Into the Apex

A House of Shadows

Masachika Kuze stood in the middle of his dimly lit living room in Woking, the evening light filtering through the curtains. The cottage, spacious yet modest, was eerily silent, save for the occasional hum of a passing car outside. On most days, he would welcome the quiet—it was a refuge from the chaos of the paddock. But tonight, it felt suffocating.

The scars of the season so far weighed heavily on him, both figuratively and literally. His shoulder ached from his crash in Spain, though the physical pain was nothing compared to the storm raging in his mind. He clenched and unclenched his fists, pacing back and forth, his thoughts spiraling.

"How did it come to this?" he muttered to himself. His voice echoed slightly in the empty space, a stark reminder of how alone he felt.

He sank into the worn leather armchair by the window, staring out at the rain that had begun to drizzle. His phone sat on the side table, its screen dark. Alya had called earlier, but he hadn't answered. He couldn't bring himself to talk to her, to pretend everything was fine when the truth was far from it.

She deserves better than this, he thought. Better than me.

The trophies on the shelf across the room seemed to mock him. The pinnacle of his career—the 2021 World Championship trophy—gleamed in the faint light, a stark contrast to the man he felt he'd become. That season felt like a lifetime ago. Back then, he had been unstoppable, confident, and proud of his achievements. Now, he felt like a shadow of himself, worn down by the relentless grind of Formula 1 and the toxic environment at Aston Martin.

His mind wandered to Alya. She had always been his anchor, the one person who could calm his restless spirit. Her unwavering belief in him had carried him through countless challenges. But now, he couldn't face her. Not like this.

The memory of her voice during their last call replayed in his mind.

"Maybe this is a chance to reset," she had said gently. "You need to focus on healing, Masachika. Not just your body but your mind."

But how could he heal when every race felt like a battle he was destined to lose? When every interaction with his team only deepened the cracks in his spirit? He felt trapped, like a caged animal clawing at the bars.

The rain intensified, the droplets tapping against the window in a rhythmic yet relentless beat. Masachika reached for his phone, scrolling aimlessly through social media. The comments about his performances this season cut deeper than he cared to admit.

"Kuze's lost it. One-hit wonder."
"Maybe Aston made the wrong choice."
"Vettel's still got it. Kuze? Not so much."

He tossed the phone onto the table, the screen still glowing with the last comment.

He leaned back, closing his eyes, trying to block out the noise in his head. But the silence of the room only amplified his doubts and insecurities.

What if they're right? What if I'm not cut out for this anymore?

The thought terrified him. Racing was all he had ever known, his entire identity built around it. Without it, who was he?

Masachika's hand instinctively moved to his right cheek, his fingers tracing the jagged scar that ran down to his collarbone. It had become a symbol of his resilience, a testament to his ability to overcome adversity. But tonight, it felt like a reminder of everything he had lost—his confidence, his joy, his love for the sport.

A knock at the door startled him, pulling him from his thoughts. He hesitated for a moment before rising to answer it.

It was his neighbor, an older woman named Margaret who had occasionally checked in on him since he moved in.

"Evening, Masachika," she said kindly, holding a small tin. "I baked some scones earlier and thought you might like some."

He forced a smile, taking the tin from her. "Thank you, Margaret. That's very kind of you."

She peered at him, her brow furrowing slightly. "You've been looking a bit tired lately. Everything alright?"

"I'm fine," he lied, his voice strained. "Just a busy few weeks."

She nodded, though her concern was evident. "Well, don't hesitate to knock if you need anything, dear. Take care of yourself, alright?"

"I will," he said, closing the door as she walked away.

The warmth of her gesture did little to lift his spirits. He set the tin on the kitchen counter and returned to the living room, slumping back into the chair. The rain had slowed, but the storm inside him raged on.

His phone buzzed again. This time, it was a message from Alya:

"I know you're hurting. Please let me help you. I'm here for you, always."

He stared at the screen, his chest tightening. Her words were a lifeline, a reminder that he wasn't entirely alone. But the weight of his own pride and shame kept him from responding.

Instead, he typed out a message he couldn't bring himself to send:

"I don't know who I am anymore, Alya. I don't know if I can keep doing this."

He deleted it, tossing the phone onto the couch and burying his face in his hands.

The hours passed, the rain eventually stopping. But the storm within Masachika showed no signs of abating.

As dawn broke over Woking, he sat by the window, watching the sun rise. The new day offered little solace, but it was a reminder that time marched on, with or without him.

For now, he resolved to keep going, if only because he didn't know what else to do. But deep down, he knew something had to change—or he might lose himself entirely.