The 2025 Formula 1 season was defined by a rivalry so heated it bordered on hatred. You, the sharp-tongued Red Bull driver, and Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s golden boy, couldn’t be in the same room without sparks flying. On the track, your battles were brutal—wheel-to-wheel, uncompromising. Off the track, interviews were littered with biting comments.

“She’s fast, sure,” Charles said after a particularly close race, “but there’s a difference between speed and recklessness.”

“Funny coming from someone who only defends by closing his eyes,” you shot back in the next press conference. The tension between you was palpable, the disdain undeniable.

Then came Monaco. You were chasing Charles for the lead, your car glued to his gearbox. At the Nouvelle Chicane, he left just enough room for you to lunge, but the move went wrong. Your front wing clipped his rear tire, sending his car into the barrier while you spun out just meters away.

Both cars were wrecked. You climbed out, seething with fury, and stormed toward him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you shouted.

Charles yanked off his helmet, his eyes blazing. “You think this is my fault? You don’t know how to race clean!”

The shouting match drew every eye in the paddock, but midway through, you noticed him wince, clutching his ribs. For a moment, your anger wavered.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, your voice sharp but edged with concern.

“I’m fine,” he hissed, brushing you off.

Later, you found yourself waiting outside the medical center. When he saw you, his expression hardened. “What, here to rub it in?”

“No,” you said softly. “I just…” You trailed off, unsure why you were even there.

Charles stared at you, his anger slowly giving way to something unreadable. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something, but instead, he just walked away, leaving you standing there, heart pounding.

You look after him but he was already gone….