High Stakes

Caitlyn Kiramman had spent years perfecting the art of control.

In the cockpit, it meant precision—every apex hit with mathematical accuracy, every braking point timed to perfection. Off the track, it meant poise—calm, measured words in front of the media, an air of undisturbed confidence that let the world know she was untouchable.

She had learned long ago that Formula 1 wasn’t just about speed. It was about survival. And survival required mastery over not just the car, but the narrative.

Today was no different.

As she settled into her seat for the pre-season press conference, she barely heard the hum of journalists preparing their questions. The cameras flashed, the room smelled of stale coffee and warm electronics, and the weight of yet another season pressed against her shoulders.

But Caitlyn was used to carrying weight.

She adjusted her Mercedes-AMG Petronas jacket, listening as the journalists went through their predictable checklist of questions.

"How does it feel going into your fifth season as defending world champion?"

"Do you think Mercedes can maintain dominance against Red Bull and Ferrari?"

"What are your thoughts on this year’s regulation changes?"

She answered with ease—controlled, polished, professional.

Then, the question she had been waiting for.

"Caitlyn, what do you think about Vi joining Red Bull?"

A pause.

She had expected it, of course. Vi was everywhere right now—Red Bull’s golden signing, the F2 champion who had shaken up the junior categories with her aggressive driving. A rookie with a street racer’s mentality, all instinct and fire.

Caitlyn tapped her fingers against the table before responding.

"She’s an exceptional driver," she said smoothly, her tone giving nothing away. "Winning a Formula 2 title in your debut season is no small feat. It takes skill, consistency, and confidence. I have no doubt she’ll bring that same level of talent into Formula 1."

The journalists leaned in, sensing the weight in her words.

"Do you think she’ll challenge you for the title?"

Caitlyn allowed the smallest of smiles. "Red Bull wouldn’t have signed her if they didn’t believe she could. From what I’ve seen, she’s fast, aggressive, and unafraid to take risks. That kind of racing always makes the sport more exciting."

That wasn’t just media-friendly talk.

Caitlyn meant it.

She had watched Vi’s races, analyzed her onboards, studied the way she handled pressure. She saw the raw talent, the fearlessness, the reckless hunger. It reminded Caitlyn of herself—only where Caitlyn had been sculpted by years of strict discipline, Vi was like a wildfire, unpredictable and untamed.

Would she be a threat?

That depended.

F1 wasn’t about raw talent alone. It was about control.

And Caitlyn Kiramman had never lost control.

Vi watched the press conference from the Red Bull garage, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Caitlyn’s voice came through the speakers, smooth as silk, so damn polished it made Vi’s skin itch.

"She’s an exceptional driver."

"Winning F2 in your debut season is no small feat."

"I have no doubt she’ll bring that same level of talent into F1."

Vi scoffed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She hated this.

Hated the way Caitlyn spoke—so cool, so perfectly measured, like she was reading from a script. Hated the way she carried herself, like everything in the world was exactly as it should be.

Hated the way Piltover types always acted like they owned the place.

Caitlyn was the face of that world—the golden child, the perfect champion, the untouchable queen of the grid. Vi had spent her whole life fighting against people like her.

So why did it bother her so much to hear Caitlyn talk about her like she was just another name on the list?

By the time the press conference ended, Vi had made up her mind.

She needed to confront her.

She found Caitlyn near the paddock, slipping past the journalists with effortless grace, looking every bit like the reigning world champion she was.

Vi didn’t hesitate.

"Hey, Kiramman!"

Caitlyn stopped.

Slowly, she turned to face Vi, her sharp blue eyes unreadable. "Vi," she greeted, voice as smooth as ever. "Something on your mind?"

Vi clenched her fists. "Yeah. You can drop the act."

Caitlyn arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You don’t have to pretend to be nice," Vi said, stepping closer. "I get it—media obligations, gotta say all the right things, act like you respect me. But let’s be real. You don’t give a damn about me."

Caitlyn blinked once, tilting her head slightly. "Is that what you think?"

