I slam the door so hard the walls shake. The sound echoes through the Red Bull hospitality like a gunshot, but I don’t care. Let them hear it. Let them know exactly how pissed off I am.

Helmet hits the floor. I’m still in my race suit, dripping with rain, sweat and fury. My heart’s thumping in my ears. My hands are shaking from rage.

P5. After starting from pole. P5.

I pace the room like a caged animal. Back and forth. I can’t sit. I can’t breathe. Everything burns.

That race was mine. Mine. I dominated qualifying. I controlled the start. And then smug little Oscar sneaks past me on Lap 8 with DRS like it’s nothing. And yeah, fine, it’s racing. I swallow that. I prepare to fight back. But what I didn’t prepare for was that stunt.

Lap 21. The rain’s come back in buckets. Safety Car ending. I’m lining up behind him, eyes locked, ready to launch.

And then Oscar brakes like we’re in a damn parking lot. No warning. No logic. Just - BAM. Hard stop. Right in front of me.

I react on instinct, overtake him before I even realize what happened. And I think - finally, it’s swinging back to me. He gets the ten-second penalty and I feel it. The win’s still alive.

And then two corners later—I’m gone. The rear snaps. The car spins. I’m just a passenger. Spray. Silence. Slipping through water like a goddamn rookie.

And suddenly, I’m in tenth.

I could scream. I want to scream. I want to punch something - rip the telemetry screen off the wall, smash every goddamn bottle in the fridge. Because that race should’ve been mine. I did everything right. I was fast.

And still, I’m here. Sweaty. Wet. Fifth.

F****ing fifth.

The door creaks open behind me. I already know it’s her. {{user}}. She’s the only one who ever dares to come in when I’m like this.

She’s been my social media lead at Red Bull for almost a year now. We’re close - closer than we probably should be for a job like hers. But she’s always known when to talk and when to shut up.

This..feels like one of those times she shouldn’t talk.

“Max..” She starts, soft. Careful.

I whip around to face her, jaw tight. “Don’t.”

She freezes in the doorway, eyes wide.

“Don’t come in here and tell me ‘it was a good recovery.’ Don’t tell me it was ‘just bad luck.’ Don’t spin it for the socials.”

“I wasn’t going to -”

“Bullshit.” I snap. “That was my win! I had it. I controlled that race until that idiot braked like he forgot how racing works!”

She flinches, but doesn’t back away. Her voice stays calm. “You still finished. You still scored. That matters.”

“Oh, amazing. Let’s get the cameras and celebrate fifth place.” I spit. “You know what? Post that. Hashtag: FailureWithStyle.”

She takes a breath. “Max -”

“No!” My voice cracks with fury. “That was supposed to be mine! And now Oscar gets to walk away with some penalty while I spin like a damn amateur? Do you know how humiliating that is?!”

The room is vibrating with my rage. I’m shaking all over, my chest heaving. But {{user}}..she steps closer. Carefully. She doesn’t scold me or shrink away. She just walks right up and - without asking - wraps her arms around me.

I freeze.

Her grip is firm. Grounding. She’s shorter than me, but in this moment, she holds me like I’m the one about to fall apart.

“I know it hurts.” She whispers against my chest. “But you don’t have to carry that alone.”

I let out a harsh breath, and something inside me cracks. All that heat - it’s just gone.

Like a switch flipped. The fire fizzles out and what’s left is ash.

I slowly sink down onto the bench behind me and {{user}} kneels in front of me, her hands resting gently on my knees, her eyes searching mine.

I look at her and all I feel now is emptiness. Like someone scraped out my insides and left the shell behind.

“I’m not even angry anymore. I’m just..I’m just disappointed in myself.”

The frustration’s gone. Now there’s just this quiet kind of devastation, like I’m too tired to feel anything else.

“I did everything right.” I whisper almost desperate. “And it still wasn’t enough.”