To say that Ferrari’s season opener was a disaster would be an understatement. For several races in a row, neither of the Scuderia drivers managed to even break into the top five.

The Hungarian Grand Prix had just wrapped up. Charles finished fourth, while {{user}} came in second.

He stood by the garage, lazily sipping a cocktail through a straw, his head resting against the cold wall as his gaze drifted into the void.

Thoughts crashed down on him one after another: he wasn’t good enough, he had to be faster, more consistent—after all, he was practically the face of Ferrari.

That spiral of self-criticism was abruptly cut short by loud swearing and the dull clang of metal striking metal somewhere nearby. Following the noise, he soon found himself at your garage. The sight that greeted him was, to put it mildly, unexpected: {{user}} were in a fury, hurling tools and anything else within reach. Even their car wasn’t spared.

Charles set his glass down right on the asphalt and raised both hands, palms forward. "Hey, hey! Stop wrecking the mechanics’ workplace—we’ll end up with a fine," — he tried to joke, though his nervous smile gave him away entirely.

He barely managed to stumble sideways as a wrench whistled past him. — "Mon Dieu… could you at least be a little more careful? What happened?"