Vi scoffed. "I know it. People like you? You don’t actually care about drivers like me. I’m just another rookie, another name Red Bull threw at you. So don’t stand up there and act like you respect me when you don’t."

Caitlyn studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then, she stepped closer.

Vi tensed, expecting some kind of rebuttal, maybe a dismissive remark—something cold and detached, like every other Piltover elite she had dealt with.

But instead, Caitlyn’s voice was softer than Vi expected.

"You think I don’t respect you?"

Vi’s jaw tightened. "I think you’re a damn good liar."

Caitlyn exhaled, a quiet, almost amused sound. "If I didn’t take you seriously," she murmured, "I wouldn’t be watching your races."

Vi’s breath caught for a second.

Caitlyn continued, her gaze steady. "I saw your overtake in Silverstone. The way you defended in Monza. The last-lap battle in Abu Dhabi." A pause. "You drive like you have something to prove. Like you’re trying to fight your way into a world that doesn’t want you."

Vi felt something twist inside her.

Because Caitlyn wasn’t wrong.

But it pissed her off that she had noticed.

"You don’t know anything about me," Vi muttered.

Caitlyn’s lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. "Maybe not." A pause. Then, quieter: "But I know what it’s like to feel like you have something to prove."

Vi hated how that made her feel.

Like Caitlyn wasn’t just some cold, distant champion.

Like maybe—just maybe—she understood.

And that was dangerous.

Vi scoffed, shaking her head. "Whatever. Just don’t expect me to play nice."

Caitlyn’s lips curved ever so slightly. "I wouldn’t dare."

Vi turned on her heel and walked away.

But even as she left, she could still feel Caitlyn’s eyes on her.

And that was the part that scared her the most.

The Kiramman estate had always been too quiet for Caitlyn’s liking.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy, suffocating kind—the kind that settled into the walls like an expectation, like a weight no one could shake off. Even as she walked through the grand halls, passing old family portraits and polished gold accents, she felt like she was stepping into a place she didn’t quite belong.

She had been away for months, traveling from country to country, circuit to circuit. The sound of roaring engines, the smell of burnt rubber on asphalt, the rush of speed—that was her world now. Not this.

And yet, here she was, sitting at the long mahogany dining table, facing the same battle she had been fighting for years.

Dinner had barely begun before her mother dropped the inevitable question.

"When are you planning to retire from this dangerous sport?"

Caitlyn took a slow breath, setting down her silverware with practiced patience. "Mother," she said, her voice steady, "we’ve had this conversation before."

"And we will continue to have it until you come to your senses," Cassandra Kiramman replied, dabbing her lips with a napkin before leveling Caitlyn with a sharp gaze. "This is not a sustainable career. You are risking your life every time you get in that car."

Caitlyn clenched her jaw. She had known this conversation was coming—it always came—but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

"It’s not a gamble," she countered, "when you’re the best at what you do."

Her mother scoffed. "No one stays at the top forever."

A muscle in Caitlyn’s jaw twitched. "I’ll worry about that when I get there."

Across the table, Tobias Kiramman sighed quietly. Caitlyn could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he hesitated before speaking—as if he knew nothing he said would truly change the outcome of this discussion.

"Caitlyn," he said, voice softer than Cassandra’s. "Your mother is only worried about you."

Caitlyn knew that.

She understood that, deep down.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t make her feel trapped every time they had this conversation—like she was still fifteen years old, still arguing with her mother about why she didn’t want to be a politician, still being told that her life’s purpose had already been decided for her.

And now, years later, despite everything she had accomplished, despite proving over and over again that she was meant to be in Formula 1, her mother still refused to see it.

"I have been doing this for years," Caitlyn said, her voice sharper now. "I have won four world championships. I have trained, I have calculated, I have fought for every victory. Hadn’t I proved myself enough?"

Her mother’s expression was unreadable. "This isn’t about proving yourself," she said coolly. "It’s about knowing when to walk away before it’s too late."

"Nothing has happened to me," Caitlyn snapped. "And I refuse to live my life in fear of something that might happen."

For a brief moment, silence settled over the table.

Then, Cassandra set down her wine glass, folding her hands together. Her next words made Caitlyn’s stomach twist.

