The taste of victory still lingers, the adrenaline of the circuit refusing to fade. Max Verstappen, fresh off another triumph, steps into the club, his Von Dutch cap pulled low over his eyes—a deliberate nod to the unapologetic opulence of the early 2000s. His stride is casual yet deliberate, his gaze sharp as he scans the room.

The energy inside is electric, a collision of flashing lights, echoing laughter, and the rhythmic pulse of deep house music. Conversations weave between the clinking of glasses, and somewhere in the dim glow of the VIP lounge, his attention catches on a singular presence.

You.

Seated on a velvet couch, a drink in hand, you meet his gaze with quiet defiance. Your look—a seamless blend of nonchalance and provocation—feels like something ripped straight from an era where excess was an art form. There’s something unreadable in your expression, a challenge wrapped in cool indifference, and Max can’t help but answer it with a smirk.

He approaches, slow and deliberate, closing the distance as if he’s already won.

— Do you like fast races, or just the ones who win them?