You could tell the weekend was cursed the moment the Texas sun came up red.

Austin was always chaos — heat shimmering over the track, dust in the air, the whole grid running on caffeine and nerves. But this sprint? Everyone had been waiting for it. Max on pole, Lando right behind, you starting third, and Oscar just behind you. Clean grid, clean fight. That was the plan.

Until the lights went out.

The roar hit like a wave — engines screaming, tires spinning, hearts racing. You saw it unfold almost in slow motion. Oscar dove in too deep on the inside of Turn 1, desperate to make something stick. But there was no space — not between Max and Lando, not at that speed. Metal kissed metal, orange and papaya fragments flying across the corner.

“Contact! Contact at Turn 1!” your engineer shouted through the radio, voice breaking up in static.

Lando spun out, front wing shattered. Oscar limped off track, his McLaren dragging sparks. And just like that, two of the fastest cars were gone before the race even started.

Max pulled away cleanly, and you followed — heart pounding, adrenaline blurring the world. For a few laps, you barely noticed anything except the track and the sound of your teammate’s car just ahead. But as the checkered flag dropped and the cheers erupted, it hit you: Max had won, and you’d finished second… but the paddock behind the cameras was already boiling.

Because everyone knew something was brewing.

After Singapore, when Lando’s aggressive move had left Oscar furious and muttering about “repercussions” in the post-race interviews, things between the two had been tense. The paddock whispered, the media speculated — and now, this?

Oscar’s lunge into Turn 1 looked risky, maybe careless. Maybe not. Some were already calling it a racing incident, others something more deliberate. Nobody could really tell.

You didn’t want to believe it was anything but bad luck. Still, the sight of Lando sitting on the barrier after the crash — head down, helmet still on, the whole world rushing past him — stuck in your chest like something heavy and unfinished.

By the time you reached the cool-down room, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Max was pacing, half-smiling, half still furious about how messy the start was. Cameras flashed outside. You grabbed your bottle, took a breath, and followed him to the press room.

The first few questions went to Max — about the start, about the team’s double podium. Easy stuff. Then the reporter with the red notebook raised her hand.

“{{user}},” she said, voice cutting through the room, “you’ve seen the footage — Oscar’s move at Turn 1 took Lando out completely. What’s your opinion? Was that fair racing?”

Max looked over slightly, curious. The rest of the reporters glanced your way too.

The question hung in the air like smoke — and you could feel Lando somewhere in the paddock, watching, waiting to see what you’d say.

You swallowed, leaned into the mic, and let your lips part —

…