F1: The Speed Legend

Kai held Binotto’s gaze silently.

They weren’t close. Binotto was the man behind the scenes, rarely engaging in one-on-one chats with the drivers. Now, Kai was standing face-to-face with the supreme commander of Ferrari’s technical division. What mattered here wasn’t Kai himself, but Binotto’s attitude.

Seeing sincerity and focus in those tired, gentle eyes, Kai spoke. And once he started, he held nothing back.

”The floor design still needs to be updated. The airflow separation point has to be adjusted.”

”We have two weeks after Monza. If needed, I can go to Maranello and assist the team in the simulator. If we can’t get it ready for Singapore, we have another two weeks after that. This design must be changed. Even if we have to scrap it and start over.”

”Otherwise, the gap to Mercedes will only grow.”

Firm. Certain. He wasn’t aggressive, but his words carried an undeniable confidence.

Binotto’s expression didn’t change. He replied slowly, ”You are saying we are going to make the same mistake as last season.”

”Yes,” Kai answered simply.

Binotto’s eyes flickered. His first instinct was to argue. What does this layman know about aerodynamics? What formal engineering education does he have? Even Hamilton wouldn’t be this presumptuous.

But Binotto controlled himself. He lifted his chin slightly. ”But?”

Kai’s eyes brightened. ”But, aerodynamic updates and adjustments take time. Monza is right around the corner, and it waits for no one.”

”Mr. Binotto, we faced a similar situation at Hockenheim.”

”In the dry, we were faster than Mercedes. But in the wet, they dominated us. Our floor design issues were already exposed there. Instead of solving the problem, we amplified it with the Spa upgrades.”

It was a repeat of the previous season. Ferrari’s upgrade path was flawed, causing more problems than it solved. If anyone else had said this, it might have sounded like an insult. But coming from Kai, Binotto didn’t feel the sting.

Binotto caught the underlying logic. ”You mean we should stiffen the suspension?”

”That’s step two,” Kai corrected.

”Step one: we need to adjust the rear wing. If possible, can we revert the sidepod design? We can’t roll back the entire package, but surely parts of it can be reverted? We can use the sidepods as a scapegoat to explain the Spa loss to the board.”

”If we can’t, the sidepods still need adjusting.”

”By tweaking the rear wing and sidepods to manage the airflow separation, we can reclaim our straight-line speed.”

Binotto was an engineering nerd at heart. He understood instantly. He looked up, his eyes probing. ”And step two is stiffening the suspension, shifting the balance to sacrifice some downforce for an advantage on the straights and high-speed corners.”

Leaving the low- and medium-speed corners entirely up to the driver’s feel, control, and improvisation.

Kai met Binotto’s gaze squarely. ”It suits Monza.”

The fastest track on the calendar. 75% full throttle. Even faster than Spa. It was the ultimate test of pure speed.

However, Binotto wasn’t easily fooled. ”It also suits you.”

That setup would perfectly match Kai’s driving style. But for Vettel, it might be a nightmare.

A younger, peak-form Vettel could have handled it. He used to be the master of rhythm, with delicate brake control and incredible feel for corner-exit rotation.

But that was in the past. Today’s Vettel was a barometer of pressure. Under stress, he was prone to mistakes and losing the rear end. He relied more on a stable, predictable car and a strong team strategy than on wrestling an unstable beast to the limit. This wasn’t a criticism, just the reality of his current form.

Binotto looked at Kai. ”Are you asking the team to tune the car specifically for you?”

Regardless of the reality on track, Arrivabene’s official stance was that Vettel was still the Number 1 driver.

Kai didn’t flinch. ”I only know my own feel and my own understanding. Naturally, the suggestions I make fit me perfectly. Isn’t that expected?”

His blunt honesty made Binotto suppress a smile.

”We are different drivers with different styles,” Kai continued. ”That’s why we have separate engineering teams in the garage.”

”Mr. Binotto, I am discussing the core car design, not the fine-tuning. The baseline must be the same for both cars. Once the core adjustments are made, how each side of the garage fine-tunes the setup to fit their driver is a different story. We’ll handle our side.”

”But ultimately, we are one team, and we both want to win. We agree on that, right?”

Unwavering belief. Clear logic. Measured aggression. Binotto had to admit, Kai was incredibly persuasive.

The kid might lack a formal engineering degree, but his sensory perception was elite. He understood what the car was doing and knew what he needed to extract maximum performance. No wonder Ferdinando Monfadini, the notoriously picky simulator engineer at Maranello, praised Kai so highly.

However, Binotto couldn’t give a direct answer, let alone a promise.

He had to consider Arrivabene and Vettel. But more importantly, he needed to take Kai’s ideas back to the engineering team to run simulations and analyze the data. Real solutions came from testing, not from boardroom chats.

Kai’s input was just an inspiration.

But... Binotto’s gut told him the kid was right.

