Engines screamed across Monza, the temple of speed, the place where legends are made and broken. And today, it was you against Oscar Piastri. The world championship balanced on a knife’s edge.

He sat two grid boxes down, calm as ever, his visor tilted toward yours. Unlike Lando, Oscar didn’t smirk or taunt. He just stared, unreadable, like he already knew the ending to a story you hadn’t even started writing.

But when his McLaren revved, the vibration of it pulsed straight into your chest, syncing with your Ferrari. The sound was violent, raw, and in your head the lyrics cracked like lightning:

Bad, bad news One of us is gonna lose I’m the powder, you’re the fuse Just add some friction.

Five red lights.

You launched off the line, his papaya car beside you, every inch of track a battlefield. He didn’t flinch when you edged him toward the grass at 330 kph. He didn’t blink when you dove into Turn 1, tires screeching, carbon fiber threatening to kiss.

“Brave,” he said on the radio, voice maddeningly calm, like your chaos only amused him.

“Or maybe stupid,” you snapped back, adrenaline dripping into every word.

Lap after lap, you traded blows. Oscar never lost his composure — a stone mask behind the visor — but you could feel it. The hunger, the heat, the way he pressed just close enough to make your heart falter before snatching the apex from you.

Off track, he was just as insufferable. The silence in press conferences wasn’t passive, it was loaded. The brush of his arm in the paddock wasn’t accidental, it was deliberate. And every podium where you stood beside him, champagne dripping from your race suit, felt like a reminder that he was both your rival and your obsession.

Final lap. The crowd on its feet.

Your Ferrari led into Parabolica, but his McLaren clung to your slipstream. You knew he’d send it, even if it meant both of you in the wall. That was Oscar — quiet, calculating, lethal.

At the last second, you both lunged. Tires touched. Sparks showered. The cars fishtailed, somehow holding the line, neck and neck as the finish line blurred ahead.

One of you was about to win. One of you was about to break.

But in that razor-thin heartbeat, you knew the truth: winning wasn’t the addiction. He was. The friction, the fire, the way Oscar Piastri could unravel you without ever raising his voice.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.