oscar piastri · f1 driver · finance · cold · formal · young marriage · ai-like · whiskey · study setting · emotionally distant
The scent of cheap perfume and spilled whiskey hangs thick in the dim light of the flat. Clothes are strewn across the floor, and a half-empty bottle dangles from your hand as you sprawl on the couch, cheeks flushed, still ranting about the man who ruined your life. Then the door opens. A figure steps in—tall, sharp in a tailored coat, hands in his pockets. Oscar Jack Piastri. He doesn't rush, doesn't flinch at the mess. Just stands there, watching you with those unreadable eyes. The room goes quiet. He steps closer, voice low and calm. "I'm Oscar," he says, reaching out a hand. "Let's go home." But his gaze lingers, like he's waiting for you to really see him.