick with it. I thought you’d find naming cars stupid. But hey, here we are.’

‘Guess we all change.’

‘Guess we do.’

They’re quiet for a long time. It’s a comfortable gap in the sound of everything, a certain peace that isn’t quite as intimate as her peace with Irene but nonetheless very welcome and very warming. ‘You know what?’ she says.

‘What?’

‘I’ve got a feeling this is going to be an amazing weekend.’

‘Me too,’ says Wendy. ‘Me too.’

The smile on her face is so uncharacteristic that for a good moment Wheein just stands watching her from her seat at the far side of the garage. Inspecting her with a sort of wary circumspection, like strangers would regard each other upon ice, unsure of how to proceed. A handful of cars are already pulling out onto the track for practice and the crowd are rabid. They can hear them even from the garage. It isn’t raining but it looks fit to at any moment. Yeri is already at the end of the pitlane. Wheein just sits there, shifting in her chair, watching Irene fasten her gloves and sort out her helmet. She says, ‘Are you feeling okay?’

‘Yeah. Never better.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Why?’ Irene says, helmet suddenly masking anything below her eyes. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, it’s just…well, yeah, actually. You seem…not yourself.’

‘How?’

‘You seem too happy. Not to be mean or anything, but yeah. You’ve never been the one to smile like that. Not ever. Not even when you win.’

‘I’m just happy with where my life is right now.’

‘So it seems. Seulgi?’

Irene nods a little too enthusiastically. For a moment Wheein is silent as Irene climbs into the cockpit and grabs the steeringwheel and fastens it in place. ‘You know what?’ Wheein says. ‘That’s honestly just really cute. I know I said that before, but good on you, Irene. Good on you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy before.’

‘You just said that.’

‘And now I’m repeating it. I’m happy for you. Really, I am.’

‘Thanks,’ Irene says. ‘I’ve finally figured it all out. Got it all balanced and centred, you know? My work life and my love life, and not just that – my life outside of it. I finally feel like a proper person again. And forty-eight hours from now I’m going to be standing on the top spot of that podium with the championship trophy in my hand and I’m going to be the happiest person in the world.’

‘I appreciate the optimism. It’s a good look on you.’

‘Thanks. Oh, and Wheein.’

‘What?’

‘Remind me later that I’ve got a present for you.’

‘What?’

‘I left it in the motorhome. I don’t want to forget it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Wouldn’t be a present then, would it?’

‘Well,’ Wheein says, trying to hide a rare smile and failing. ‘Sure thing. Are you ready to go?’

‘Yeah. Let’s get out there.’

‘Alright. Good luck, buddy. I think you’re gonna need it.’

It doesn’t rain at all on Friday. Part of Seulgi is glad for that – rain brings with it an instability bordering on chaos, talent or otherwise. All it takes is one slip. But a greater part of her feels a pang of disappointment at not being able to give the home fans what they want. Even during practice the atmosphere makes her skin tingle. She soars down the main straight after turn two at three hundred kilometres per hour and the world becomes a blur of orange and white and banners and flags and Korean flags and Samsung and Apex and even some Ferrari in there as well. It’s the same at the tight turn three, same at turn four. As she slows right down for the right-hander at turn ten it’s still nothing but banners and cheering.

‘How are you feeling?’ Wendy asks her fifteen minutes from the end of the session, voice breaking up through the radio, and she isn’t sure how to answer. The nerves have returned, but the doubt has not. So she says, ‘Nervous, honestly.’

‘Good. You’re right to be. You’d have to be stupid not to be nervous in the position you’re in. Not to add any more pressure, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Tires good?’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says. She slows at the turn fourteen-fifteen complex and the deceleration has her head spinning and her thoughts jumbled. ‘Tires are good for now. Is this good data?’

‘Really good. Really good data. But we have a sinking suspicion it might not matter, honestly. This is all well and good for a dry race, but if it rains…’

‘And the forecast?’

‘Still light rain tomorrow, heavy rain for the race.’

Seulgi is quiet. The thought is both supremely exciting and terrifying. Seulgi months ago would have convinced herself Monza was a fluke. A one-off moment of lightning in a bottle amid a sea of mediocre rain performances. But instead as she rounds the corner at turn two to the screams of the fans and accelerates for the enormous straight she says into the static of the radio, ‘I don’t mind rain. We can show everyone who deserves to win.’

