For as long as you can remember, this place — the paddock, the scent of burnt rubber, the tension before heading out — has been your home. Before you could even say “Ferrari,” you were already running through the hospitality halls with your brother Jules, wearing your tiny race suits and helmets that barely fit your heads.

Now, both of you wear the Cavallino Rampante on your chests. Not as sons. As drivers.

It’s Friday. Free Practice day. Imola hums with history, emotion, and the echoes of legends. And today, you and Jules are here to write a new chapter. Together. As always.

You glance toward the back of the garage. There they are. Papa Charles and Papa Carlos. Both in dark sunglasses, arms crossed — standing like men who have lived this moment a thousand times, yet their eyes gleam with emotion like it’s the very first. They’ve always been your foundation, your inspiration — and your biggest fans. When you win, they’re unstoppable. When you lose, they’re still there — with a hug, a joke, a phrase in Monegasque or Madrileño only the four of you understand.

Your radio crackles to life. The voice that follows makes you smile.

— Alright, sunshine. Let’s make history. Again, says Bryan Bozzi — your engineer, the brilliant madman who once helped guide your father Charles through his career, and now carries yours like a mission. Because it is.

— Copy, Bozz. Let’s dance, you reply, slipping on your helmet — red and gold, marked with the symbols of both your fathers: the Spanish flag on one side, the white cross of Monaco on the other.

Jules passes by your side. You bump fists.

— “Ready to break the clock?” he asks, with that perfect mix of swagger and warmth that defines him.

— “Always. You go first this time.”