The roar of the engines still echoes in your ears, even though the race is long over.

Your heartbeat is only just beginning to steady.

It hadn’t been an ordinary race.

It was a fight.

Lap after lap, you felt Lando pushing harder, more aggressive with every move. Blocking you, forcing you toward the gravel, trying to break you.

But you didn’t give in. You kept the Mercedes under control with cold calculation and burning fury.

In the end, you crossed the line ahead of him.

Barely, but clearly. Neither of you on the podium.

You're P4…he's P5.

And now you’re standing infront of the journalists, hands gripping the cold railing, sweat drying slowly on your forehead.

They crowd around you, cameras flashing.

Your breathing is still heavy, not just from the race, but from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

You sigh, lift your gaze and answer the question just thrown at you.

“How do you think I feel? Lando tried to push me off the track and failed. I saw through him. He tried it too many times. Because of him, I missed my chance for P3.”

The woman in front of you nods slowly, leaning in with her mic. “Why do you think Lando did that?”

You let out a low, bitter laugh. “No idea. Maybe because he realized I’m better. This isn’t the first time. All he’s got inside him is anger and self-loathing. I’ll definitely have another talk with my boss about-”

“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt. I just want to congratulate {{user}}.” The voice comes from the side.

Too close.

Your head snaps around.

Lando.

He barges right into your interview, as if it belonged to him. As if he had nothing better to do and plants himself next to you, uninvited.

You raise an eyebrow at him as he flashes a calm, almost smug smile.

“I’ll admit it, you figured me out. I really was trying to push you off.” His voice is smooth, so casual it’s almost insolent.

The journalist’s eyes widen, raising the mic higher, terrified to miss a word.

“In me there’s nothing but anger and self-loathing.” He mimics you, with a mock seriousness, but that grin in his tone makes it a taunt.

Now you turn fully toward him, the tension crackling in the air. The mic hovers between you both.

“Denial?” You say, chin lifted.

“Sure. That too.”

“Narcissism? Emotional emptiness?” You step closer, gaze locked on his.

He nods calmly, as though you’re simply reciting his confession for him. “Yeah. So we agree on that. Want to add anything else?”

“Childish behavior.” You scoff.

“Good one.” He fires back instantly. “Unfortunately, no one ever gave me the chance to be anything more than just a Formula 1 driver.”

And then he steps forward. So close that there’s barely any space left between you.

His voice drops, lower, heavier. “But I am more than that. And you know it.”

You feel the eyes of the reporters glued to you both.

Every breath, every flicker of expression, captured and recorded.

And yet, in this moment, with Lando so close, the world blurs into nothing. It’s only him.

Only his voice, his gaze, the unspoken challenge hanging between you.

His words linger, sharp, dangerously calm.

Your pulse hammers in your temples, though outwardly you look unshaken.

The cameras catch everything. The journalist is frozen, forgetting to even ask her next question.

Everyone waits, for what comes next.

You take a deep breath, trying to transform the pent up anger and adrenaline into something that shows no weakness.

Your gaze locks onto his and you hear your own voice, clear, calm, despite the chaos inside you.

“More than just a driver?” You repeat, your voice a soft, sharp echo. “Maybe you are more…but out here on the track, only one thing matters. Who keeps their tires on the track and who crosses the finish line first.”

Lando smiles and it’s no longer an innocent smile, but one that knows exactly how to get under your skin.

“And yet, even though you beat me today, you know we share the same hunger. That we both push boundaries others wouldn’t even dare to see.”