"You are the Kiramman heiress, Caitlyn. This is not just about you."

Caitlyn’s breath hitched.

The words felt like a chain being tightened around her throat.

Her mother continued, her voice firm. "The Kiramman name carries responsibility. Your father and I have built this family’s legacy, and we expect you to honor that. You cannot waste your life chasing something so—so temporary. You belong in Piltover, not on a race track."

Caitlyn pushed her chair back slightly, her fingers curling into fists beneath the table. "So that’s what this is about?" she said, voice dangerously quiet. "You don’t care that I could get hurt. You just care that I’m not doing what you want me to do."

Cassandra’s eyes flashed. "I care that you are throwing away everything we have built for you."

Caitlyn let out a short, bitter laugh. "Built for me? You mean decided for me."

"You have a duty to this family."

"No," Caitlyn said, standing up now, her chair scraping against the marble floor. "I have a duty to myself. And I am not giving up my career just because it doesn’t fit into the perfect little future you imagined for me."

Cassandra’s expression remained unshaken, but Tobias shifted uncomfortably. He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Caitlyn, your mother just wants you to be safe."

Caitlyn turned to him, her anger faltering for just a second.

Tobias had never been as forceful as Cassandra. He had supported Caitlyn, in his own quiet way, even when he didn’t fully understand why she loved racing.

But he had never stood up to Cassandra.

"Safe," Caitlyn repeated, shaking her head. "That’s what you think this is about?"

She exhaled harshly, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose before looking back at both of them. "I am not retiring anytime soon. You both need to accept that."

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. "You say that now, but things change, Caitlyn. You will change."

Caitlyn met her gaze, her expression cold. "If I ever retire, it will be my decision. Not yours. And certainly not because you decided I should."

A tense silence stretched between them.

Finally, Cassandra sighed and picked up her glass again, taking a slow sip of wine. "We’ll see," she murmured.

Caitlyn clenched her fists. That tone. That condescending, knowing tone—as if she was just waiting for Caitlyn to fail.

Her mother had never truly believed in her. Not when she was a child, sneaking out to the outskirts of Piltover to watch underground races. Not when she first picked up a kart, gripping the wheel like it was an escape rope out of a life she didn’t want.

Not when she had fought her way into Formula 1, becoming a champion, proving to the world—and to herself—that she was exactly where she belonged.

And after all these years, Cassandra Kiramman still thought this was a phase.

Caitlyn couldn’t stand it.

Her jaw tightened. "Thank you for dinner," she said curtly, stepping away from the table.

She turned on her heel and strode toward the door, her pulse pounding in her ears.

She had fought for everything she had.

And she would be damned if she let anyone—even her own family—take it away from her.

Qualifying Day – Bahrain Grand Prix

The Bahrain International Circuit shimmered under the floodlights, the desert heat still lingering in the air as the crowd roared in anticipation.

Caitlyn Kiramman sat in her Mercedes, fingers flexing over the steering wheel, as she listened to her race engineer’s voice through the radio.

"Alright, Cait, standard Q1 plan. Two runs, soft tires. Let's get a clean banker in."

She exhaled steadily. Another season. Another fight. Another battle for pole.

Only this time, there was a new challenger.

Q1 – Setting the Pace

The engines roared as cars filtered onto the track, the first true test of speed and performance for the 2025 season.

Caitlyn always preferred to set a banker lap early—get a solid time in before the track evolution kicked in.

Her first lap? Smooth. Controlled. P1.

Then came Vi.

Caitlyn was already coasting back into the pits when she saw the Red Bull flash across the line.

P1 – Vi | 1:28.201

P2 – Caitlyn | +0.082s

She hummed softly, watching the replay on the garage monitors. Vi’s sector times were impressive—fast through the technical sections, aggressive into the braking zones. Unpolished, maybe, but raw and fearless.

"Interesting," she murmured to herself.

She wasn’t worried. Yet.

Q1 ended. Both drivers easily made it through.

Q2 – The First Real Fight

Caitlyn pushed harder on her next run, adjusting to the track’s evolution.

Purple sector 1.

