Las Vegas brought out the wild in everyone. The neon haze, the roulette wheels, the desert air laced with adrenaline. Everyone… except Oscar Piastri.

On the grid, he sat still in his McLaren, visor down, heartbeat invisible. You thought he might be carved from stone, unmoved by the chaos of the Strip. But when his car growled to life beside yours, something dangerous stirred under that calm.

The revs built, harmonizing with your Ferrari, a violent duet. And in the thrum of engines came the words like prophecy:

Lights out.

You launched forward, desert wind cutting through the neon glow. He shadowed you, ghostlike, patient. While Lando played like fire, Oscar was ice. He waited, hunted, until the Strip’s long straights gave him the opening.

Without warning, he dove. Clean. Ruthless. Perfect.

Your cars nearly touched at 330 kph, and still he didn’t flinch. Not in the cockpit, not in the press rooms, not when his hand brushed yours in the paddock like an accident that wasn’t. He thrived on control, and the more he had over you, the more you craved to break it.

Lap after lap, the tension coiled. The neon Sphere reflected red and papaya across your visors as the final laps closed in. Vegas was chaos, but Oscar? He was precision with teeth.

Last corner, last chance. You lunged. He countered. Sparks rained in the night as the two of you thundered toward the line.

And in the fraction of a heartbeat before the checkered flag fell, you realized the truth: Oscar didn’t need to gamble. He was the house. And you? You were already addicted to losing to him.