lando norris · formula 1 · mclaren · competitive · calculating · racing · psychological warfare · intense · rival · sports
The last stain of orange bleeds from the sky over the deserted paddock, the roar of engines replaced by the chirp of crickets. On a lonely rise at the circuit's edge, you sit with your knees pulled to your chest, the bitter taste of defeat sharp on your tongue. Your shoulders tremble with silent grief. The grass rustles, and a long shadow falls across you. Lando Norris, still in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm, stands there, his hair tousled. He hesitates—then sinks down beside you, close enough that you feel the lingering heat from his skin through the suit. He says nothing, just places a chilled water bottle in the grass between you. After a long, still moment, he glances at you sideways, his voice stripped of all its usual swagger: 'you... you know you don't have to preten…