The week after Monza should have been the brightest of Leo's life. Two wins. Headlines screaming his name. Sponsors clawing for a chance to plaster his face on billboards. But something about it all felt wrong. Too heavy. Too loud.
He saw it first in the whispers. Mechanics in the garage, pausing their work when he walked past. Engineers hunched together over laptops, voices dropping when he approached. When he asked questions, the answers were clipped, vague.
Adrian noticed it too. "The air's changing," he muttered one evening, standing with Leo in the corner of the paddock. "It smells like smoke."
And then the fire showed itself.
A headline broke on Thursday: ROOKIE LEO UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR UNSPORTSMANLIKE CONDUCT.
Leo read it twice, three times, heart hammering. The article accused him of dangerous maneuvers in Monza, suggesting he had caused Cruz's spin. Quotes from "anonymous insiders" painted him as reckless, arrogant, even dangerous to his fellow drivers.
He slammed the laptop shut, bile rising in his throat. "This is—this is bullshit!"
Adrian didn't even flinch. "This is Cruz."
The realization hit like a punch. Of course. Cruz didn't need the truth. He just needed doubt. One planted rumor, one poisoned story, and suddenly Leo wasn't the hero anymore. He was the villain.
The next day, the media frenzy erupted. Cameras flashed in his face, reporters barking questions.
"Leo, do you regret forcing Cruz off track?""Are you worried the FIA could strip your win?""Is it true the team had to pay off fines on your behalf?"
He froze, stunned, words tumbling in his mouth. The story was lies, all of it, but in the spotlight, denial sounded weak. Cruz, meanwhile, played the part of the wounded veteran perfectly.
"I don't want to accuse anyone," Cruz told reporters, voice low, eyes sad. "But sometimes young drivers don't understand the risks they take. I just hope the FIA makes the right call to protect all of us."
The world ate it up.
Inside the team, the pressure boiled over. Javier argued with engineers, demanding they defend Leo. But the sponsors were uneasy. "He's unpredictable," one said. "Cruz has the charisma, the polish. He's safer for the brand."
Safer. The word dug into Leo's ribs like a knife. Was that all he was now? Unsafe? A liability?
That night, he cornered Javier in the garage. "They don't trust me, do they?"
Javier sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "They trust the results. But results aren't always enough. Sponsors, politics—they care about the story. Cruz knows how to tell it. You don't."
Leo's fists clenched. "I'm not here to tell stories. I'm here to race."
Javier's eyes were full of pity. "And that's exactly why they'll try to eat you alive."
The next morning, Leo's car refused to start during practice. The mechanics scrambled, shouting, hands deep inside the engine bay. Minutes passed, precious track time slipping away.
When they finally fired it up, Leo went out—only to find the setup completely off. The steering pulled left, the brakes felt spongy. By the time they fixed it, the session was over.
He stormed back into the garage, helmet still on. "What happened out there?"
The lead engineer stammered something about a "calibration error," but Leo saw the way their eyes flicked toward Cruz's side of the garage, then away.
Sabotage. It wasn't proof, but it was written all over their faces.
Adrian grabbed his arm before he could shout. "Not here. Not now. That's exactly what he wants—your anger, your outburst, your self-destruction."
Leo ripped the helmet off, chest heaving. "How the hell do I fight this?"
Adrian's voice dropped, calm and deadly serious. "You don't fight it in their game. You fight it in yours. On the track. Every lap, every corner, you remind them who you are. If Cruz wants to drag you into shadows, you drag him into the light."
Qualifying day. The track was electric, the grandstands packed, the tension unbearable. Cruz's car gleamed under the sun, every sponsor logo shining. Leo's car felt heavy, patched together, but his hands on the wheel burned with determination.
Lap after lap, he pushed harder, chasing tenths, ignoring the whispers, the headlines, the sabotage. He wrung the car for everything it had, tires screaming, engine howling.
When the times were posted, Cruz had pole. Leo was fourth.
But the gap was small. Smaller than anyone expected, after everything. And as Cruz celebrated for the cameras, throwing that practiced grin, Leo looked straight at him, eyes unblinking, unbroken.
Because the race was tomorrow.
And tomorrow, there would be no shadows.
The day before the race, Leo was awake long before the sun cracked over the horizon. The paddock was quiet, the world still holding its breath, waiting for the next spectacle to begin. But Leo wasn't waiting for a show. He wasn't waiting for the cameras, the sponsors, the interviews.
He was waiting for the track.
This was the one place that still felt like his. Where the noise faded, the pressure disappeared, and it was just him and the car. But even now, as he stood at the edge of the garage, staring at the machine that had carried him through the highs and the lows, doubt crept in.
Cruz had gotten under his skin. It wasn't just the sabotage, the whispers, or the way his name had been dragged through the mud. It was the psychological games. Cruz's cold, calculated attack had hit harder than any on-track move. He had made Leo question himself.
And that was what terrified him most.
