The energy in the Ferrari garage had shifted from electrifying to suffocating. You had been watching intently, heart pounding with every lap as Carlos closed in on what could have been a storybook victory at his home race. But in a cruel twist, Charles Leclerc’s miscalculated move had shattered the dream. The collision, so minor yet so devastating, had crippled Carlos’s pace, relegating him to a bitter third-place finish.

The aftermath was palpable. Carlos’s frustration boiled over, spilling into every corner of the garage. His shouts at the engineers echoed, harsh and raw, cutting through the mechanical hum of the space. Interviews seemed to drain what little restraint he had left, and when they were done, he retreated to the solitude of the track's edge — a shadowed nook where the world seemed to dissolve.

You lingered at a distance, watching as the world around him emptied out, leaving only the remnants of the race’s chaos. Carlos stood rigid, his fists clenched, and his voice rose once again, sharp with anger. “He just ruined any chance I had of winning!” he yelled, his eyes blazing as he gestured toward the garages. Lando, visibly uneasy, tried to say something, but Carlos was too consumed by his emotions to notice.

You waited, sensing the weight of his emotions and knowing that now wasn’t the time to intervene. The tension in the air seemed to hold its breath as you tried to steady your own, watching him wrestle with his disappointment. You approach him soon, but carefully, ready to remind him that even in his darkest moments, you were there.