My Formula 1 System-Chapter 664: S3 Azerbaijan Grand Prix
Victor had made the mistake of qualifying at the very P10 spot he ought to have avoided.
While he had scraped through Q2 on pure instinct, the final shootout felt like entering a room full of apex predators who had finally stopped playing with their food. The pace turned into something superior and unreachable. Every time Victor thought he had nailed a corner, the telemetry showed the front-runners like Moireach and Luca were taking lines that defied physics, finding grip where there shouldn’t be any.
He was forced to settle for P10 because, in that final three-minute frenzy, the top nine had found a level of mechanical perfection that a rookie just wasn’t ready to match yet.
P10— Victor Surmann
In F1, that was a perilous pocket. It was a spot where you were close enough to the points to feel the heat, but far enough back to be a target for everyone behind you. You were basically in the thick of it. In the past era, drivers like Grosjean and Jakobsen found themselves swallowed up on a routine basis as early as Turn 1 from this position.
For Victor, the situation was even tougher because of the sharks circling him. In P9 sat Hank Rice, a veteran who knew every trick in the book to "park the bus" and block a rookie’s momentum. Right on Victor’s gearbox at P11 was Max Addams, who was still buzzing from nearly knocking Victor out of Q3 and was hungry to reclaim his territory. Then there was Matteo Bianchi at P12, a man driving with a chip on his shoulder and a point to prove after being subbed in. Matteo’s dynamic was aggressive and unpredictable; he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by forcing a gap.
But Victor’s ambition was not to let them rattle him.
Usually, a rookie would be shaking in his boots with that kind of pressure in his mirrors, but his new JYX-81 chassis had given him a massive boost of confidence recently. He could feel the car ready to not let him down in the corners and on the straights. Plus, seeing Luca at pole and knowing today was Martin’s first race inspired him to race his best, too.
Gripping the steering wheel tight, his eyes locked on the empty lights, ready to prove that this P10 wasn’t a trap, but a launching pad in his career.
Upfront, Luca wasn’t safe either. In fact, he had never been less safe than he was right now, sitting at the head of a cluster of the powerhouses, all humming with mechanical aggression.
Stretching out through the backdrop of the city, the grid was a vibrating line of carbon fiber and bright colors. The Baku Grand Prix was finally about to begin, the streets lying before them like a sun-baked trap. It was time to drive in circles for the 16th time this season—some drivers racing to further pursue the glory, others seeking a desperate redemption, and others simply there to stop their rivals from tasting success.
We all know what Luca was here for.
This was the 20th pole position of his career, a massive milestone that his system had rewarded handsomely. Using these new rewards, he might dominate this race and secure a second straight win.
But there’s Luigi, ready to keep Squadra’s lead untouched.
There’s Jimmy Damgaard, still fuming from his recent DNF and looking to tear through the field like a man possessed.
And there’s Ailbeart Moireach, who might just be the most sane out of the big five. And there’s nothing more dangerous than a silent rival.
These men weren’t just competitors; they were obstacles designed to strip Luca Rennick of his lead, no matter how far he was on the table.
As the mechanics cleared the track and the roar of twenty engines reached a deafening crescendo, the air turned sour with the smell of burning rubber, and all five lights came alive.
"...Five red lights... engines screaming... the grid holding its breath here in Baku. The revs rise—drivers balancing the throttle, waiting for the infinitesimal release....
Lights out! And the Azerbaijan Grand Prix is underway!
Massive wheelspin off the line! Clouds of smoke pour from the rear tires as the field launches down the main straight.
It’s a wild sprint to Turn 1 as all cars look for space!
URgh! Look at the aggression!
Rennick stays strong, covering the racing line with his rivals at his throat! Nystrom gets swallowed whole!
Albert Derstappen!
There goes Petrov down to P20! Surmann struggles to stay in the game as the midfield bunches up dangerously...!"
"WOOOOOOHHHH!"
"...ONLY THE BRAVE CAN BE CHAMPIONS, AND ONLY THE PERFECT CAN SURVIVE THESE STREETS. THE CROWD’S ROAR CAN TREMBLE FOUNDATIONS, MACHINES INCHES APART, AND THE FIGHT FOR BAKU HAS BEGUN...!"
Headsets on, team principals sat rigidly like statues. Analysts had their eyes fixed on a dozen screens at once, clutching cold coffee cups, while engineers stood by in the garages, their hearts racing, but they maintained composure, their voices murmuring through the radio channels. The paddock had settled down. The only people in action now were the camera crews. Beyond the circuit, millions sat before their televisions worldwide. It was that wistful electric fever again as the entire Formula One community had gathered to watch twenty drivers fight for everything. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺
Luca launched cleanly. Nineteen other machines roared in sequence toward the first street in a hasty surge of acceleration. But while the front-runners carved their early lines into the Baku asphalt, the most remarkable battle of the start was unfolding just behind them.
P5 and P6.
Marko Ignatova in the black-and-gold W09 and Luis Dreyer in the pine green RHJ.
Marko got the initial jump, edging half a car length ahead before Dreyer flashed his Red Bull aggressively, cutting across the slipstream and throwing his machine alongside before the first braking zone even arrived. The two slammed down through the bend, their tires skittering over the uneven asphalt.
At the exit, Dreyer dived late toward the inside line, trying to force Marko wide as both cars squeezed for T2’s entry. But Marko wasn’t a rookie who would easily yield to such petty pressure. He held the outside line through the apex with stalwart confidence. And with a more powerful chassis at the right moment, his Mercedes powered out ahead of Dreyer, reclaiming the position before the exit was exhausted.
"WOOOOHHHH!"
**No time for celebration**
"Copy," Marko agreed.
Two brutal exchanges under fifteen seconds readily meant there’d be more ahead.
Luis Dreyer was hungry to make a name for himself with these handful of races left to end the season. With Denko Rutheford lagging behind independently, Marko was his sole focus.
sshrrSHrk!
A sharp, metallic kiss made both pit walls flinch.
Integrity lost so early.
Luis Dreyer attempted to employ slipstream to his advantage, but the alley straight was too short. Before he could switch lines, Marko defiantly kept his lead, leading to a rough graze on their wings. Surprisingly, Marko lost more balance than Dreyer who received greater damage.
The second graze came at the next corner with neither lifting for the other.
The fourth graze came at the next with their wheels practically ricocheting off each other.
Nothing else could grab the attention of Race Control if not that. This wasn’t just lights-out chaos again, but two drivers letting the game get to them prematurely.
Radio channels across both garages exploded with anxious voices.
**Not your fight. Not your fight. Lift off, Luis**
**Not worth the crash, Marko**
The pack behind them was scattered now, drivers weaving desperately to avoid becoming collateral damage as the Mercedes and the Red Bull thundered down the next straight lined by apartments, still side by side, but slowly loosening their struggle.
"...The Azerbaijan Grand Prix has barely begun! If this is just the first lap, the next fifty are going to be a bloodbath...!"
