The crowd in the grandstands holds its breath. The final laps are underway, the tension is almost palpable.

McLaren is in a strong position, but now a battle unfolds.

Lando has just overtaken Oscar with a brilliant move.

But Oscar immediately fights back.

Wheel to wheel, they race through the corners.

And then it happens.

Lap 67. Between turn 1 and turn 2, Lando misjudges the situation.

Just a little too optimistic. Just a little too tight.

The left rear tire brushes the wall. The car slides.

A brief moment of lost control, then the impact into the barrier.

You gasp sharply. “No…this can’t be true…” You mutter in shock.

Yellow flag.

DNF

Lando is out.

You stand in the pit lane. Your left hand presses against your headset, your right hand covers your mouth in disbelief.

The mechanics exchange stunned glances.

Some shake their heads, others stare silently at the monitors.

On the screen, you see Lando climbing out of the wrecked car, his head lowered.

You could hear it over the radio.

He’s blaming himself.

Again.

Without a word, he walks past the mechanics. Past you.

No eye contact, no greeting. Still wearing his helmet.

He heads straight through the garage, out the back door into the McLaren hospitality.

You hesitate for a moment, then silently follow him.

No words. Only the slam of the door closing behind him.

Jon is already standing infront of it, shaking his head. “I tried. He doesn’t want to talk." He murmurs quietly, stepping aside.

“It’s okay. Thank you.” You give a faint smile, knock gently and open the door.

Lando stands with his back to you by the window.

His helmet, gloves and shoes lie scattered carelessly on the floor. His shoulders rise and fall quickly.

The tension in the room is almost tangible, like an invisible wall between you.

After a few seconds, he turns around. His eyes flash, but behind them lies nothing but disappointment.

“FUCK!! I should’ve left more space. I should’ve waited! I saw it…I knew it! But I was too stupid. So stupid…but no, I had to try anyway.” His voice is rough, strained.

You say nothing. You let him speak.

He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, struggling to compose himself.

“It was such a good race. I was fast. Really fast. Finally they saw that I’m still as good as last year. That I’m just as good as Oscar. That I’ve got what it takes. And what do I do? I screw it up again.” He spits.

Then he punches the wall in frustration.

You flinch slightly.

“I had him, you know? I had him!" He hisses, eyes filled with tears, as he slowly slides down against the wall.

"I just…It's all my fault..” He whispers.