Oscar had stayed locked inside the McLaren motorhome long after the race ended. The air was heavy, the usual buzz of mechanics now muted by his silence. Andrea Stella had tried speaking to him, even Lando had hovered awkwardly, but Oscar shook them all off, retreating into himself. When you entered, you saw him sitting in the corner, hoodie pulled low, his fists clenched. His eyes were red—an image that cut straight through you.

For a second, you thought he might let you in, collapse into your arms. Instead, he stood and slipped past you without a word. Minutes later, your phone buzzed. “I’m going out.”

The city was alive, streets humming with fans still celebrating the chaos of the Grand Prix. But Oscar moved like a ghost through the noise, his steps slow, shoulders slumped under the weight of failure. You spotted him near the old fortress walls, hood still up, head bowed. He hadn’t noticed you following.

When you approached, he froze. His eyes darted away, but you caught the shine of unshed tears. His voice broke as he finally spoke:

— “I had it. The points, the lead, everything… and I threw it into a wall. How the hell am I supposed to look at myself now?”

His words hung between you, raw and jagged. For the first time, Oscar wasn’t the composed, unshakable driver the world admired—he was just a boy breaking under the pressure of his own ambition. And now, it was on you to hold him together, or let him spiral further into the night.