Chapter 1: Against the Odds
The roar of engines filled the cramped apartment, drowning out everything else. Nico Verhoeven sat cross-legged on the worn-out carpet, his face illuminated by the grainy glow of an ancient television. On the screen, Formula 1 cars blazed through the iconic Spa-Francorchamps circuit, weaving through Eau Rouge and barreling down the Kemmel Straight.
"And it's an incredible battle for the lead!" the commentator's voice crackled through the static-filled speakers. "They're neck and neck heading into the final lap. Who will come out on top?"
Nico leaned forward, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat. The flickering colors reflected in his wide, determined brown eyes. His heartbeat raced, syncing with the roaring engines.
For a moment, the world outside faded. Gone were the stained walls of the small apartment, the cold draft sneaking through cracked windows. In his mind, he wasn't a spectator—he was there, in the cockpit, a blur of speed and precision on the track.
"And across the line! What a finish!"
Nico exhaled as the victor's car crossed the finish line. The camera panned to the jubilant celebration, but the cheering faded into the hum of reality—the apartment light flickering, the clatter of pots and pans in the adjoining kitchen.
"Nico!" his father's gruff voice cut through the post-race commentary. "Dinner's almost ready. And make sure your kart's sorted for tomorrow—we can't risk any last-minute disasters."
"It's ready, Dad," Nico replied, his eyes still glued to the screen.
"You sure?" His father appeared in the doorway, wiping grease-streaked hands on a rag. His face was weathered, exhaustion carved into his features. "If it breaks down mid-race, we're done. No money, no entry fees, no more races. Understand?"
"I get it," Nico murmured, the weight of those words pressing on him.
His father sighed. "Look, kid, I know it's not much. But that kart, as junky as it is, is all we've got. You've got the talent, but you've gotta make it count."
Talent. The word lingered, sharp and hollow. What good was talent without resources? His competitors had spotless equipment, dedicated coaches, and polished trailers. Nico had a patchwork kart held together by duct tape and determination.
The morning sun bathed the karting track in golden light. The air buzzed with excitement as rows of pristine karts gleamed under the spotlight of polished SUVs and team trailers. Nico rolled his kart out of his dad's rusted van, the door groaning as it shut.
His kart looked even worse in the daylight. Dented panels and hastily patched parts made it stand out—a stark contrast to the sponsor-laden machines parked nearby.
"Nice kart, Verhoeven," a familiar voice called.
Nico turned to see Lars, one of the top drivers in the league, striding toward him with a smirk. His suit was spotless, his helmet gleaming in the sunlight.
"Looks like you picked that thing out of a scrapyard," Lars said, laughing. "Oh wait—you probably did."
Nico clenched his fists but kept his face neutral. "Funny. I'll let you know how it looks from ahead of you on the track."
Lars raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. "You think that pile of junk's gonna beat me? Good luck."
Nico ignored him, focusing on his kart. He couldn't afford distractions.
As Nico made last-minute adjustments, a pair of boots entered his peripheral vision. He looked up to see an older man, his weathered face sharp and alert.
"You're Verhoeven?" the man asked, his voice gravelly and commanding.
"Yeah," Nico said cautiously. "Who's asking?"
"Just someone watching the race," the man said with a smirk before walking away, disappearing into the crowd.
The race was brutal. Nico's kart sputtered on the straights, its engine straining against the power of the other machines. But in the corners, it came alive.
"Late braking," Nico muttered, pushing the kart to its limits as he dove into a hairpin, narrowly overtaking another driver.
Sweat dripped down his face, the sun beating mercilessly as he fought to stay in control. Lap by lap, he climbed the rankings, each move calculated and relentless.
By the final lap, Nico had clawed his way into eighth place—not a podium finish, but enough to scrape together the next entry fee.
As he rolled into the pit area, his father met him with a tired smile. "Good job, Nico. You made it."
Nico nodded, too exhausted to speak. He climbed out of the kart, peeling off his helmet to let the cool air hit his face.
"Not bad, kid," a familiar voice said.
Nico turned to see the man from earlier leaning against a fence.
"You've got guts," the man said. "And talent. But guts and talent won't get you far without the right tools."
"Who are you?" Nico asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.
"Name's Vincent," the man said. "If you're serious about racing, you'll want to hear me out."
He tossed a card onto the kart's seat. Nico picked it up, reading the scrawled number.
"Be here tomorrow at sunrise," Vincent said. "Bring your kart. Don't waste my time."
Before Nico could respond, Vincent vanished into the crowd.
That night, Nico sat on the apartment balcony, the card resting on the table beside him. Below, the battered kart waited in the trailer, illuminated by the faint glow of streetlights.
Vincent's words echoed in his mind. Was this the break he'd been waiting for, or just another false promise?
He clenched the card in his hand. Whatever tomorrow held, he would show up. Dreams didn't wait.
And neither would he.