1:41.129. This was the fleeting, agonizing proof that Lister Racing held the key to absolute speed around Barcelona, only for destiny to spit in our collective face.
Jamie Campbell-Walter danced on the edge of glory, carving the Catalan asphalt like a tragic hero, setting the fastest lap of the entire afternoon in his #14 Storm. Yet, when the heavy velvet curtain fell on this brief five-lap nightmare, we were left clutching second and third, weeping into our lukewarm tea. Andrea Piccini (P3) fought like a lion, swearing he felt a slight totozinho from behind, but it was not enough to bridge the gap.
The culprit? A ghost in our own armor. Fernando Horta, masquerading under the Lotus banner, pilfered a Lister Storm of his own to execute a 6.8-second heist in broad daylight. How does one defend against such treachery?
Our Chief of Strategy, the Shivan Dragon (+5/+0 until we find out who messed up the tyre pressures), was absolutely incandescent in the pit garage.
"We had the tempo advantage!" roared the Dragon, accidentally singeing the timing screens with a stray ember. "We played our Lands, we swung for maximum damage on lap three, but Horta must have held a Counterspell. I am tapping all my red mana next round, I swear by the Multiverse! This is total rubbish!"
A double podium should feel like a triumph. Instead, it tastes like ash. We pack our carbon-fiber crates in absolute silence, the hum of the V12 engines sounding like a funeral dirge.
Ps. Rodrigo, please tell us you found where they hid the spare spark plugs.
