Into the Apex

The Weight of the World

The second half of the 2022 Formula 1 season was a blur of frustration and disillusionment for Masachika Kuze. After the intensity of the first part of the year, where he had fought tooth and nail just to prove his place, the weight of his underwhelming performance with Aston Martin started to bear down on him. The dream of breaking through to the top had turned into an endless cycle of disappointment.

The summer break came as a brief, fleeting respite, but it did little to ease the constant pressure. Masachika tried to disconnect, tried to forget about the relentless grip of Formula 1 for just a few weeks. But it was impossible. The noise of the sport—always there, always looming—followed him wherever he went. Every news article, every social media post, every conversation with friends or family revolved around the same question: When would he start winning?

He didn't have an answer.

As the season resumed in Belgium, Masachika felt the sharp sting of reality. He was back in the car, but the car was still slow, still struggling. Aston Martin had yet to make any significant breakthroughs with their car's performance. The team's morale was low, and even with fresh updates to the car, the improvements didn't deliver the hoped-for results. On top of that, the team's leadership was increasingly distracted by Sebastian Vettel's future. The looming shadow of Vettel's retirement seemed to overshadow everything, and it was becoming painfully clear that the team was focused on his farewell rather than Masachika's progress.

In Belgium, Masachika finished 12th—another disappointing result in a season full of them. But it wasn't the result that hurt the most. It was the feeling of being invisible. The feeling that despite all his effort, despite all the sacrifices he had made, his position at Aston Martin was becoming more and more irrelevant. The whispers in the paddock about Vettel's final season, the favoritism from the team, the constant focus on his legendary career—it all stung Masachika in ways he wasn't prepared for.

Monza was a harsh reminder of the bitter truth. Qualifying in 14th, Masachika struggled to find any rhythm throughout the weekend. The car was difficult to drive, unpredictable at high speeds, and by the end of the race, he was back in the lower half of the grid. Another 12th-place finish. He couldn't seem to catch a break.

Behind the wheel, his mind was constantly racing—yet, at the same time, it felt like he was stuck in place. He pushed himself harder, tried new strategies, adjusted his driving style. But the results remained the same. Aston Martin was too far behind the front-runners. There was no amount of grit or determination that could bridge the gap to the top.

It was in the lead-up to the Singapore Grand Prix that the cracks in Masachika's armor became too large to ignore. Every day, he woke up with a pit in his stomach, the constant pressure of his career hanging over him like a sword ready to fall. He had become accustomed to the long, sleepless nights, but now they were starting to wear on him in ways he couldn't hide.

"I'll be fine," he had told Alya after the Italian Grand Prix, trying to put on a brave face. But he wasn't fine. Far from it. The weight of living up to expectations, of trying to prove himself in a car that was never quite good enough, was starting to chip away at his spirit.

By the time they arrived in Singapore, Masachika was already exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally. He barely made it through the practice sessions, his focus wandering, his patience thinning. He was no longer excited to be at the track. The thrill of racing, the joy that had once fueled him, had been replaced with a hollow sense of duty.

The race itself was a disaster. Masachika qualified poorly, and though he managed to make a few places up during the race, it wasn't enough. He finished 13th—another disappointing result, another day spent fighting not just the other drivers, but the car, the team, and most painfully, his own sense of self-worth.

But it wasn't just the poor results that gnawed at him. It was the realization that despite everything he had done, he still couldn't escape the shadow of Vettel. Even during the worst moments, when Masachika was fighting just to finish in the points, Vettel's name was always in the spotlight. The team was giving him the better strategies, the fresh updates, the backing of team principal Mike Krack. Even when the performance gap between them was undeniable, Vettel's status as a four-time world champion was enough to ensure his position as the team's focal point.

Masachika wasn't blind. He saw the way the engineers and mechanics gravitated toward Vettel. He noticed the subtle differences in how the team approached each race, the way Vettel's car always seemed to get the updates first. He felt like a ghost in his own team.

There were moments, fleeting moments, when Masachika would feel a brief flash of hope. A good qualifying session, a decent start to a race, a few laps where he felt the car working beneath him. But those moments were becoming rarer and rarer, overshadowed by the constant frustration of dealing with a team that wasn't invested in his success.

It wasn't until the Japanese Grand Prix, his home race, that Masachika finally allowed himself to acknowledge just how deep the cuts had gone. The crowd cheered as he took to the grid, but beneath the surface, he was a shell of the driver he once was. He finished 14th, a dismal result, but it wasn't the position that shattered him. It was the overwhelming feeling of being stuck.

During a quiet moment in the paddock after the race, Masachika found himself staring out at the track, the sounds of the crowd fading away. His mind was blank, empty. He wasn't thinking about the race. He wasn't thinking about the championship. He wasn't even thinking about his future. He was simply... lost. The passion he had once had for racing, for proving himself, was slipping through his fingers like sand.

And yet, the weight of his career, of the expectations placed on him, continued to crush him. He was fighting on fumes now, barely able to keep his head above water.

When he finally spoke to Alya that night, his voice cracked. "I don't know how much longer I can do this," he admitted, his words barely audible. "I can't keep pretending everything's fine when it's not. I can't keep fighting a battle that feels like it's already lost."

Alya didn't know what to say. She could hear the pain in his voice, the rawness of his exhaustion. The driver she had known—the one who could conquer any challenge, who could push through the hardest of circumstances—was gone. In his place was someone who was barely holding it together.

But Alya didn't give up. She never had. She knew Masachika better than anyone. He might have been broken, but he wasn't beyond saving. Not yet.

As the season trudged on, Masachika continued to race, each weekend a fresh reminder of just how far behind he had fallen. The final races of the season—just like the ones before—were a blur of missed opportunities, underwhelming results, and a constant sense of doubt gnawing at his every decision.

He had come into 2022 with dreams of success, of proving himself to be one of the best. But by the end of the season, all he could do was wonder where it had all gone wrong.