Instead of answering, Binotto studied Kai closely. ”You are very calm.”

Kai blinked. ”Did you expect me to yell until I was red in the face?”

Binotto shook his head, doing a classic Italian hand gesture. ”I mean, I hate this result. Everyone hates this result. But I know you wanted to win this race more than anyone.” A pause. ”For Sergio.”

”The media hasn’t made it easy. They’ve been fanning the flames, trying to provoke you. I thought you would be... angry.”

Ah, so that was it.

Kai let out a short laugh. He was slightly surprised. Binotto, usually so reserved, was showing a rare, personal side.

”Don’t misunderstand. I’m not Kimi Raikkonen. I’m not entirely dead inside,” Kai joked, finally earning a real smile from Binotto.

”The anger is here,” Kai pointed to his chest, then to his head. ”But not here.”

”I am angry. Budapest, Spa... things are drifting off course. But that’s exactly why we have to face the challenge.”

”What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I want to win, not to prove the haters wrong, but to repay the Boss’s trust. Mr. Binotto, did you know he had a blueprint? He wanted to see Ferrari back on top of the world.”

”And so do I.”

The words were spoken calmly, but the conviction behind them hit like a physical force.

Binotto looked at Kai. The media persona and the reality merged. Surprisingly, the chaotic anxiety in Binotto’s own mind began to settle under Kai’s steady gaze.

”Then, we have a lot of work to do. A lot.”

Binotto stood up, using the armrests for support. He walked to the door, then turned back, his eyes softening behind his glasses.

”Go back to the hotel and rest. We can’t fix everything tonight. It’s cold in the mountains; don’t catch a chill.”

He took another step, then paused again.

”Mattia. Just call me Mattia. I’m not as old as you think.”

Before Kai could reply, Binotto was gone.

Despite telling Kai to rest, Binotto immediately called the engineering team back for another meeting.

He was exhausted, yet strangely energized. They needed to review the Spa qualifying data, and re-examine Hockenheim. With only four days until Friday practice at Monza, they were racing the clock.

Time flies when you are having fun, but it also evaporates when you are buried in work. Before they knew it, the Monza weekend had arrived.

Wednesday morning.

Rocco Cesari woke up early. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and put on his favorite Ferrari T-shirt. It was from 2002, signed by Michael Schumacher. It was his most prized possession, only worn during the Monza weekend.

On the shelf next to his mirror sat over three hundred Ferrari caps—different races, different drivers. He dreamed of opening a mini-museum one day.

He was thirty-five, and he had loved Ferrari for thirty years. From his grandfather, to his father, to him. He would never forget the first time he saw that flash of red scream past at Monza. The sound had practically exploded his young heart.

His life was inextricably linked to Ferrari.

He met his wife celebrating Schumacher’s win at the 2002 Brazilian Grand Prix. When his grandfather was hospitalized in 2009, Rocco prayed for a Ferrari win to give the old man strength. Kimi Raikkonen delivered a miracle victory at Spa, and his grandfather survived the surgery.

Ferrari wasn’t just a team; it was the soundtrack to his life.

He reached out and grabbed the Number 7 cap from 2014.

That was a dark year. Zero wins. Even Alonso and Raikkonen looked ordinary. At Monza, Alonso DNF’d and Kimi finished 9th. The Tifosi were devastated. He remembered asking Kimi to sign the cap; the Iceman had looked so defeated. Rocco had cheered for him anyway, and Kimi had whispered a soft, ”Thank you.”

They stuck together through the dark times.

That was the year Jules Bianchi had his accident. And it was the year Sergio Marchionne stepped in, taking the reins to drag Ferrari back to the light.

Now, it felt like 2014 all over again.

The team was in turmoil. The summer break had been a disaster. Marchionne’s death had derailed everything. They had lost the championship lead to Mercedes, and Spa had been humiliating.

The anger and anxiety of the Tifosi erupted on social media. The younger fans, raised on instant gratification, turned toxic quickly, tearing the team apart.

But Rocco believed that if the Tifosi abandoned Ferrari now, who would the team lean on?

He took the day off work. He didn’t drive—parking near the Duomo was impossible—so he took the bus to the Piazza del Duomo.

He was anxious. With the team performing so poorly, he feared the pre-race event would be empty. But he was determined to stand there, even if he was alone, to tell Vettel and Kai: We are with you.

Wednesday, 10:00 AM. Piazza del Duomo, Milan.

This was Ferrari’s home turf. They were holding a pre-race fan event at the flagship store next to the cathedral. Signatures, photos, hyping up the Monza weekend.

In the glory days, thousands would show up. Today, Rocco wasn’t sure.

Ferrari hadn’t won Monza in years. The fans were simple: a home win was enough to keep them happy for a year, even without a championship. But their hearts had been broken too many times. Given the disaster at Spa, how many would still show up to support them?

