Monza always feels different. The history, the tifosi, the way the air vibrates with anticipation before the lights even flick on. I’m strapped into the car, helmet heavy, heart heavier. P2 on the grid. Max ahead of me. Oscar right behind.

Oscar. He’s 34 points clear in the standings. My own teammate. The guy everyone says is favorite for the title. And me? I’m still trying to claw back after Zandvoort - after my car gave up on me in lap 65, smoke spilling while I sat helpless in the cockpit. That DNF still burns.

“Alright, Lando,” {{user}}’s voice crackles in my ears. Calm. Steady. Always steady. “Remember: you don’t win this in Turn 1. Let the race come to you.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. She knows me better than anyone in this paddock. She knows how much I want this. How much I need it.

Five red lights. They vanish.

I launch well, but Max cuts hard across me, squeezing until my tyres touch the grass. I’m fighting the car, twitching, sparks flying as we go wheel-to-wheel. For a second it’s chaos - he even runs wide, leaving the track and comes back out ahead. My heart slams against my ribs, fury boiling.

“Hold position,” {{user}}’s voice crackles. Calm but sharp. “He’ll have to give it back.”

And he does. Max slows, and I slipstream past. P1. For now.

Behind, Charles slips past Oscar - brief relief, but not for long. Next lap, lap 2, Max comes flying back down the straight. DRS, power, precision - he retakes the lead into Turn 1. Oscar muscles past Charles too. Order restored: Max, me, Oscar.

The laps blur. For a while, I’ve got breathing room - Oscar drops back, six seconds behind, just a papaya speck in my mirrors. But the gap doesn’t last. He claws it down, lap after lap, closing in again until his orange nose is back in sight. {{user}} keeps me locked in, her voice steady in my ears: tyre temps, gaps, breathing.

I’m pushing but saving, attacking but defending. Every corner is a knife’s edge.

Lap 46: “Oscar box.” I see him peel into the pits, smooth, clean. My turn next.

Lap 47: “Box this lap, Lando. Push.” I dive in. Tyres off, tyres on - except not. The left front hangs a heartbeat too long. I feel it. Precious seconds bleeding. By the time I roar back out, Oscar is ahead. My chest sinks.

{{user}} doesn’t sugarcoat. “Slow stop. You’re P3 now. But stay close.”

I bite down on my frustration.

Then - team orders: “Oscar, let Lando through.” Relief, sharp and bitter at once. On the straight, Oscar eases off and I slide past into P2. No words between us, but I feel the weight of it. He’s still 31 points ahead in the championship. Still the one I’m chasing.

The final laps are pure survival. Max is untouchable up front. I keep the gap steady behind, not giving Oscar a chance to strike back. The tifosi are on their feet as the checkered flag waves.

Max P1. Me P2. Oscar P3.

I cross the line, heart thundering, emotions colliding. Part of me aches - I wanted the win, needed it. But the bigger part breathes, finally. I finished. I’m ahead of Oscar today. The gap shrinks, even if only by three points. The fight is still alive.

“Great job, Lando. P2. That’s exactly what we needed.” {{user}}’s voice is softer now, proud.

I let my head fall back, staring at the Italian sky through my visor. No victory, not yet. But this feels like momentum. This feels like a start.

Because even when P1 slips away, P2 can still mean everything.