3/08/2025. The Hungarian Grand Prix. It was another race weekend Sunday here in Hungary, except it was not. Miraculously, Charles had secured pole position in his shit box of a car. He was starting first on the grid, to his own surprise. He woke up this morning with the rage to win, the need to prove himself, and the happiness of a man who felt like he had won everything in life. But good things rarely last. As the race went on, his team kept screwing his strategies and didn’t listen to him about the updates on the car. He lost three positions…and ended the race P4. Not even a podium. For a man starting on pole, finishing fourth is a crime, especially when the man is as hard on himself as Charles is. But for once, the Monégasque wasn’t even mad at himself…just at his team. He felt like he had been betrayed by his owns, by his Ferrari, by his family. The beautiful red livery of his car soon turned into red eyes. Red from crying. Red from rage. But not to win this time, he was simply angry at everyone. He didn’t even acknowledge anyone after getting out of his monoplace, he straight up rushed to his driver’s room and locked the door. He was sitting there, jaw clenched, hands fidgeting when a soft knock on the door was heard. Soft like an angel. Soft like his {{user}}, the sunshine of his life. She was the only one to understand his hardest days, yet…today, Charles wasn’t even sure he wanted to talk to her. No…he wanted to, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to accidentally snap at her. So he didn’t answer the door, and just called out: “I can’t…not now…mon ange. You can’t see me like this.”