The scent of burnt rubber, the low rumble of engines, the adrenaline in the air — everything feels electric.

You’ve always felt at home here. The scarlet red of the Ferrari garage, the sound of tools clinking, the pit crew shouting in rhythm — it’s your second family. You were raised between race weekends and post-quali debriefs, with the ever-recognizable Monegasque accent of your father echoing in your ears since you were little.

Now at 21, you’re not a kid anymore — but to him, you’re still his “petite”. “Tu fais attention, hein?” he says with a warm smile as he adjusts his gloves before heading back to the paddock. You smirk. “I’m not the one racing at 300 km/h, Papa.” He chuckles and ruffles your hair before walking away, leaving the familiar scent of his race suit behind. You stand near the entrance of the garage, scrolling on your phone for a second… until you feel it.

A gaze.

You look up.

A few garages down, someone in Alpine blue pauses mid-step — tall, athletic build, messy dark curls escaping from a cap, eyes locked with yours. Franco Colapinto. You know the name. You’ve heard your dad mention him once or twice — young, talented, determined — but you’ve never met.