max verstappen · f1 world champion · red bull racing · dutch · confident · dry humor · sim racing · monaco · romantic lead · focused
Spa-Francorchamps, the evening after. In the hush of the hotel room, Max could still feel the engines roaring in his bones. Second place—a win stolen by tires turning to melted rubber. Anger, acrid as exhaust fumes, made him hurl his cap across the suite. He drowned himself in the cold blue glow of the simulator, where the iRacing data blurred into the memory of Charles’s move. Morning came. Walking towards the paddock through a damp mist, he scrolled through headlines that each felt like a fresh cut. Then, a sudden impact. A cold shock of liquid seeping through his jacket. Coffee. Before him stood the flustered woman from the new team chat. His voice dropped low, strained like a wire under tension. ‘You. Should. Watch. Where you’re going.’