But Adrian found him just before the engines roared to life. He didn't say anything at first, just stood beside Leo, staring at the car with the same quiet intensity.
"Did you sleep?" Adrian finally asked.
Leo nodded, though the truth hung between them. "I tried."
"Cruz is in your head, and that's exactly what he wants," Adrian said, voice low, like he was talking about a disease. "But you've got to remember — this is just a race. It's nothing more than that. Don't let him turn it into a war. Keep it simple. Keep it yours."
Leo turned to face him, feeling the weight of the words. Adrian's eyes were sharp, his stance wide, like a warrior preparing for battle. But there was something more in his gaze: a quiet confidence, built from years of battles fought and lost. And won.
"You know how to win," Adrian continued. "You've already done it twice. Now do it again."
The race weekend had come down to this moment. The pre-race rituals felt familiar, but every one of them felt like a lie, as if the world were trying to cover up the truth that Leo's victory was still fragile.
On the grid, the energy was electric. Fans were chanting, waving flags, and the heat of competition hung in the air. The engines roared to life, the sound vibrating through Leo's chest, and as he pulled into his starting position, he could feel his pulse syncing with the rhythm of the car.
Across the grid, Cruz stood beside his car, giving the cameras his usual smile. But Leo saw the tension in the set of his shoulders, the slight twitch in his fingers. Cruz was feeling the pressure too.
Leo glanced down at the steering wheel. The familiar grip, the buttons, the paddles — all of it felt like a promise. He wasn't just racing for a win. He was racing to prove that he wasn't going to break. That he wouldn't be crushed by the weight of everything that was pressing down on him.
The lights blinked on, one by one.
Five seconds.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Lights out.
The roar of the engine rattled Leo's bones as the field surged forward. His car leapt off the line, tires biting into the track, and for a moment, he felt the world shrink. This was it. This was his moment to show that the fire inside him wasn't just a spark.
By the first turn, he was already in fourth. Cruz led, as expected, but Bianchi was hot on his heels, and Leo wasn't far behind. He attacked, diving into corners, threading through the chaos. Every time Cruz blocked, Leo found a way around, outsmarting him, taking every opportunity.
Lap after lap, the race unfolded in front of him like a living thing. Every turn was a decision, every inch of the track a battle. He could feel the sweat on his palms, his heart racing in sync with the car. But this time, there was no fear. There was no hesitation. Just the raw thrill of racing.
But Cruz wasn't giving up. Not without a fight.
On Lap 25, the rain began to fall. Light at first, then heavier, turning the track into a slick, dangerous mess. The cars skittered across the surface, sliding, struggling for grip. It was a nightmare waiting to happen.
The safety car came out. The yellow flags waved, slowing the field down, but the tension only built. As Leo pulled into line behind the safety car, his mind raced. This was Cruz's chance. He was biding his time, waiting for the restart to strike.
The race resumed.
Leo's car felt alive under him, every corner demanding his full attention. He was in third, but Bianchi was still ahead, and Cruz was waiting for his moment.
The rain had turned the track into a slick battleground. At high speeds, even the slightest mistake could send them into the barriers. And Cruz, Leo knew, was a master of exploiting mistakes.
On Lap 35, the moment came. Cruz dived down the inside, throwing everything he had at Leo. For a heartbeat, they were side by side, racing down the straight, wheels brushing. Cruz's car slid, and for a split second, Leo thought he was done for. Cruz would take him out.
But Leo didn't flinch. He braked late, cut the corner, and held the line. Cruz had made the mistake. His car skidded wide, tires locking in the wet conditions. Leo was past him. He didn't look back.
And then, just as quickly, Leo was in second.
He saw Bianchi ahead, pulling away, but Leo wasn't done yet. His car was alive, responding to his every command, his every breath. This was it. He could taste the win.
But the battle was far from over. Cruz wasn't going to let this go.
On the final lap, Cruz launched one last attack, coming from behind with everything he had. His car surged forward in a desperate bid to retake second place. They raced down the straight, side by side again, but Leo didn't give in. He defended with everything he had, holding off Cruz's relentless charge.
And then it happened. The final corner.
Leo saw the line, heard the engines scream, felt the car slip just a little too far. The last corner. The one that had haunted him at Silverstone.
But this time, he didn't panic. He trusted the car. He trusted himself.
He crossed the line.
Second place.
The crowd erupted. The pit wall screamed in celebration, and for the first time, Leo allowed himself to smile. He had done it. He had survived the storm, the sabotage, the mind games.
Cruz finished third, eyes cold, expression tight with frustration. Leo stood at the podium, soaking in the cheers, the noise, the victory. It wasn't a win, but it was damn close. And it was a victory over everything that had been thrown his way.
But as he lifted the trophy in his hands, he couldn't shake the feeling that the real fight was still ahead. Cruz had shown his hand. But Leo had learned to play the game. And now, it was time to prove he wasn't just a rookie — he was a champion in the making.
The roar of the crowd faded as he stood tall, eyes locked on the track. The battle for the crown had just begun.