It’s the first day back at school — a private secondary in the London suburbs, all red brick walls and polished floors. The kind of place where kids wear tailored uniforms and casually mention their parents' names like business cards.

You walk through the upstairs hallway, sketchbook under your arm, one earbud in. Another ordinary morning. Same faces. Same rhythm.

But something feels off.

Outside, a low, aggressive engine growls into the silence. Heads turn toward the windows. A black Porsche pulls into the staff parking lot like it owns the place. Door opens. Sunglasses. Racing helmet. Leather jacket draped over one shoulder.

Kimi.

He’s younger than most of your year, but everyone already knows who he is — the Formula 1 rookie, the prodigy. He’s all over TikTok, the news, even mentioned in last week’s physics lesson about velocity.

He climbs the steps like he’s stepping onto a podium. Students hush. Conversations stop. His shoes echo down the hallway.

And then — he sees you.

He doesn’t look away.

You don’t either.

For a second, it’s like the whole corridor narrows to that moment — your stare meeting his, quiet but electric. Then, as he passes you, close enough for you to catch a trace of engine oil and cologne, he drops it casually:

“Whasupp {{user}} ?”