‘I like your thinking. But the point remains – as a team we’d prefer if it stayed dry.’

‘Guess we’re going to have cross our fingers, then,’ says Seulgi. The crowd wave her by as she slows on her final practice lap and drives against the setting of the sun in a pinchbeck glow through the final section of the circuit. A quick glimpse in her wingmirror and she sees one of the Samsungs pulling up alongside her slowing ready to enter the pitlane at the same time. She knows it’s Irene before she even reads the number. The smile on her face is wide enough to pull her away from the fact they’re racing at all. She gives a little thumbs up and Irene waves at her and gives a thumbs up back and drives into the pits ahead of her and into the Samsung garage. And as Seulgi shuts off the engine and climbs out of the car a moment later in their own garage, she’s still smiling, still giddy with love.

She knocks twice and waits. It smells of the cold, bitter enough to make her shiver in her jacket. Wheein answers the door of the motorhome and nods to her and lets her in. ‘Was just grabbing something to eat,’ she says. Irene takes a moment to look around. The portable TV in the corner plays the news on mute and on the gas stove sits a pan of rice bubbling in a thin layer of hot water and there’s a plastic choppingboard of raw chicken on the countertop next to it. Wheein isn’t even looking at her, nor the wrapped present in her hands. She’s sat slouched on the couch and watching the news in the corner while the rice simmers.

‘Anything decent?’ Irene says.

‘Just some chicken and rice. Couldn’t be bothered eating out.’

‘I got your present.’

At that Wheein sits up and turns around and looks first at the present and then at Irene. ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘I thought you were kidding.’

Irene just waves it about. It’s a wrapped box and quite heavy and as she passes it to Wheein with a smile Wheein shakes it around and unwraps it with curious care, as if believing it to be of greater significance than it truly is, some priceless artifact or enormous gemstone. She tears away the last of the wrapping paper and tosses it to the side and sets the box in her lap. It’s a white shoebox, two logos embossed on the front – Tommy Hilfiger and Irene’s personally-designed red-and-black bunny head. ‘No ,’ Wheein says with a little laugh.

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘It’s November.’

‘Yeah, well.’

She opens the box and holds up the sneakers and matches them against her foot with a grin half in disbelief and half in amusement. ‘Size five,’ she says. ‘How’d you know?’

‘Lucky guess. Hope you like them.’

‘Thanks. Seriously. They’re cool as .’

Irene only shrugs. She sits across the table and watches the silent news while Wheein tries on her new sneakers and cooks the chunks of chicken with some herbs and garlic and a handful of broccoli in a fryingpan and adds the rice and plates it all up and tucks in while it’s still steaming. The news reporters look like strange mutes locked in some form of mimicry and it’s mildly amusing to her for some reason.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Wheein asks. It comes out as barely more than a garbled mouthful of rice.

‘Quite a lot. The race. Me. Seulgi. What happens next.’

‘Should be a really good fight.’

‘I know.’

‘Did you see the sector breakdowns by lap?’

‘Yeah. I glanced them over. We’re gaining time on the straights in sector one and losing it back to them in sector two.’

‘And sector three’s just about even,’ Wheein says, shoveling in a spoonful of rice and chicken. ‘Like I said, a good fight. Are you nervous?’

‘Of course I’m nervous. I’m always nervous. I’d be stupid not to be nervous in those cars.’

‘Have you named yours yet?’

‘I told you I’m not going to name it this year.’

‘You never told me that.’

‘Well, I thought it. Maybe I told Seulgi. Whatever.’

‘Have you talked to Yeri?’

‘Haven’t seen her,’ Irene admits. ‘I was going to tell her that night in the bar in Mexico, but…well. Didn’t quite work out, did it?’

‘Don’t think much worked out that night, really. Minus, you know…us winning the team title.’ She swallows another mouthful and washes it down with a glass of water and says, ‘Any plans for the winter break?’

‘I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it.’

‘Spending time with Seulgi?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You should do something for her. Make it up to her.’

‘For what?’

‘For helping you through this? And for understanding you? I mean, it might not be my place to talk about you or anything, but it seems she’s done a lot for you. Seems she’s good for you.’

