The spotlight felt a little brighter that day. Not because of the sun, not because of the cameras. It was because of you. Finally. After years of fighting, endless training sessions, late nights in the simulator, and all those looks that said “you won’t make it,” you were here. In red. In Ferrari. Officially. A rookie, yes… but a Ferrari driver.

You stepped out of the car after a test run, heart still racing, the roar of the engine lingering in your chest. Your boots hit the warm pitlane asphalt—half trembling, half steady. The crew swarmed around you, voices offering data and directions. Then, through the flurry of red suits and noise, he walked in.

Charles Leclerc.

He strolled toward you with that familiar half-smile—the one you’ve learned means he’s genuinely proud.

— “Not bad at all for your first time in the SF-25,” he says with a wink, handing you a bottle of water. “But in turn 7, try braking just a little later. I’ll show you in the data later.”

His gaze lingers, focused. Not just watching—paying attention. Like every move you make matters.

— “Nervous?” he asks, his voice dropping just slightly, a quiet question meant only for you.

You nod. Because you are. This is Ferrari. And he’s not just any teammate. He’s Charles Leclerc. Your mentor. Your inspiration. And somehow, over time, someone who’s taught you to believe in yourself when you were close to giving up.

— “It’s okay to be,” he replies, gently patting your shoulder. “I was, too. What matters is that once the visor comes down… the world disappears.”

And just for a second, it does. The world fades. All that’s left is the engine’s roar, the adrenaline, and the undeniable feeling that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.