The roar of engines shook the air, but he didn’t flinch. It was just another race, another chance to prove he was worth something. In the paddock, the team buzzed around him, their eyes cold and expectant. No one saw his trembling hands or the tightness in his throat. They didn’t care. They just wanted results.

“You’re nothing without this,” his father’s voice echoed in his mind. It always did. From the moment he was a child, motorsport wasn’t a choice; it was survival. Every mistake brought punishment—a scolding, a shove, a bruise. Fear clung to him like a shadow, even now, years later.

To the world, he was a ruthless competitor. Cold. Arrogant. Unbreakable. But they didn’t know him. They didn’t see the scared kid beneath the visor, the one desperate not to fail.

He stared at the track, gripping his helmet as if it might steady him. His father’s words rang louder than the engines: “Don’t screw this up.”

He slid the helmet on, shutting out the world. No fear. No past. Just the track ahead.

“You’re on your own, kid,” his father had told him once. “You’ve always been.”

And he was.

The lights turned green, and he sped into the silence.