The next morning, Brisbane awoke to a storm of headlines. The papers, both digital and print, screamed in bold fonts and punchy taglines. It wasn't just another race day aftermath—it was the story of a comeback, a breakdown, and a brutal reminder of racing's risks.
Top Headlines Across the Globe:
"Lukar Meier Claims First GP Victory in Brisbane Thriller!"
"Sukhman Singh's Redemption Drive: The Prince is Back"
"Flames in the Fast Lane: Nkosi's Engine Explodes Mid-Race!"
"Ayanda Nkosi Escapes Horror in Brisbane – A Close Call"
"From Partying to Podium: Sukhman Proves Critics Wrong"
"Charlotte Slips, Vermer Rises, Meier Shines"
But the most prominent narrative across nearly every platform was Ayanda Nkosi. The image of her car engulfed in smoke and fire, her quick exit, and her devastated expression had become symbolic of the dangers beneath the glamour of racing.
Social media was flooded with hashtags:
#PrayForAyanda
#BrisbaneBreakdown
#NkosiStrong
#AyandaTheWarrior
The world responded to the incident with shock, concern, and overwhelming support.
---
IRC Chairman Castalino Piere's Statement:
Within hours, IRC Chairman Castalino Piere released a video statement across all official IRC platforms.
> "We at the International Racing Confederation are deeply relieved that Ayanda Nkosi is safe and unharmed after yesterday's terrifying incident. It serves as a sobering reminder that even with the best safety protocols in place, motorsport carries its share of risks. Our technical team will work closely with her constructor and engineers to understand exactly what went wrong."
> "Ayanda is not just a driver; she is a symbol of resilience and inspiration for millions around the world. We wish her a swift recovery and hope to see her back on the grid, stronger than ever."
His message garnered millions of views and responses. Major figures in motorsport, celebrities, and fans reposted his words with well-wishes of their own. Ayanda, for her part, remained silent, resting under medical observation as a precaution.
---
Back at the Hotel
While the city buzzed with race talk and media frenzy, Sukhman Singh lay on his hotel room bed, phone in hand. Notifications buzzed non-stop. Interview requests, team messages, messages from sponsors, race fans, even memes—some supportive, others still sarcastic—cluttered his feed.
A knock at the door broke his trance.
Thiago Martins and Diego Montoya stood on the other side, both grinning.
"Big man! P2! Let's go out tonight, brother!" Thiago said, holding up a bottle of expensive liquor. "Celebration's on me."
Diego nodded enthusiastically. "There's a rooftop party, racers only. You deserve it, hermano."
Sukhman paused.
Just a week ago, he would've said yes.
Now? He shook his head.
"Not today, guys. I appreciate it, but... I just want to rest."
"Rest? You just podiumed!" Thiago protested.
"Exactly. And I want to keep it that way. No distractions."
The tone in his voice left no room for argument. Diego gave him a fist bump and a grin, understanding.
"You changed," he said with a wink. "I like it."
When the door closed, Sukhman sighed, slumped onto the bed, and dialed a number he hadn't called in a long while.
---
"Bhaaji!"
The warm, excited voice of Manpreet Singh, his older sister, filled the line.
"You did it, Bhaaji! Second place! I saw it live! Mum was shouting so loud I thought the neighbours would call the police!"
Sukhman laughed. For the first time in days, it wasn't a cynical or forced laugh. It was real.
"Thanks, Manpreet. It... felt good. Really good."
They talked for over half an hour. About racing, the media, the memes. Manpreet teased him about his "3-race prime" meme that had now ironically started trending again, but this time, as a joke in his favour.
Then, cautiously, Manpreet said, "Mum wants to speak to you. Is that okay?"
Sukhman's breath caught.
"Yeah... of course."
A moment later, he heard her voice.
"Beta."
It was soft, almost unsure. Yet, it carried a warmth that hit him like a wave.
"Hi Mum," he whispered.
They didn't talk much. It wasn't needed. Just her voice was comfort. She said she had watched every lap. She said she was proud. She told him not to lose himself again. That she wanted him back, not the media version.
He promised he was trying.
The call ended, and Sukhman stared at the ceiling.
Then he opened his father's contact.
His thumb hovered over the dial.
He couldn't.
Not yet.
---
The sun dipped below the Brisbane skyline. The buzz of the Grand Prix still lingered in the air, but in room 809 of a quiet hotel, a young man sat alone. No champagne. No party. No podium girls. Just reflection.
And a hunger.
To get better.
To make his name mean something.