Ah! Ahhhhh!
A flash of Ferrari red was all it took. Like a flame streaking through the park, it ignited the grandstands. The spectators rose in unison, arms raised, creating a human wave that chased the SF71H as it tore around the circuit.
Inside the cockpit, however, Kai noticed none of it. He was hermetically sealed within his own focus, hunting for the flow state. Distraction was not an option.
Monza. The Temple of Speed. It was one of the most historic and representative tracks on the calendar, mentioned in the same breath as Silverstone. If Silverstone was about rhythm, Monza was about pure, unadulterated velocity.
It was an Italian dancer performing in the verdant Royal Park. Her steps were long straights where speed dissolved into a blur, showcasing the essence of the sprint. The main straight saw cars blasting past 340 km/h. Yet, the chicanes—the Variante del Rettifilo (Turn 1 and 2) and the Variante della Roggia (Turn 4 and 5)—required the delicate poise of a ballerina freezing on pointe. It was a test of nerve and precision; miss the braking point by a meter, and you were in the gravel.
Then there were the classics: the sweeping Curva Grande and the legendary Parabolica. These corners defined Monza's history—elegant, high-speed arcs that looked graceful but hid lethal intent. Drivers had to find balance on the razor's edge.
Monza's charm lay in its simplicity and its extremity. There were no complex technical sections, just a raw test of fundamentals. It was the ultimate duel between speed and courage, where the heartbeat of the driver and the roar of the engine intertwined into a magnificent symphony of fate.
Warm-up lap. Flying lap. Cool-down lap. One seamless flow.
"Significant oversteer in Roggia," Kai reported.
"Brakes are overheating," Pierre replied. "Front wear is increasing. If we use Ultrasofts in Q3, it will be critical. Qualifying pace is fine, but race pace is a concern."
"I held back slightly on the exits of Grande and Parabolica. Can I push more?"
"Copy."
The problems were stacking up. Even as qualifying progressed, Kai and Pierre were in constant communication, while Jock Clear's team in the garage worked furiously.
The Tifosi knew nothing of the radio chaos. They were looking for signs of a Ferrari resurgence in Q1, but the early signs were disheartening. Mercedes and Red Bull carried their Spa form over to Italy. Hamilton, Ricciardo, Bottas, and Verstappen were all within two-tenths of each other. The Ferraris were languishing in P8 and P10. They were safe for Q2, but it looked like a repeat of Belgium.
Matteo Vitale spread his hands, feigning helplessness. "I told you so."
He tried to look regretful, but a smug grin betrayed him. He looked at Lorenzo Moretti. "Make sure you wrap those car keys nicely."
Lorenzo remained unruffled. "Sure. A pink bow? Real men like pink, right?"
Lorenzo handled Matteo with ease, but the situation on track was grim. Force India's Perez was the first shock, eliminated in Q1. Despite securing his seat for next year, he was being thoroughly outperformed by Ocon since the summer break.
Watching Ocon's aggressive form, Lorenzo looked for the Number 22 Ferrari. Could Kai really pull this off when he was fighting for his own career?
Then—
"Whoa!"
A ripple of shock and excitement tore through the main grandstand.
P2. Kai. 1:20.353.
In Q2, Kai's first flying lap broke the 1:21 barrier. In Q1, only Hamilton had managed that. Mercedes seemed to be in a league of their own, but Kai had suddenly appeared in their rearview mirrors, matching their pace.
The air electrified instantly.
No way? Really?
It happened so suddenly that the Tifosi didn't dare to believe it. Was it luck? Had the others not pushed yet? Was this Ferrari's absolute ceiling? They tried to suppress their excitement, afraid of jinxing the moment.
But Kai didn't go out again. He returned to the pits and stayed there.
Pierre watched the screens. Kai was resting. It was a calculated risk. The setup was chewing through tires, and since the Q2 tire set would be the race start tire, they needed to save rubber. It was the Monaco strategy all over again.
Furthermore, the car was physically exhausting to drive. Kai had used that one lap to simulate a Q3 run, finding the limit. Having secured a safe time, he powered down to conserve energy for the shootout.
The gamble paid off. Hamilton, Vettel, Verstappen, Kai, and Bottas made up the top five. Ferrari was back in the chat.
Ricciardo, however, suffered his 101st misfortune of the season—an engine failure in Q2 meant he wouldn't even run.
The heat haze shimmered over the asphalt as Q3 began. Bottas led the train out. The engines screamed, the world spun, and hearts leaped into throats.
In the Ferrari hospitality suite, Jiang Mo and Lu Cheng were joined by special guests: the future stars of the Ferrari Driver Academy, kids aged seven to twelve.