Purple sector 2.

Crossed the line. P1 – 1:27.9.

A clean, dominant lap.

Vi followed immediately after.

P2 – Vi | +0.064s

Caitlyn sat back, arms crossed, watching the timing screens.

Vi was close. Too close for a rookie.

Still, Q2 ended with Caitlyn on top.

But the real fight was coming.

Q3 – The Pole Position Battle

The tension in the air was thick as the final session began.

Caitlyn went out first, setting the benchmark: 1:27.391. A near-perfect lap.

She returned to the pits, breathing steady, waiting for the others to cross the line.

Vi came last.

She was fast in sector 1.

Faster in sector 2.

Sector 3—Vi crosses the line.

P1 – Vi | 1:27.387

By four-thousandths of a second—Vi had taken pole.

The Red Bull garage erupted into cheers.

Caitlyn blinked, processing the result.

Four-thousandths.

That was nothing.

That was the difference between a perfectly timed apex and a fraction of a second lost on exit.

That was the difference between pole and P2.

And Vi had won.

She exhaled slowly, stepping out of her car, taking in the way the cameras swarmed Vi as she jumped out of her Red Bull, fists pumping in the air.

Caitlyn had lost count of how many pole positions she had secured in her career.

But this one?

This one intrigued her.

The media pen was alive with excitement, microphones thrust forward as Caitlyn, Vi, and Ekko—P1, P2, and P3—lined up for questions.

Vi was grinning ear to ear, still riding the high of her first pole.

"Vi, first-ever F1 qualifying, and you’re starting at the front of the grid! How does it feel?"

Vi chuckled. "Feels damn good, doesn’t it? I knew we had pace, but taking pole? Beating the reigning champ? Yeah, I’ll take that."

Caitlyn listened quietly, studying the way Vi spoke. The way she carried herself.

There was no arrogance—just confidence. A fire that burned bright.

It was… fascinating.

Her turn came next.

"Caitlyn, it was an incredibly close battle for pole today—just four-thousandths of a second separating you and Vi. What do you make of her performance?"

Caitlyn didn’t hesitate.

"It was a strong lap," she said smoothly, turning slightly toward Vi. "You handled the car well. Congratulations."

Vi’s grin didn’t fade, but something in her eyes shifted.

A flicker of something sharper.

And then—

"You can drop the fake act, you know," Vi said casually.

The journalists froze.

Caitlyn’s expression remained unreadable. "Excuse me?"

Vi tilted her head, leaning slightly closer. "C’mon, we both know you’re pissed you lost pole. No need to pretend like you’re all smiles about it."

Caitlyn blinked once, slow and deliberate.

Then, she smiled.

A real smile this time. Small, amused.

"I never said I was happy," she said, voice low enough that only Vi could hear. "I said you did well."

Vi studied her for a second.

Caitlyn could see it—the gears turning in her head, trying to figure her out.

But she wouldn’t. Not yet.

Because Caitlyn was intrigued.

And Vi had no idea what that meant.

Caitlyn was just leaving the media pen when she heard footsteps behind her.

She already knew who it was before she turned.

Vi was standing there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly.

"You really expect me to believe that was genuine?"

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. "Believe what?"

"That you meant it. That you actually respect me," Vi said, eyes narrowed.

Caitlyn exhaled softly, glancing toward the Red Bull garage, where her rival’s name was being painted onto the P1 marker for the first time.

Then she looked back at Vi.

And smirked.

"I don’t say things I don’t mean."

Vi scoffed. "You’re full of shit."

Caitlyn shrugged, turning to walk away. "If that’s what you need to believe."

Vi grabbed her wrist before she could leave.

Caitlyn stopped.

Vi’s grip was firm, but there was something else in her gaze—something uncertain.

"You don’t even know me," Vi muttered. "Don’t act like you do."

Caitlyn tilted her head slightly, unshaken.

"No," she said, voice softer. "But I know talent when I see it."

Vi blinked, as if the response caught her off guard.

Caitlyn gently pulled her wrist free, stepping back.

"See you on track, rookie," she murmured.

And before Vi could say anything else, she was gone.