The bus arrived. Rocco was the only one to get off. His heart sank.

In the past, the Piazza would be a sea of red. People joked that Italy had two religions: the Church and Ferrari.

Rocco straightened his back and walked toward the square.

As he got closer, the crowd thickened. Tourists, he thought.

But then, he saw the red. Before he could process it, he was surrounded.

”Rocco!”

A voice cut through the noise. He turned, disoriented, and saw his friends pushing through the crowd, grinning. ”Didn’t expect this, did you?”

Before he could answer, they bombarded him.

”We’re late! Can’t even get close to the store!”

”Thank God! I thought it would be empty today!”

”The barriers are up, the store is packed!”

Rocco looked around. The heat of the crowd hit him. It wasn’t just the area in front of the store; the entire piazza was filling up. People were pouring out of the metro station like a breached dam.

Five hundred? A thousand?

No. Far more. At least two thousand, and the numbers were swelling by the second.

He noticed it was mostly older fans. The veterans. The ones who remembered the droughts before Schumacher, and the pain of 2014.

While the internet trolls threw tantrums, the real Tifosi had shown up in person.

”I had to come. Even if I had to crawl. I owe it to Sergio.”

”Sergio is gone. The team is lost. If we abandon them, what happens to the kids driving?”

”Maurizio is losing control. We have to stand firm.”

Rocco looked at the tired, weathered faces around him. Grandfathers, factory workers, stressed fathers. They were all carrying the weight of their own lives, but they had come here to offer a spark of hope to their team.

They stood there, waiting. Waiting for a miracle, waiting for a sign.

Inside the car heading to the event, the air was thick and oppressive.

It felt like the humid summer weather—heavy, suffocating, with thunder rumbling but no rain to break the tension. This was Ferrari’s current state. Leaderless, stumbling, and under immense pressure.

The driver glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. Kai, who had been resting his eyes, opened them. Their gazes met.

The driver quickly looked away, embarrassed, then looked back.

Kai was smiling.

The driver gathered his courage. ”You are not fighting alone.”

Kai’s smile widened. ”I know. Because the Tifosi walk with me.”

The driver froze. Wait, was that... Italian?

”I’m still learning,” Kai added, noticing the shock. ”But my neighbors in Maranello tell me my Italian is excellent. Please tell me they aren’t just being polite.”

The driver was speechless. He nodded, then shook his head, completely flustered.

They arrived at the Piazza del Duomo.

Kai patted the back of the driver’s seat. ”We fight together. We face defeat together. We embrace victory together. We burn until the end, with no regrets.”

The worse the situation, the more focus you need. Kai was ready.

Outside, Rocco saw the car pull up. He held his breath.

The crowd went dead silent.

The door opened. A young man wearing a red Number 22 Ferrari shirt stepped out.

The silence held for a split second, building immense pressure, before exploding.

”AHHHH!”

The sheer volume of the roar drowned out individual voices. It was a wall of sound. The grey sky above seemed to crack open, a ray of sunlight piercing the clouds and illuminating Kai’s shoulders like a halo.

It was cinematic.

Rocco felt his blood catch fire. His brain went blank, and instinct took over.

”KAI ZHIZHOU!”

The name rippled through the crowd like dominoes falling. It was a release of all the joy, the hope, and the memories of the season.

Melbourne. Monaco. Austria. Germany.

This young man, carrying the weight of the world, was Marchionne’s final gift to Ferrari.

”KAI ZHIZHOU! KAI ZHIZHOU!”

The world vibrated with the chant.

A second car pulled up behind Kai’s.

Sebastian Vettel sat inside, anxious and tired. He was still haunted by Hockenheim. The pressure was crushing him. He dreaded facing the disappointed faces of the Tifosi. He was his own harshest critic; he didn’t need thousands of people reminding him not to fail again.

He took a deep breath, preparing his media smile.

But as he listened, he froze.

”Are they...?”

Did they mistake Kai for me?

Usually, the Number 1 driver arrived last to the biggest cheers. But the crowd was chanting Kai’s name. It sounded like Kai’s personal victory parade, and Vettel was just an afterthought.

Vettel opened the door and stepped out into the noise.

”KAI ZHIZHOU! KAI ZHIZHOU!”

The entire piazza was screaming for the rookie. Vettel’s forced smile strained.

Suddenly, a disturbance rippled through the front of the crowd. The rhythmic chanting broke into chaotic shouting.

Kai saw it first.

When thousands of passionate people press forward, the danger of a crush is real. The crowd surged toward Kai, the people at the back pushing the people at the front against the barriers.

The security detail immediately moved to grab Kai and hustle him away. Kai knew that if he left, the crowd would disperse and the danger would pass.

But he stopped.

In the crush, an elderly man had been squeezed out of the mass. He lost his balance, stumbling wildly toward the hard pavement, completely out of control.

Danger!