Every year at Monza, Ferrari hosted these hopefuls. Among them were two boys glued to the screen.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli, an Italian through and through, stared with his mouth open. "Can we really do it?"
Beside him, the young Brit, Oliver "Ollie" Bearman, was equally anxious. "We should be able to... but practice was... I don't know... I think Kai might..."
Suddenly, the crowd roared for Vettel. The two kids exchanged a knowing look and giggled.
But the laughter died as the times came in.
P1 Hamilton.
P2 Vettel.
Vettel was close—only 0.069 seconds behind. But Kai was right there in P4, only 0.107 seconds off the pace.
The suspense was back. Ferrari was a legitimate pole contender.
Antonelli and Bearman couldn't believe their eyes. The struggling Ferrari had pulled a surprise out of the bag on Saturday afternoon. Adrenaline spiked like a volcano.
"Unbelievable! Vettel and Kai have found something!" the commentators shouted. "But the real shock is Red Bull. Verstappen is 1.2 seconds off! This is a two-horse race between Mercedes and Ferrari. They are the only ones in the 1:20s."
"Mercedes or Ferrari? Who takes the pole?"
Chaos. Surprise. Q3 was already overturning expectations.
The drivers came out for the second runs. Bottas crossed the line first: 1:19.656. It wasn't enough to beat the first runs of Hamilton or Vettel. He stayed P3.
Verstappen improved but was still nearly a second off. Red Bull was out of the fight. Christian Horner looked grim; the gap to the front was a chasm.
Now, all eyes were on the final three.
Hamilton. Vettel. Kai.
In the Ferrari suite, Bearman was squealing like a hyperactive bee, spinning in circles. Antonelli was catatonic, eyes unblinking.
Matteo Vitale lost his swagger. His mouth was dry, his hands clasped in prayer. Lewis. Seb. Please. Show me a World Champion's drive.
The three cars began their flying laps.
Hamilton first. Vettel second. Kai last.
The flying lap didn't start at the line. It started at the exit of Parabolica on the warm-up lap, enduring the crushing G-force to slingshot onto the straight.
Throttle pinned. Kai crossed the line. The timer started.
Boom. Boom.
Kai rode the heatwave, positioning the car slightly to the left to attack the Variante del Rettifilo (Turns 1 & 2). The Ferrari was prone to understeer here, so he had to be aggressive.
He braked late, throwing the car in. It was violent, the chassis shuddering as the tires fought for grip on the bumps. The car teetered on the edge of stability.
From the outside, he cut in, hugging the apex tight. He used the curbs to rotate the car, then trail-braked into the left-hander of Turn 2. The car danced, a mix of flamenco fire and fluid water. He shot out of the chicane, leaving the first sector behind.
He poured the power down, the V6 screaming as the car accelerated through the Curva Grande.
"Sector 1! Hamilton goes purple!"
"The reigning champion is holding nothing back!"
The commentary box exploded. The duel was being fought corner by corner.
Approaching the Variante della Roggia (Turns 4 & 5), the speed from Curva Grande had to be scrubbed off instantly. This was the second chicane.
Antonelli blinked. Late braking? Like Turn 1?
No. Early braking.
Bearman gasped. On the screen, Kai braked three meters earlier than usual. It was a complete shift in style from the aggression of the first sector. He entered Turn 4 gently.
Kai knew the car well. After the energy release of the first sector, the rear tires were hot. The car was now prone to oversteer. If he attacked Roggia like he did Rettifilo, the rear would snap, and the lap would be over.
He had to be delicate. He caressed the car into the corner, the tires biting into the asphalt.
Turns 4 and 5 flashed by. Next came the Lesmos—two 90-degree right-handers.
"Drifting?" Antonelli whispered.
"No, that's not... how is that possible?" Bearman stammered.
It wasn't drifting in the street sense. It was slip angle. Kai used a combination of trail braking and steering input to slide the car through Lesmo 1. The distance between the two corners was only 100 meters—a blink of an eye in F1. He adjusted, corrected, and threw it into Lesmo 2.
Precise. Sharp.
Correction, adjustment, throttle. The rear of the Ferrari stepped out, threatening to lock up and spin, but Kai caught it instantly. The car shimmied like a fish in water and rocketed down the straight.
"Sector 2! Vettel goes purple!"
"God! Vettel is finding more time! The pole will be decided in Sector 3!"
Silver, Red, Red. Three bullets of light tearing toward the Variante Ascari.
At 300 km/h, Kai felt the wind. The stiff suspension transmitted every grain of the track surface into his spine. He used the bumps, turning the instability into momentum.
