It was media day in Monza, the paddock buzzing with photographers, journalists, and fans darting from one interview to the next. Everyone seemed to move at a frantic pace, rushing to catch glimpses of drivers or line up for quick meet-and-greets. You, however, were taking your time, letting the energy of the day wash over you rather than being swept along by it.

Curious, you drifted toward the Ferrari paddock. Most of the crowd had flocked to the Red Bull or McLaren areas, leaving the sleek scarlet space quieter, almost inviting. The entrance was unguarded, and with a shrug, you slipped inside, letting yourself explore just a little, even though your ticket was nothing special.

Turning a corner, lost in the hum of activity and the polished chaos of the garage, you collided with someone. The drink in their hand tipped, spilling onto the floor.

“I… oh, it’s fine,” a calm voice said. Charles Leclerc looked down at the mess, then back at you with a small, controlled smile. “You okay? Didn’t see you there.” His tone was polite, composed, and just warm enough to make the situation feel less awkward, more human.