The hum of the jet engines buzzed beneath the soft ambiance of the cabin lights as Sukhman Singh leaned his head against the small window of the plane. Below, the night sky stretched in waves of darkness as the aircraft made its way from Valencia to São Paulo. But it wasn't the altitude that made his stomach turn. It was the lingering echo of last night's press conference.
His mind replayed it like a broken reel.
It had started off like any other post-race press session. Daan Vermer sat under the bright, clinical lights, his crisp but slightly rumpled team uniform still smelling faintly of burnt rubber and sweat. To the cameras, he looked tired but composed—another day, another race, another disappointing finish. Just outside the frame, his team principal Henrik Maes stood with arms crossed, jaw clenched.
A few reporters began the questioning politely enough.
"Daan, tough race out there today. What happened in the second stint when Omar passed you on Turn 13?"
Daan took a breath and answered in his usual calm tone. "Yeah, I didn't get the traction I needed on the exit. We were struggling with tire degradation more than expected, and by the time I saw Omar in my mirrors, there wasn't much to defend with. My engineer had told me to focus on tire conservation."
"Was it a setup issue?"
"Maybe. We'll review the data. The car felt twitchy under braking—could be suspension, could be tire pressure. It wasn't ideal."
The next question was less about racing and more about speculation. A reporter from a Dutch tabloid—one known for sensational headlines—leaned forward.
"Daan, your drop from P9 to P16 in the last 12 laps raised eyebrows. A few analysts and even local pundits have suggested—"
Henrik's eyes narrowed.
"—that you may have eased off intentionally. For money. A backdoor deal to let another driver pass, perhaps?"
Daan blinked. His jaw tightened.
"Are you asking if I threw my race?" he said, voice low.
The journalist didn't back down. "It's what people are saying. There are online posts. Former drivers have speculated. We're simply putting it on record."
Daan didn't respond at first. The microphone picked up his steady breathing. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
"Let me guess," he said quietly. "'Veteran Throws Race to Pay Off Debts' is what you'll run with tomorrow?"
There were murmurs in the room. The tone had changed.
Daan continued, the strain now seeping into his voice. "You want to talk performance? Fine. My car was two-tenths slower per lap from the mid-point. My rear-left tire was borderline overheating. We made a gamble, tried a one-stop strategy while others pitted early. It didn't pay off. That's racing."
The reporter pressed again. "But you have to admit, your form's been in freefall. Three DNFs last season. No points so far this year. People are asking—"
Daan leaned forward. "You think I don't ask myself those same questions? Every night? You think I don't lie awake wondering if I've passed my prime?"
He paused. The room held its breath.
Then, with a crack in his voice: "But what I don't do is lie to my daughter."
Silence.
"She's nine," Daan said, his voice quieter now. "Bright. Loves animals. Doesn't even watch the full races. Just the start and finish, to see if her papa waved at the camera."
The pause was heavier this time.
"She came home crying last week. The boys in her class called her 'the traitor's daughter.' Said I was a fraud. That I cheated."
He didn't look at the cameras now. He was staring into nothing. Like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
Daan's voice cracked. "How do you explain that to a child?"
Someone clicked a camera. Another reporter lowered their microphone out of respect. The room was no longer a press conference—it was a confessional.
"I've given twenty years to this sport," he said. "Raced through cracked ribs, through grief. My wife died five years ago. I raced a week later. I've done nothing but fight to stay relevant in a sport that doesn't wait for anyone."
His fingers curled into fists. "But now... now I'm not just washed-up. I'm the villain. Because you need a story."
He covered his face with one hand. His other hand trembled slightly.
That's when Henrik stepped up beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, speaking not to comfort, but to shield.
"Enough," Henrik said sharply.
Reporters stirred. The veteran principal, a man known for stoic silence, was now taking charge.
"This is a man who has bled for this sport. Who has carried our colors with pride. And now—what? He's to be crucified because he had a bad run? Because you want traffic on your sites?"
Henrik glared across the rows of reporters. "We will be filing a formal complaint with the IRC. Specific Dutch media outlets have crossed every line of professionalism and decency."
A young journalist in the front raised a hand. "Are you saying the media shouldn't ask questions about underperformance?"
Henrik didn't blink. "There's a difference between questions and accusations."
"But what about freedom of speech?" someone else interjected.
Henrik's eyes were ice-cold. "Freedom of speech doesn't give you the right to destroy a man's life. Especially without proof. What happened to ethics? To empathy?"
A hush followed.
The journalist from the tabloid tried once more. "So you're saying none of these rumors have merit? None at all?"
Henrik stepped forward, his voice now thundering. "You just watched a grown man break down because of the garbage you've been printing. What more do you want? Blood?"
Daan had quietly removed his mic. He stood, nodded faintly to the remaining respectful members of the press, and left the stage, Henrik following.
The moment had gone viral within minutes.
Social media exploded.
Clips of Daan's breakdown were trending on X. On Instagram, fans posted heartfelt messages with #StandWithDaan. Facebook groups began circulating both support and accusations. The noise was deafening.
And amidst it all, one tweet cut through.
From IRC Chairman Castalino Piere:
*"The balance between transparency, responsibility, and mental health is delicate. The IRC will address this publicly in São Paulo."
A diplomatic tweet. Polished. Neutral. But enough to fuel thousands more tweets.
---
What struck Sukhman most wasn't just the emotional toll. It was how quickly people—media, fans, even other drivers—could turn.
He pulled out his phone. His feed was exploding. Clips of the press conference were going viral. Some sympathetic. Many not. Memes. Edits. Hashtags: #DaanDeservesBetter, #DutchScandal, #IRCFail.
He shook his head. Somewhere in the madness, the line between human and headline had blurred.
---
Now, flying above the Atlantic, Sukhman couldn't get it out of his head.
He admired Daan. A lot of boys of his age had posters of him growing up. The man had been a symbol of elegant aggression, never the fastest in a straight line but always the smartest through corners.
He turned to look at the empty seat beside him. Most of the grid had been given individual seating. Even in the skies, drivers had space to themselves. Space to think. Maybe too much space.
Sukhman sighed.
At twenty five, he is still new to this world. Just a couple months into the Grand Prix circuit and already feeling its weight. And yet, nothing had prepared him for the emotional magnitude of last night. He thought the worst part of racing would be the tire degradation or the split-second overtakes. But this—this silent, unseen toll on one's family—this was something else entirely.
He reached into the seat pocket and pulled out a small notebook. His journal.
Entry - Over the Atlantic
"Daan's tears weren't weakness. They were truth. This sport isn't just speeds and stats. It's everything we carry behind the helmet. Our families. Our name. Our nation. Maybe the world needs to see us not as machines, but as people. Maybe I needed to see that too."
He stared at the entry for a long moment.
---
As the plane began to descend toward São Paulo, the early morning lights of the sprawling city twinkled like fireflies below. The air would be humid, he knew. The Interlagos circuit would be fast and unforgiving. But more than anything, the spotlight would burn hotter than usual. Castalino Piere's upcoming press conference had already been announced as the biggest media event since the season began.
The drivers would be there. The team principals. The journalists—and some of the very ones called out the night before.
And in the center of it all, Daan Vermer.
Sukhman exhaled.
The GP in Brazil hadn't even begun, and already, it felt like a battle had started.
But he would be ready.
Because some things—like respect, dignity, and truth—were bigger than the podium.