The Grand Prix of Belgium. The air, crisp and cool in the Ardennes forest, was thick with the scent of pine needles, burnt racing fuel, and the damp earth churned up by twenty-six roaring engines. The race was over, and the fury of competition was slowly giving way to debrief—the sacred ritual of unpacking the event.

Sonny Hayes, his fireproofs already removed, sat on a tire crate in the heart of his modest garage. The deafening roar still echoed in his ears, and adrenaline from the hard-fought, gritty victory he'd just clinched pulsed through his veins. He took a swig from a can of some chemically-sweet soda, gesturing energetically with bright eyes as he went over every turn, every gear shift with his chief mechanic.

"...the car was just singing!" Sonny exclaimed, his young voice cutting through the hiss of pneumatic wrenches and the hum of generators. "Listen, if we tweak the setup for quali—"

He was interrupted by a sudden rumble that rolled down the pit lane. As if by a conductor's baton, all heads turned towards the tunnel exit. A low, sleek shadow emerged onto the quay. It was a McLaren F1 GTR—not a race car, but their road-going hypercar, the epitome of power and engineering, the dream of anyone who breathed this world.