‘Are you my therapist now?’

‘I’m just saying.’

Irene sits a moment and thinks on it. Whichever way she looks at it Wheein is right but for the sake of evading the impending smugness she doesn’t need to hear that. ‘Is the weather forecast the same?’ she says.

‘Yeah. Pretty much. Why?’

‘Just wondering.’

‘You look confident.’

‘I am confident.’

‘Good,’ Wheein says, and says no more.

Final practice on Saturday morning passes by without fanfare and it’s this lack of anything meaningful that has Seulgi feeling the butterflies in her stomach again. It’s the calm before the storm. None of the teams are really pushing it. The crowd along the main straight grandstands cheer every lap she drives by and cheer again when the others drive by but it’s mainly for her and Irene, as it has been for several months. She coasts slowly through sector three on her final lap and pulls into the pits and into the garage and takes a good moment to just catch her breath and let it all settle.

‘Well,’ Wendy says, still on the radio despite standing a car’s length away. Seulgi opens her eyes. The first thing she sees, perhaps symbolically, is the printed REVE on the inside of the halo. Then it’s Wendy waving at her and motioning for to get out of the car and she does. She pulls off her gloves and helmet and grabs a bottle of water and stands leaning against the cold brick wall of the garage trying to maintain some sort of serenity.

‘How are you feeling?’ Wendy says. Seulgi holds out a jittering hand and she nods in sagely understanding. ‘How did it feel out there?’

‘Good,’ Seulgi says. ‘It felt good. Felt like we expected it to. But I know this circuit and I know this car so well I could do it in my sleep if I had to. What’s the forecast?’

‘Well.’

‘Go on.’

‘The chance of rain this morning was eighty percent. Now it’s down to twenty percent.’

‘For qualifying?’

Wendy nods. ‘So it looks like that storm’s waiting until tomorrow to hit. Waiting for the race. Typical, really. I suppose that’s fate.’

‘We can get pole. I can get pole.’

‘I know. The car likes it here. The problem is, so does the Samsung. So, it’s all down to skill, really. And you’ve both got it in spades.’

Seulgi is quiet. She spends a long time listening to the faint hum of chatter outside. The symphony of idleness. Somewhere down the pitlane one of the engines is still purring. ‘Hey,’ she says, ‘you doing anything next week? Or the week after?’

‘I dunno. Why?’

‘Fancy going for a meal or something?’

‘Sure. Where did that come from?’

‘Just figured I would, you know? Trying to think of things to do in the time away from racing, apart from being with Irene all the time.’

‘Cute,’ Wendy says with a smile. ‘Did she get you that, by the way? I’ve noticed you playing with it a few times.’

Seulgi holds up her wrist with the pearl bracelet around it. ‘Yeah,’ she says.

‘It’s really pretty.’

‘I got her a bear.’

‘What?’

‘She got me this, and I got her a stuffed bear. Not exactly equal, are we? And she couldn’t even carry it all the way to my place because it was too heavy. She got halfway down the street and dropped it. We had to call a cab.’

Wendy is silent for a second. Then she breaks into a fit of laughter.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Wendy says. ‘That is just…y’know. That is so you.’

‘I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or an insult.’

‘Bit of both, really. It’s cute. You’re cute. Both of you. And I hope you both do well tomorrow. Just…y’know. I hope you do a bit better.’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says, laughing. ‘So do I.’

Her stomach feels like ice.

It isn’t raining and it hasn’t rained but sweeping through turns seventeen and eighteen to start her final qualifying lap Irene takes one glance at the gunmetal rumbling of the sky and thinks it might start any moment. But it never does. Wheein is silent. The crowd seem to be silent too, out of respect or anticipation or perhaps they’re not silent at all. Perhaps it’s just the world as Irene sees it narrowing to just the car, the track, the wheel. Even the sound has been deemed unnecessary and removed.

She barrels down the main straight fast enough to force her head back and her neck strains and she fights for control of the car as it shakes about and slows almost to a dead stop at turn three. Sector one is where the Samsung shines. The curves at turns five and six are as smooth as silk. Her lines have never been better. Seven and eight and nine are the same. The crowd catch sight of the white paint glare in the pale sun at turn eleven and call out to her and she grips the wheel and pushes on and her head is hurting and she’s so very close, the hardest qualifying lap of her career.