Ascari. Turn 8 (left), 9 (right), 10 (left). A high-speed dance on the knife's edge.
Total focus. He didn't touch the brake. He lifted and modulated the throttle, using the curbs to rotate the car. The tires chewed on the green and white paint, the car sliding wide, flirting with track limits.
He held it. By a millimeter, the Number 22 stayed within the white lines. He exited the chicane and roared toward the final challenge.
Snap.
Every thought vanished. Antonelli, Bearman, Matteo, Lorenzo—everyone held their breath.
Kai didn't waver. "Just be yourself," Marchionne had said.
He hugged the inside, then let the car wash out. The G-force of the Parabolica crushed him into the side of the cockpit. His body trembled under the strain, but his hands were steady. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He traced the perfect arc through the long right-hander.
Perfect. The car and the track were one.
The corner opened up. The main straight appeared.
Silence. The engine noise faded into the background. Only his heartbeat remained.
Pedal to the metal. No reserves.
"Unbelievable!"
"The top four are separated by less than two-tenths!"
"Vettel is flying! He needs redemption! He is faster than his previous lap! He is charging for pole!"
"But is it enough?"
"Hamilton is crossing the line! He goes purple! Hamilton breaks his own record! Provisional Pole!"
Gasp.
The tension spiked.
"Sebastian Vettel goes purple! Vettel takes Pole Position!"
Before the crowd could even process the joy, the third wave hit.
"KAI ZHIZHOU!"
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! KAI ZHIZHOU!"
"PURPLE SECTOR!"
"UNBELIEVABLE! Kai Zhizhou beats Sebastian Vettel!"
"GOD! 1:19.119!"
"NEW TRACK RECORD! Kai Zhizhou smashes the Monza lap record!"
"Ferrari locks out the front row for the 60th time in history! But it's not the Golden Boy Vettel! It's the rookie sensation Kai Zhizhou who takes the Pole!"
"HISTORY! The youngest pole sitter in F1 history!"
"MONZA HAS GONE MAD!"
One by one, they crossed the line. Hamilton Pole. Then Vettel Pole. Then Kai Pole.
The lead changed hands three times in three seconds.
Lorenzo Moretti punched the air and screamed, abandoning all decorum. The roar from the stands battered his eardrums. It wasn't about the bet anymore. It was about Kai.
Even Matteo Vitale's stunned, open-mouthed face looked adorable in that moment.
The pole position they had waited for, agonized over, and dreamed of had finally arrived. At Monza. Under the greatest pressure.
It wasn't just a strategic win. It was pure, raw speed.
AHHHHHHHH!
The grandstands dissolved into chaos. Strangers hugged. High-fives flew. People were crying in the corners, the anxiety of the summer finally breaking into tears of joy.
In the Ferrari garage, it was bedlam. Mechanics were sprinting, screaming.
Pierre Borreipaire froze. His brain short-circuited. He couldn't process it.
Only when Jock Clear thumped him on the back did he snap out of it. He fumbled for the radio button. His voice trembled.
"Kai. Pole position."
"Ah, damn. What do we do for the race now? The threat level is gone," came the familiar, teasing voice.
Pierre laughed, the tension draining away.
"Kai, congratulations. You deserve it."
"Thanks, Pierre. Just like the old days in GP3, right?"
In the cockpit, Kai exhaled. He squeezed the steering wheel tight. The excitement was there, but it was fleeting. Qualifying was just Saturday. The race was tomorrow.
In the hospitality suite, Ollie Bearman stared at the screen, stunned.
Beside him, Kimi Antonelli was jumping up and down. "POLE! POLE! AHHHH!"
He shook Bearman. "How did he do that?"
Jiang Mo stood still, staring at the Number 22 car on the screen. She tried to stay calm, but the tears came anyway.
Lu Cheng silently handed her a tissue.
She wiped her eyes, straightened her back, and smiled. "Xiao Zhou is really amazing, isn't he?"
Lu Cheng nodded, his nose stinging. "He always has been."
They looked at the cheering kids and laughed together.
The 2018 Italian Grand Prix Qualifying was the best of the season. The top three were separated by the blink of an eye.
Kai Zhizhou - 1:19.119
Sebastian Vettel - 1:19.280 (+0.161)
Lewis Hamilton - 1:19.294 (+0.175)
The gap to fourth-place Bottas was over half a second. The gap to Verstappen was a massive 1.4 seconds.
It was a gap that made Red Bull question their existence.
The "Pandora's Box" had been opened. The pressure hadn't crushed Kai; it had fueled him.
Now, the paddock had a new problem. Kai could win races from the back. But now... he was starting from the front.
What happens next?