Lights out
The world didn’t go quiet at 200 miles per hour.
That’s what people liked to say, commentators, fans, even drivers who wanted to sound poetic in interviews. Everything fades away. It’s just you and the track.
It wasn’t true.
Nothing ever faded for Luca Moretti.
Not the sound.
Not the pressure.
Not the expections that had been drilled into him since he was old enough to hold a steering wheel and understand what it meant to carry a last name like his.
The engine roared behind him, violent and alive, vibrating through his entire body as he pushed the car harder down the straight. The steering wheel hummed under his grip, every tiny movement translating into precision or disaster.
“Final lap, Luca, You’re leading by eight-tenths. Keep it clean.”
His race engineer’s voice cut through the noise in his ears, calm and controlled, like always. Like this was routine. Like this wasn’t the difference, between winning and losing.
Like it wasn’t everything.
Luca didn’t answer.
He rarely did.
It wasn’t that he didn’t hear them. It wasn’t that he didn’t care.
He just didn’t see the point in filling space with words when everything that mattered was happening in milliseconds, braking points, tire grip, the exact angle of entry into the corner ahead.
Turn 11 approached fast.
Too fast for hesitation.
He braked late, right on the edge of risk and turned in smoothly, the car responding like an extension of his own body. The tires screamed in protest but held. Barely.
Good.
He accelerated out of the corner, heart steady, expression unchanged behind the visor of his helmet.
People always expected adrenaline. Excitement. Emotion.
But for luca, this wasn’t chaos.
This was control.
This was the only place in his life where everything made sense.
The finish line came into view.
Bright lights. Blurred color. A line that meant everything to everyone watching,
and almost nothing to him in the moment.
He crossed it.
“P1! P1, Luca! That’s a win!”
The radio erupted instantly, cheers, overlapping voices, the unmistakable sound of a team celebrating. Somewhere in the noise, someone was yelling his name like it meant something more than just a result on a board.
Luca exhaled slowly, his grip on the wheel loosening just slightly.
“Copy.”
One word.
That was all he gave them.
That was all he ever gave them.
The cooldown lap felt longer than the race itself.
Not physically, but mentally.
Because this was the part he didn’t like.
The part where the performance didn’t end when the engine slowed down.
By the time he pulled into parc fermé, the cameras were already there.
Of course they were.
They always were.
Waiting.
Watching.
Hungry.
Luca shut off the engine, and for a brief second, just one, there was silence.
Real silence.
No radio. No roar. No expectations.
Just him.
Then the noise came crashing back in.
Hands reached for him the second he stepped out of the car, team members clapping him on the back, voices overlapping in congratulations. He nodded where he needed to, said the right things automatically.
“Good job.”
“Great drive.”
“Car felt good.”
It was a script he could recite in his sleep.
Because it didn’t matter what he felt.
Only what he showed.
He pulled off his helmet.
And right on cue.
his expression shifted.
It was subtle. Controlled. Practiced.
But it was there.
The small lift of his lips. The softened eyes. The version of Luca Moretti the world knew and loved.
The perfect driver.
The golden boy.
The lie.
Across the paddock…
Sofia Alvarez didn’t clap.
She stood at the edge of the media zone, notebook tucked under her arm, watching the screens with a kind of focus that most people mistook for disinterest.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care.
It was that she cared too much to be impressed by the obvious.
Around her, journalists scrambled to get the best angles, the fastest quotes, the most polished soundbites. Cameras flashed relentlessly, capturing every movement Luca made like it was something rare and extraordinary.
Sofia tilted her head slightly as she watched him.
Perfect posture.
Perfect smile.
Perfect timing.
It was almost fascinating,how calculated it all felt.
“God,” she muttered under her breath, “he’s insufferable.”
The guy next to her let out a short laugh.
“You say that like you’re not about to write three articles about him.”
She didn’t look away from the screen.
“I don’t write articles about people,” she said. “I write about truth.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Good luck finding that in Formula 1.”
Sofia didn’t respond.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
But that didn’t mean she was going to stop trying.
On the screen, Luca laughed at something one of his teammates said.
It looked real.
That was the problem.
Everything about him looked real.
“Watch this,” the same coworker said, nudging her slightly. “Same answers as always.”
Right on cue, a microphone was shoved in front of Luca.
“Incredible race today, Luca. How does it feel to take another win this season?”
Sofia crossed her arms.
Waited.
“It feels great,” Luca said smoothly. “The team did an amazing job. The car was strong all weekend, and we executed perfectly today.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
There it was.
Clean. Safe. Predictable.
Empty.
“And how are you feeling heading into the next race?”
“We’re focused. Taking it one race at a time.”
Sofia let out a quiet, unimpressed exhale.
“See?” her coworker said. “Perfect.”
She shook her head slightly.
“No,” she said. “Not perfect.”
At that exact moment.
Luca looked up.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
There were dozens of people in front of him. Cameras, reporters, flashing lights.
But somehow.
his gaze landed on her.
And held.
For a split second, something shifted.
Not in a dramatic, obvious way.
Just enough to notice.
His smile didn’t drop.
But it didn’t deepen either.
It paused.
Like something about her registered.
Sofia didn’t look away.
Most people would have.
They would’ve smiled, waved, reacted.
She didn’t.
She just stared back.
Unimpressed.
Unmoved.
Unconvinced.
And for the first time all day.
Luca Moretti’s performance felt… interrupted.
He looked away first.
Later — Media Area
Sofia didn’t plan on talking to him.
She really didn’t.
She told herself she’d get what she needed from observation alone. That she didn’t need to play into the circus just to get a quote she wasn’t going to believe anyway.
But then.
she found herself standing in front of him.
Up close, he looked exactly the same.
Composed. Polished. Untouchable.
But there was something else too.
Something quieter.
Harder to define.
“You always like this?” she asked.
The PR manager next to him froze instantly.
“Excuse me—”
“No, it’s fine,” Luca said calmly, his attention already shifting fully to Sofia.
His eyes were sharper up close.
More aware.
“Like what?” he asked.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Fake.”
The word hung in the air between them.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
For a second.
nothing happened.
Then Luca blinked once.
Slowly.
Like he was actually considering the question instead of brushing it off.
And then.
he smiled.
But not the one from before.
Not the perfect one.
This one was different.
Smaller.
Sharper.
Almost… amused.
“Interesting,” he said quietly. “You’re the first person to say that out loud.”
Sofia raised an eyebrow.
“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Something flickered in his expression.
Not irritation.
Not offense.
Something closer to curiosity.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
And just like that.
the conversation stopped being professional.
It became something else entirely.