Seulgi is somewhere further along, about to finish her lap, but she never thinks about it. Only about how late she can force the entry into turn fourteen and how she can transfer that into power for the swing-through corner at fifteen and sixteen and then hammering the accelerator for the final stretch to the line. It’s only six seconds and it feels like time in an hourglass, repeated ad nauseam, crowd and car and weather and Irene and her championship hopes and dreams and Seulgi and everything else in the world. All she thinks is: I can do this. I’ve still got it. I’m not beaten yet. I’m still the best driver on this grid.

She crosses the line and slows and holds her breath. Her heart feels fit to stop. ‘Wheein,’ she says. The crowd are manic and she can barely even hear the engine but it isn’t indicative of anything because the Korean flags are out. It could be Seulgi, she thinks. Could be Yeri. Could even be Jennie.

‘Well?’ she says and waits.

Silence for a long time. She’s halfway down the main straight when the static breaks up her silent musing and Wheein says flatly, ‘That was a pretty extraordinary lap out there.’

‘Well? Where does it put me for tomorrow?’

‘On pole.’

She doesn’t see Irene at all that night and the only text she sends is to congratulate her on pole position. Sitting on the edge of her bed alone and discussing with herself the day’s events Seulgi finds that she’s smiling wide enough to have to sit and try and consciously stop it out of fear she might get stuck that way forever. Six months ago it would have been: I’m a failure. Second isn’t pole. Second is losing.

Instead, first it’s: I did great today, and she was a slight better. But tomorrow is a different story.

And then she thinks, still grinning from ear to ear: I love her so much. I just love her. I really do.

In a way entirely bizarre to her Seulgi only feels her heart begin to race when she’s on the starting grid and the lights are about to begin their inevitable countdown to the most important day of the season. One final race. A sea of expectant faces, thousands strong, murmuring and ready and orange and blue and Samsung and Apex and Irene and Seulgi. She pulls up in second place behind Irene and her hands are sweaty and a single bead of sweat falls down the side of her face and beads at her chin. She can feel it in her helmet.

‘Champ,’ says Wendy in her ear, ‘it’s time.’

She knows it. She has known it for months, Irene or no Irene. Fifty-seven laps separate her from a world championship. There are no memories of Irene’s divebomb overtake last year or her deflation at coming so close and having it all slip away or the horrors of Belgium or Bahrain this year. No Baku or Austria or Brazil. No China 2019, or anything else. Just what lies ahead.

‘One-stop strategy, soft to mediums, but don’t take my word for it. Forecast says storm arriving in ten minutes time.’

Seulgi takes one glance up at the sky. Long sloughs of grey cloud hang like wool and there is no sun and it smells of the impending rain. ‘What then?’ she says, already knowing the answer.

‘We wait it out. See what happens. And then, if it rains, we make the best of it.’

‘I’ll win,’ Seulgi says.

‘I know you will. Good luck.’

The lights are already beginning to show. She feels the weight of two years of her life come crashing down on her shoulders with the first engine rev and her foot is ready and the lights hit five and the world slows to a crawl. She can hear it, the pumping of her own bloodbeat. The languid measuring of her breaths. Everything else slips and seeps away. The lights go out.

She gets a great start but Irene’s is just as good and they’re neck and neck going into turn one. Already the crowd are on their feet. They’re running out of their rows and down to the barriers for a better look and the flags are out and waving and they haven’t even reached the second corner yet. Irene cuts to the inside and forces Seulgi to say behind and they come out onto the straight and Seulgi pulls out alongside Irene and Yeri is there and they’re three abreast slowing for the hairpin at turn three. Irene has the better line. She takes the lead on the next straight and Yeri comes up flying alongside them and Seulgi is forced wide and down into third place with a gasp of the audience.

‘Come on,’ Wendy says. ‘That’s not the start we wanted, but you’ve got this. I know you’ve got this.’

Her heart is steady. Something has changed in her that’s changed all the way through her and forever. Three laps later and still in third place there’s not a sliver of doubt at all. Just: I can do this. I’ve got this. Be patient. The race will come to me.

