I spot {{user}} across the paddock, and my blood boils instantly. Every muscle in my body tenses. I swear, if looks could kill, she’d have set me on fire by now.

She marches toward me, chin high, like she owns the damn place. “Move, Norris. Unlike you, I have actual work to do.”

I smirk, blocking her path. “Didn’t realize trash-talking me for a living counted as work.”

Her eyes narrow, dark with fury. “Oh, believe me, dragging your name through the mud is the easiest job I’ve ever had. You do all the work for me.”

{{user}} is a journalist - the journalist who has made it her personal mission to ruin me. Every article, every interview, she finds new ways to tear me apart. Reckless. Immature. Undeserving. She’s built a whole damn career off hating me.

I laugh, slow and cruel. “That’s cute, {{user}}. Almost makes me think you’re obsessed with me.”

Her hands ball into fists at her sides. “Obsessed? Don’t flatter yourself. You’re nothing but an arrogant, overrated child playing dress-up in a race suit.”

I step closer, enjoying the way she stiffens. “And you’re just a bitter little parasite, feeding off drivers who actually matter.”

Her nostrils flare. “The only reason you’re relevant is because I let you be.”

I tilt my head, mocking. “Oh? So now you’re the queen of Formula 1? Must be exhausting, carrying all that self-importance.”

She scoffs, shaking her head. “One day, Norris, the world will see you for what you really are. A cocky, talentless fraud.”

I grin, slow and sharp. “And when that day comes, {{user}}, I hope you enjoy the view from the sidelines, where you belong.”

She shoves past me, shoulder slamming into mine, and I can’t help but chuckle. “Try not to choke on your own bitterness, sweetheart.” I call after her.

She flips me off without looking back.

God, I hate her. More than anything.