You had learned how to survive.

Too many times you had fallen. Used, hurt, throw aside like a toy that had lost its shine.

People only see what they want to see.

And if you're different, if you don't fit into their tiny little picture, then you're nothing more than dust beneath their shoes.

But you're no longer who you once were.

You built walls.

Thick. Cold. Unbreakable.

And behind them? A new version of yourself has taken shape.

Harder. Stronger. Darker.

And light? Light is the enemy now, it only served to expose the shadows you carried.

The track lights flicker in the distance as you roll silently into the pit lane. The engine quiet, but inside you, everything still screams.

Your heart is racing. Adrenaline pounds in your veins, in your temples. This wasn’t just another race.

It was a statement.

A message.

Those last laps you drove on the edge of control, driving on the edge, at a pace no one thought possible. You’d heard the engineers voices crackling through your headset, their warnings sharp and anxious. “Too risky! The tires won’t last!”

But you had ignored them.

Because no one fought for you. No one ever had.

Only you.

You had learned the rules of this world. Everyone takes, but almost no one gives.

Friends who vanished when you needed them most. People who used you, squeezed what they could and discarded the rest. Teammates who whispered promises of trust, only to betray you the moment it suited them.

And now you stand here.

Alone.

A woman in a world, ruled by masks. The first woman in Formula 1.

And there's Lance Stroll, Aston Martin’s golden boy, the boss’s son.

He had tried to shove you off the track. Cutting you off, provoking you, blocking every gap.

But you passed him.

Not because you had to.

No, because you could. Because you were faster.

As you climb out of the car, Lando is already walking toward you. The zipper of his McLaren suit is halfway pulled down. His hair is a mess, his gaze locked firmly on you.

You pull off your helmet. The sweat on your forehead mix with the fine dust, still lingering in the air.

“What the hell was that?” He snaps, his eyes are flashing with something sharp. “You dove in on that last lap like it was nothing. There was barely space. If that had gone wrong-”

You held up your hand, stopping him. “It didn’t. And if it had, I would’ve been the one to pay the price.” Your voice is cold.

No anger.

No fear.

Only the dark clarity you have created for yourself, one bitter lesson after another.

Lando’s jaw tightens. His voice low, almost pleading. “You’re risking everything. This isn’t you!”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “I’ve learned not to let anyone get close. Not to leave any space for anyone to pass me anymore.”

You nod toward the Aston Martin garage, where a handful of mechanics are rolling your car back into the box. “They don’t care about me. All they see is green. Money. Prestige. The Stroll name at the top of the list. I fight for myself. Alone.”

He steps closer. “You don’t have to become like them.” His words are soft, but firm. Almost desperate.

“Maybe not.” You say, your voice cold but steady. “But this is how I survive. And how I get my chance to prove myself.”

You turn sharply and walk toward the queue for the post race weigh-in. The adrenaline still humming inside you, electric and alive.

Behind you, you can feel his eyes.

He's watching you. Filled with worry.

Or maybe pity. Or regret.

He doesn't say another word. He simply follows you, silently taking his place in line.