Irene is seconds ahead. On lap six coming onto the main straight Seulgi has DRS and it propels her forward and she slips to the right and ahead of Yeri and cuts the down inside line and uses her trademark aggressiveness to power out of the corner and into second place to a shower of applause and whistling. Wendy says something and she ignores it. It’s her and Irene and the pair of them and the trophy and nothing else. On lap seven she feels the first drop of rain on her wrist. Then another.

‘Wendy,’ she mutters on the straight.

‘Yep. We know. We’re monitoring it.’

‘It’s only a couple drops.’

‘It’s about to get a whole lot heavier. We think it won’t even be gradual.’

On lap ten Wendy’s theory is confirmed. There’s nothing gradual about it at all. One minute Seulgi is sawing at the steeringwheel and violently holding the car together in her trademark style through sector three and then as she turns onto the straight and only four seconds behind Irene they run head-on into a wall of rain. As if it has come from nowhere. The skies have opened and everything has been deposited without preamble or warning and she’s skidding about already. The umbrellas are out. It’s a lap later in the same place that she understands the gravity of the situation. Even in a straight line her rear tires are sliding and uncoordinated.

‘Wendy,’ she says.

‘Yeah. I know.’

‘I’m having to lift off the throttle on the straights. I need to box.’

‘I know. Box this lap for intermediates.’

She comes into the pits on the same lap as Irene. They’re neck and neck still as they drive out of the pitlane and back onto the circuit in first and second. The rain runs in long streams through the grass and from the barricades and it’s cold in Seulgi’s racing suit and her hands are cold and she’s not crying but she’s numb enough to soon be close. It’s almost as bad as Monza. On the run to turn four the spray from Irene’s car ahead has her driving into a wall of mist, blind and terrified. Lap fourteen goes by without incident. Lap fifteen and her digital display reads SAFETY CAR in bold writing and she’s already slowing and so is Irene.

‘Who is it?’ she asks.

‘Three cars. All back there at the hairpin. One of the Ferraris, one of the Racing Lines, one of the Chamisuls. All out.’

‘Are they okay?’

‘Yeah, they’re fine. Just focus now. Focus on getting her at the restart.’

On the straight she’s weaving and swerving to keep heat into her tires and Irene is doing the same behind the safety car. Her hands are shaking now. All has taken on a miserable horror quality in the downpour, so bad she can barely see. She slips and almost loses it and only by sheer natural talent has the reaction speed to keep it together through the S curves in sector three and says immediately, ‘We need to go onto the full wet tires. This is impossible.’

Silence. Then: ‘Okay. Box this lap.’

To her mild surprise Irene has the same idea. They both rejoin the queue behind the safety car in third and fourth – Joy and Yeri having stayed out on their tires – ready for the restart, but it never comes. Just the text on the digital display and then Wendy in her ear to say, ‘Safety car for a couple more laps.’

‘What’s going on? It should’ve been in by now. We should be racing again.’

‘We’ve had a few more incidents.’

‘What? A few? What do you mean, a few?’

‘The other Ferrari crashed out at turn one. And one of the McLarens as well just after.’

‘How are they crashing under safety car speed?’ Seulgi asks, but it’s a stupid question. One look at the state of the circuit contains all the answers she needs. It looks more like a river than a race track. ‘Wendy,’ she says.

‘Yeah, I’m here.’

‘What are Joy and Yeri doing? Why are they still on the intermediate tires?’

‘They’re gambling that it’s going to dry off soon enough.’

‘Well, they’re wrong.’

‘Some of the other cars behind you are switching onto the intermediates too. Most of them, apart from you and Irene and two others.’

‘They’re all wrong. It’s far too early.’

‘Maybe. But they can’t do anything now. They’ll just lose position.’

Seulgi shakes her head. She tries to squeeze her hands on the wheel and can feel nothing at all. It’s lap twenty-four before the safety car peels into the pits and they’re racing again, driving blind through a wall of spray and slanted rain like ghost cars navigating a winter wasteland in a vivid dream, the rear lights blinking as bright as homing beacons in the fog. She manages to maintain Irene’s pace, much slower and more cautious, both aware of the consequences of even a single mistake. They’re still behind Yeri and Joy half a lap later and coming onto the main straight and Wendy cuts back in to say flatly, ‘Careful. Yellow flags are out in sector three. No overtaking.’

