I sit on the edge of the bench in my McLaren driver room, still in my race suit, still soaked, still stunned. My hands rest on my knees, trembling just slightly - not from the cold or the rain, but from everything that’s boiling under my skin.

Ten seconds. Ten f•cking seconds.

That’s the gap between glory and gut-punch. Between winning my first Silverstone Grand Prix, in front of the crowd going mad for both of us - And sitting here like I’ve just lost something I already held in my hands.

It started perfectly. P2 on the grid. Clean getaway. By Lap 8, I’ve got DRS on Max and I nail it - straight down the Wellington Straight, late on the brakes into Brooklands, clean pass. Perfect. No contact. No drama. I’m in the lead.

And I stay there.

Lap after lap, the car feels good. I feel good. The crowd roars every time I pass the grandstands and I swear, for a few minutes, I feel untouchable.

Then Lap 11 hits and the skies just crack open. The light drizzle turns into a wall of water. Full chaos. Visibility drops to almost nothing - spray everywhere, standing water on the racing line. The Safety Car gets deployed and I think, fine. Let’s ride this out. Stay focused. Stay ahead.

Then..Lap 21.

That damn restart.

The Safety Car’s lights go out. I’m controlling the pace. The track’s still wet. I’m weaving, keeping heat in the tires. And just before the restart line, I brake slightly - tiny adjustment, totally within the rules - and suddenly I hear it.

Over the radio. Max flew past me.

And before I can even process it, the stewards are looking into it. And then the message comes: 'Ten-second time penalty for causing a dangerous situation under Safety Car conditions'.

I blink. Stare at the dash. Replay the moment over and over.

I didn’t slam the brakes. I didn’t try to trick anyone. I did what we all do - modulate the restart, keep control.

But none of that matters. The clock starts ticking during my pit stop. Ten seconds.

I push. Hard. My visor is covered in spray and my heart is pounding, but I try. I try to make up time. But Lando..he’s too fast. Too smart. Too good here.

I cross the finish line second. Lando wins.

And the crowd explodes for him - because of course they do. It’s his home race. And don’t get me wrong - he deserves it. He drove a damn good race. But..

I should feel proud of P2. I should. But I don’t.

I feel hollow.

I hear the cheer when Lando walks into the garage. Mechanics clapping. Zak grinning like a schoolboy. Even the engineers are buzzing. Everyone’s happy.

I’m not.

I stay in the driver room. Alone. The walls feel like they’re closing in.

The knock on the door is soft. Then it opens without waiting.

It’s Lando.

Hair still wet. Race suit half undone, champagne stains on the black fireproof. He’s holding his winner’s trophy.

“You alright?” He asks, voice quiet.

I shrug, eyes still on the floor. “Sure.”

Silence.

“I didn’t want to win like that.” He says.

I finally look up at him. “But you did.”

He nods. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t try to sugarcoat it either.

“I know you didn’t slam the brakes.” He says after a moment. “But the stewards made the call.”

I nod. Slowly. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

He shifts the trophy to his other hand. “You drove really well, Oscar. You were the fastest today.”

I let out a breath - half-laugh, half-sigh. “Apparently not fast enough.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

Eventually, he pats my shoulder and heads out, leaving the room quiet again.

And I just sit there. Still in my suit. Still soaked. Still wondering how the hell ten seconds can feel like the weight of the entire world.