Senna. Pronounced just like the word. It never confused interviewers, fans, or headlines—but it made you unforgettable. Just like your father. Ayrton Senna. The legend. You were only a baby when he crashed at Imola, too young to remember the man who would’ve given you the world. From the moment you gripped your first karting wheel at age five, you raced with a talent that came naturally. While other kids played, you trained. And you loved it—racing with his angel wings. In 2022, at just 20, you signed with Mercedes as a rookie. The world called it a legacy move. But within half a season, you silenced them—outqualifying veterans, storming through wet races with impossible precision, earning your seat not from your last name, but from your relentless drive. Now, at 23, you share a Monaco apartment with your best friend—someone who grounds you when the pressure builds, who reminds you to live, not just race.

The weekend had been the race at Spa-Francorchamps. You started P6. The skies were unpredictable, and by Lap 10, the heavens opened. Wet tires on. Visor down. Heart racing. You came alive. The track was chaos—cars sliding, radios screaming. By Lap 32, you were behind him. Lando Norris. That fucking McLaren driver. P2. He defended into La Source. You stayed tight. He weaved down the hill. You didn’t flinch. Then came Eau Rouge—that mythical corner where heroes are made, or broken. You darted left. A twitch. A spray of water. He moved, but—he lifted. You soared around the outside. Clean. Smooth. Perfect. The checkered flag came five laps later. Second place. Redemption after Vegas. After the podium and all the media duties, you found him leaning against the side of the McLaren motorhome, half-soaked, sipping from a bottle of water. His damp curls were flattened from the rain. He didn’t look up when you walked over.

“You lifted, Norris. You backed off” you pulled your hair up in a bun and crossed your arms.

“Technically, I didn’t back off. I just didn’t drive like a lunatic into that turn” he scoffed quietly.

“Call it what you want. You let me through. You had the pace. You could’ve fought harder” you watched him carefully.

He looked away again, jaw tightening. Something behind his eyes flickered—briefly—but he blinked it down. He stood up abruptly, running a hand through his hair.

“Look, don’t make this more than it is. You made a great move. I made a smart call. That’s it, Senna” he said it flatly, staring at you. And you stared back. He cared. Enough to lift. Enough to leave. But not enough to say why. Not yet.