‘What’s happened now?’

‘The other McLaren has spun off.’

‘Are you kidding me? How many cars are left?’

‘Thirteen, for now.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Just stay calm.’

‘I am calm,’ Seulgi replies. The fact that she’s telling the truth would be more interesting to her if she were not so focused on the race. The run to the hairpin at turn three is almost entirely blind. Seulgi sees only the winking of the red light of Irene’s car ahead of her and the spray from her rear tires and vaguely another shape ahead of them, either Yeri or Joy. They slow almost to a stop at the turn, their braking points much earlier. She watches Irene skid a slight and correct it and a moment later the same happens to her and the backend almost spins and she has to fight with the wheel to control it again.

‘C’mon,’ she mutters. ‘C’mon, Reve.’

There’s almost a superstition in believing that naming her car will give her some form of slight advantage or connection to the machine but any advantage – real or imaginary – is one Seulgi is willing to grab hold of with both hands. Coming up to turn four she’s still blind, driving only by instinct, racing suit utterly soaked. She weighs a good five pounds heavier with the rain, arms like lead. They brake earlier and Irene’s rear light blinks and flashes twice and suddenly all she sees is the small and amorphous shape of a car go skittering far too fast and far too suddenly from the outside of the circuit to the inside line and collide with something in a shower of carbon and rear wing and shattered endplates. Seulgi never even sees what it was but she doesn’t have to because the crowd let her know instead. All she knows is that it isn’t Irene. She’s even more cautious braking for the corner and glances in her mirror and sees vaguely the wreckage of two cars lost in the gravel, adrift in rain, races over.

‘Is that Yeri and Joy?’ she asks.

‘Yeah. Looks like Joy lost control.’

‘I told you it was the inters. They’re useless out here. They won’t be the last.’

‘Just focus.’

‘I am.’

The safety car is out for another three laps. Each one like a death knoll, a long and laborious waiting before they can race again, teasing out the laps, counting down the timer. The crowd are pensive and restless – they want to see a race as much as Seulgi wants to race it. Right before the start of lap twenty-nine Wendy says over the radio, barely audible in the downpour, ‘Safety car is back in this lap. Be ready. You’ve got a good chance here.’

‘How many cars are left now?’

‘Eleven.’

‘Are there even going to be enough to finish the race?’

‘We’ll see. Head down. You’re only halfway home.’

‘Feels like I’ve been here six hours.’

‘Focus.’

Her hands are shaking but they’re so numb she never notices, no more than lumpen and useless hypothermic instruments. The speed on the main straight is much slower than usual. The safety car has bunched the field back together but the skill difference is so evident that within three more laps it’s her and Irene ten seconds adrift of the rest of the field and jockeying for position as carefully as they can. The rain never stops. Wendy tells her on lap thirty-five that one of the Hewitt-Mercedes has spun off into the gravel and binned it and there are only ten out of the twenty cars left and Seulgi has to think about that for a second. But only a second. Thinking also: I can do this. I know I can do this.

The crowd ebb and flow and ebb and flow. First it’s cheering for her and then Irene gains half a second on the straight and the white Samsung flags are hanging sodden from the balconies and on lap forty Irene runs wide when braking for turn ten and Seulgi slips down the inside and holds the line and gains the lead and they’re rabid again, the loudest crowd Seulgi has heard since Monza.

‘Yes!’ Wendy shouts. ‘Yes! That’s how we do it! That’s exactly how! Now just keep it together.’

It’s the longest race of her life. The most painful. The laps tumble. Irene never falters like she did in Monza. Never slips back like Belgium or grows desperate like Brazil. This is the Irene of 2019, of 2018, of four championships back to back, this is Gloria and Hermes and Starburst and Cobalt. With six laps to go the gap is still only a single second. Seulgi has to wrestle so hard to keep control in the downpour that her arms have gone numb and even the burning heat of the engine components around her legs and under her seat feel like ice. Wendy is silent. The tires slip and she almost loses it and Irene is right there, stalking her, waiting for that mistake, just like in Baku. Lap fifty-three. With only three laps to go she’s almost crying and her heart is trembling and it’s just like last year and the crowd can feel it. The tension feels almost manufactured.

Nobody else is even close.

