"Fuck!"


    The curse echoed through the T-20''s cramped cockpit, swallowed by its soundproofed walls. Latham had just fed race data to the onboard computer for victory probability calculations, only to receive an infuriating prompt: INSUFFICIENT DATA - UNABLE TO COMPUTE.


    In the track''s elevated control suite, three men stared at holographic projections. Harrison, the silver-haired track owner, swirled brandy in his glass. "That T-20''s taking gold," he declared, eyes gleaming. "Who the hell is this driver?"


    Beside him, operations director Akita (razor-sharp black hair framing East Asian features) and personnel chief David (burly with whiskey-ruined nose) exchanged glances.


    "Level 11 mentalist minimum," David rasped, scratching stubble. "Probably ex-military mech pilot. No civilian handles 500km/h through Hell''s Corkscrew otherwise."


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    Akita''s console chimed. A synthesized female voice announced: Driver identification complete.


    The wall screen lit with surveillance composites - Latham entering the track''s perimeter, renting the T-20, every micro-expression during pre-race checks.


    "Latham. 18. Millard Public Academy." David snorted. "Since when do prep school brats pull G-forces that''d liquefy astronauts?"


    Harrison''s brow furrowed. "Energy monitor readings just updated."


    The screen flashed crimson text:


    ?MENTAL ENERGY LEVEL: 8?


    David''s whiskey tumbler shattered on marble. "Bullshit! That''s–"


    "–our own sensor data," Akita interrupted coldly. "Calibrated yesterday."


    For ten heartbeats, only the T-20''s live feed broke the silence - the gray sedan now threading through Tier 10''s Avalanche Turn at suicidal angles.


    "There''s only one explanation," Harrison finally breathed. "Prodigy. A once-per-generation talent."


    Outside, the crowd''s roar shook the observation glass as the T-20 emerged from the death turn - still locked at 500km/h.