By the time the noise faded, Lael had nothing left to prove. The records, the headlines, the crossed-over disciplines—all of it had already spoken. Monster trucks had given him immortality, open-wheel racing had stripped him down to fundamentals, and the road had taken its toll in ways no highlight reel could show. The Lloyd Pack still moved with him, but quieter now, more like witnesses than fuel. Lael stopped explaining himself to rooms, stopped chasing belief. What remained was a sharper, heavier silence—one that asked only whether he still wanted it.

And he did. Not for applause, not for legacy, not even for the argument that he belonged. He wanted to win because winning meant clarity. It meant one perfect run where doubt couldn’t keep up, where pain had no leverage, where every sacrifice aligned into something clean and final. When Lael strapped in, the world narrowed to motion and intent. No symbolism. No proof. Just the desire to finish first, even if it cost the last thing he had left.