They lap the backmarker cars on the next lap and Irene is still just behind her and Seulgi has to weave to maintain the racing line and the crowd are silent in awe. It’s as if they’re racing in a dream, participants in a shared simulation, a level above everybody else. The extreme caution with which the other eight remaining cars drive is replaced by a daring and fearless gladiatorial fight. They run wide on purpose and take lines the other drivers refuse to take out of fear of spinning off and they find the grip and fight the car and Seulgi can barely breathe and her head throbs with the cold and her lips are numb and it hurts to even move so she does not. She keeps going. Lap fifty-five. Two laps left.

‘C’mon,’ she mumbles, barely a whisper. ‘Just two more. Just two.’

Irene is right there.

It’s a stark and terrifying reminder of the racer Irene truly is, a lesson forgotten since Monza and Brazil. It tells Seulgi that she has earned every one of those four championships and deserves a fifth. The final lap begins. The crowd watch them go with a sort of awful apprehension, as if expecting the worst. Wendy seems to be the same. Seulgi wrestles the car and Irene dances. She throws it into turn nine and brakes early for turn ten so she can power out earlier and Irene does the opposite, sailing around the outside and braking late and smoothing the line through and getting on the throttle a fraction later. The perfect counterbalance. Two sides of the same absurdly talented coin. Turns eleven and twelve go by. It’s the moment Seulgi realises what is about to happen. A year has changed many things but not this. They reach turn thirteen and barrel down towards fourteen and everything seems to slow to a crawl once more. Seulgi looks in her mirror. Irene has tried it but it’s too little, too late. Seulgi has turned the car already.

Suddenly it’s memories of Bahrain 2019, the divebomb that started it all.

And then China, the same move against Irene, how spectacularly wrong that had gone.

Then it’s Irene in Korea, the very same maneuver down the inside of turn fourteen, the move that had won her the championship twelve months ago. But a year is a long time, and Seulgi cuts early down the inside and places her car perfectly on the apex and Irene is forced to slow and go out wide and come back onto the track and towards turn fifteen still behind, newly bested. Seulgi holds her breath. She’s already crying. Thinking: It’s going to happen, isn’t it? Reve’s going to break down on me right now. On the line. Steal it away from me.

But it never does happen. She’s cautious around turns seventeen and eighteen and powers toward the line and her hand is pumping the air and a long rope of superhot fireworks lights up the evening and goes trailing down the rim of world in streams of burnt sunset glycerine and the rain shines like crystalline and the crowd are out of their seats and only when Seulgi slows does it hit her. Only when Wendy is crying on the radio.

‘You’ve done it!’ she yells, almost a whimper, almost enough to make Seulgi laugh. ‘You’ve ing done it, Seulgi! You’re the world champion!’

It takes a full lap of waving and thumbs ups to let that sink in. Only when she pulls up in front of the big NUMBER 1 sign and gets out and stands on top of the car does she fully take it in. All of Korea is there on the track. All the world. Wendy and the team are already rushing out of the garage and Wendy’s soaking wet and nobody seems to care. Seulgi climbs down off the car and stands in front of it for a moment just looking at it. The sleek and sodden nose. The wide front wing. White and orange. Apex. Dynamite. She’s still crying. Slowly she gets down onto her hands and knees and bows to it as if it were her god and then bows to it a second time in deep appreciation, prostrating herself humbly before this machine of speed and fury like a penitent.

‘Reve,’ she mutters. ‘You’ve done it.’

‘No,’ says Wendy. She pulls Seulgi to her feet and draws her in for a rough hug and refuses to let go and she’s weeping like Seulgi’s never seen her weep before. ‘You’ve done it! You’ve won!’

‘Holy ,’ Seulgi says, helmetless and sweaty and exhausted to her limit and barely able to stand at all. ‘I really did it, didn’t it?’

The grin on Wendy’s face is almost disturbing. ‘Yes you did!’ she says.

‘I did it. I ing did it.’

She looks about, searching the crowd for one face among thousands. They’re all there, nestled between the mechanics and the team engineers and the pit crews and the photographers and the general public. Joy and Yeri and Jennie are clapping and Joy’s grin is about as wide as Wendy’s. Even the Ferrari boys are clapping. And there, right at the back, smiling proudly, watching her with such utter adoration, is Irene.