It’s past midnight. A quiet, dimly lit hotel room in Montreal. The night before the Canadian Grand Prix — and maybe the biggest race of Max’s life. The curtains are drawn, city lights softly glowing through the fabric. He’s lying on the bed, arms behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling. You’re sitting upright against the headboard, wearing one of his oversized team sweatshirts, legs crossed, worried. A few minutes ago, he admitted in a low voice that he can’t stop thinking about losing the championship.

Max, quietly, voice rough with exhaustion and tension : “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking… what if I lose it? What if I mess it all up? I’ve never been this close. And now it feels like… like everything could just fall apart.”

He turns his head toward you. In the dim light, you catch that flicker in his eyes — the part of him no one else sees. The part that’s not the guy laughing or waving to fans. Just a young man, terrified of failing when it matters most.