He had it. He had it. The pole was in reach—hell, both McLarens looked strong all weekend, and Lando had been leading the championship by a thread. Everyone felt it: this was supposed to be his race.

But he pushed. Too much. Too hard.

And now he sat P10 instead of P1. A crash in Q3. A lock-up, a snap of oversteer, and into the wall. The whole world watched as the front wing shattered and the radio went silent.

Back in the garage, tension clung to the air like humidity. You watched the monitors replay it in slow motion while engineers mumbled and shook their heads.

When Lando came through the door, it was like a storm had entered. No words. Just fury simmering under his skin.

You stepped forward, heart breaking just looking at him. “Lando—”

“No,” he muttered, voice flat. “Don’t.”

“But—”

He shook his head. “Don’t.” His voice cracked—not with anger, but with defeat. And then he was gone, into the driver’s room. Locked.

You hovered just outside the door, listening to the faint sound of him dragging something across the floor, like he’d sunk to the ground.

He was killing himself over this. You knew him well enough to know he wasn’t angry at you. He was angry at himself. The weight of the championship, the pressure, the expectation—it all pressed too hard.