Las Vegas wasn’t just a race. It was a gamble. The Strip lit up the night like a crown of fire, the air vibrating with engines, music, and temptation.

You lined up on the grid beside Lando Norris. The McLaren glowed papaya under the floodlights, your Ferrari scarlet and ruthless. He glanced at you, a wicked grin tugging at his lips, like the Vegas lights had climbed straight into his bloodstream.

“You’re not winning this one,” he muttered over comms, though you knew it wasn’t just for the race engineer’s benefit. It was for you. Always you.

Engines revved, vibrating against your ribcage. The world pulsed with the lyrics you couldn’t shake:

The lights went out.

You shot down the Strip, casinos flashing, sparks spraying where your tires brushed his. Wheel-to-wheel at 340 kph, it wasn’t racing anymore — it was a duel. His McLaren slipped ahead under the neon glow of the Sphere, but you clawed it back, slicing into his line, pushing him to the edge of sanity.

Every overtake felt like a dare. Every corner, a flirtation with disaster. And when he laughed over the radio — a low, reckless sound — you hated that it made you want him even more.

The crowd roared as the final lap tightened into its crescendo. Roulette wheels spun in casinos all around, but the only gamble that mattered was this: who would cross first? Who would burn brightest?

And in Vegas, you knew one truth about Lando Norris. He’d always bet everything — and he’d drag you down with him if he lost.