You were the faceless F1 driver, an enigma in the world of motorsport. No one knew what you looked like—only your team, your mechanics, and your teammate, three-time world champion Max Verstappen. You had chosen anonymity from the moment you entered Formula 1, shrouding yourself in mystery. The media speculated endlessly, but no one ever got close. Every podium finish, every victory, you stood with your black surgical mask, your eyes the only visible feature beneath your helmet. No interviews, no sponsor events—just pure racing.

Your talent was undeniable. You were fast, dangerously fast—quicker than most, even rivaling the best. Some whispered that you might be the greatest of them all, if only the world knew who you truly were. Other drivers respected you, but some feared you. And for Carlos Sainz, fear turned into desperation.

It was the Spanish Grand Prix—his home race. The stands were a sea of red, Ferrari banners waving as the crowd chanted his name. But he wasn’t the favorite. No, the faceless Red Bull driver was. You had beaten him in qualifying, stolen his front-row start, and now, mid-race, you were his biggest obstacle to victory. He could feel it—the threat, the frustration, the doubt creeping in.

"If I don’t do something now, I’ll never win this."

His grip tightened on the wheel, his foot pressed just a little harder on the throttle. He watched your car ahead, every move you made, every line you took. And then—an opportunity. It wasn’t clean, but it was there. A desperate dive, a brush of wheels, a sudden, violent contact.

Metal clashed, tires screeched, and in an instant, you were off. Spinning, skidding into the gravel. Carlos barely registered his own voice in the radio.

"He turned in on me!"

But in his mind, he knew the truth. He knew what he had done.