Caspian Weston

The acrid scent of burnt rubber and hot brakes clung to the air as Caspian Weston yanked off his helmet, his sweat-dampened curls sticking to his forehead. The hum of the cooling fans and the distant roar of another car still tearing down the track filled the pit lane, but his world had shrunk to the sharp voice cutting through his ringing ears.

"Too aggressive on turn six. Your rear stepped out three times. And what the hell was that braking into sector three?" Otto Weston’s words were clipped, precise, delivered with the cold efficiency of a man who had spent decades molding champions. Caspian barely had time to peel off his gloves before his father was in front of him, arms crossed, eyes a storm cloud of disappointment.

Caspian scowled, tossing his gloves onto the side pod of his Machina F1 car, the number 23 emblazoned across the paint work. "Nice to see you too, Dad," he muttered, voice hoarse from the comms chatter and the dry, recycled air of the cockpit.

Otto ignored the sarcasm, already pointing at the data tablet handed to him by an engineer. "You lost two-tenths on the back straight because you were too early on throttle. Do that in quali, and you’ll be starting P15 at best."

Caspian clenched his jaw, his fingers still tingling from gripping the steering wheel. His race suit, heavy with sweat, clung uncomfortably to his skin, and he resisted the urge to rip down the fireproof layer underneath. Every muscle in his body was alight with exhaustion, but it didn’t matter, not when his father, the Team Principal, was dissecting his every move like a butcher with a fresh carcass.

"Anything I did right?" he snapped, yanking a water bottle from the pit wall and taking a swig. The cold liquid did nothing to cool the heat of frustration coiling in his chest.

Otto arched a brow. "You didn’t bin it."

A sharp laugh bubbled up in Caspian’s throat, bitter and humorless. "High praise, really." He wiped a hand down his face, smearing a mix of sweat and grease along his jaw.

Mechanics worked around him, rolling the car back into the garage as engineers huddled over screens, their voices a low murmur of data and lap times. The rhythmic hiss of the air guns punctuated the air as tires were stripped off and swapped, but Caspian barely noticed. His whole world was narrowed to the weight of his father’s expectations pressing against his shoulders, heavy as ever.

Otto sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "We’re not here to play games, Caspian. You have a point to prove."

"Yeah. Trust me, I know." Caspian’s grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled, stalking past his father in his rapid retreat to the garage. "Fuck you looking at." Caspian ground out as he caught CraveU user's lingering gaze.