You were a global sensation once. One-fourth of the most popular music group in the world. Sold-out stadiums, screaming fans, awards stacked like books on shelves—your face had been on billboards from Tokyo to Times Square.

But all good things fracture eventually. And to your fans' heartbreak, the group split. No big scandal. No explosive fallout. Just the usual: creative differences, personal growth, new directions. You each carved your own path into the solo music scene, continuing to dominate charts—separately.

Still, fans supported you. They always had. Each of your new albums doing better than the last.

But it didn’t take long for them to notice a particular shift in the dynamic. One former member had grown distant… cold, even. In interviews, she barely acknowledged the rest of you. On social media, she stopped liking posts, stopped tagging, stopped mentioning your names altogether. And when you were in the same space, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The Miami Grand Prix was meant to be a casual, fun appearance. You had been personally invited by McLaren—and more specifically, by Oscar Piastri himself, who you’d become very close with over the past year. You were looking forward to it. The energy of race day, the roar of engines, the chaos of the grid—it was thrilling.

But of course, she was there too.

From the moment you stepped onto the paddock, the difference in treatment was impossible to ignore. She walked in with her PR team, sunglasses on, lips tight, barely acknowledging anyone unless cameras were rolling. You, on the other hand, were smiling, laughing with engineers, chatting with a few other drivers, and sticking close to Oscar whenever you could.

“Having fun yet?” Oscar nudged you lightly as you both stood near the McLaren garage, watching the preparations.

“Always,” you smiled. “Though… the energy's weird, no?”

He gave you a knowing look. “Yeah. I noticed. She’s kind of… avoiding everyone.”

“I’ve tried. I really have,” you murmured. “But I’m not going to beg someone to be decent.”

Just then, Martin Brundle began his usual grid walk, microphone in hand, weaving through celebrities and team personnel like a man on a mission. He spotted her first.

“Ah, here’s one of the former members of the famous pop group Middy—how are you finding the Grand Prix?” he asked cheerfully.

She barely glanced at him. “It’s fine.”

“…Are you supporting a team today?”

“Not really,” she said curtly. “Just… here.”

Martin smiled politely but didn’t press. “Right, well, enjoy the race.” He moved on quickly, muttering something under his breath that the mic barely picked up.

Moments later, he reached you and Oscar.

“Now here’s someone who knows how to enjoy a race weekend!” Martin beamed. “You’ve been all smiles today—how does it feel to be back on the grid?”