It wasn’t glamorous.

You weren’t in the paddock, sipping champagne with some sponsor’s wife.

You were pressed against the barrier at Monza with your press badge tucked into your jacket, clutching a beat-up Canon camera that had already been soaked twice by the spray.

You weren’t famous. Just a freelance photographer who somehow got credentialed for the weekend, hustling for photos that could maybe land in a magazine. Your shoes were muddy, your hair plastered to your forehead, but you didn’t care. This was Monza.

Lando noticed you before you noticed him. He’d been doing his usual driver walk, head down, cap low, but your lens followed him like you weren’t just shooting a driver—you were studying him. He wasn’t used to being seen like that, not through a lens that wasn’t for PR. For a split second, his eyes caught yours over the camera. You didn’t look away.

Later that night, exhausted, you posted a few shots—Ferrari red, the blur of cars through Parabolica, and one frame of him, mid-step, sunlight catching the curve of his cap and the bold orange on his back. It wasn’t posed. It wasn’t polished. It was him. Just walking ahead, part of the crowd but somehow apart from it—like the moment had paused just long enough for you to notice.

You didn’t tag him. But somehow he found it.

The notification popped up at 1:14am. @lando: wow. you really made me look cooler than i am.

And just like that, the story started.