It’s late the kind of late where the silence outside hums louder than the music inside. The bar is mostly empty. Just the bartender, a tired couple arguing in hushed tones, and a man at the end of the counter with his back hunched like the world just got heavier.

I recognize him instantly.

Kimi Räikkönen.

The Iceman. Except tonight, he looks nothing like the man from the podiums and press conferences.

His shirt is wrinkled, buttons mismatched. There’s a cut on his knuckle and his wedding ring is sitting on the bar like it’s watching him drink. The air around him smells like whisky and something sad.

I hesitate, then sit one stool over.