The morning after Silverstone, Leo woke to chaos. His phone buzzed with hundreds of notifications: headlines, interviews, reposts, memes. He scrolled through in disbelief.
"LEO VS CRUZ: THE BATTLE THAT SHOOK SILVERSTONE""THE FEARLESS ROOKIE WHO HUMILIATED THE CHAMPION""F1 HAS A NEW KING?"
Every outlet had a version of the story. Slow-motion replays of his overtake were everywhere, dissected frame by frame by analysts and fans alike. Social media was ablaze, hashtags like #FearlessLeo and #SilverstoneShowdown trending worldwide.
He should have been happy. This was everything he dreamed of. But as he scrolled, he saw something darker.
"Reckless or Brilliant? Debate Over Leo's Dangerous Driving.""Sponsors Concerned Over Rising Star's Image.""Cruz Loyalists Claim Victory Stolen by Aggression."
The same race that made him a legend with fans was painting a target on his back in politics.
In the paddock, the storm brewed heavier. Cruz's camp leaked quotes to the press, calling Leo "unprofessional," "lucky," and "dangerous." Cruz himself gave a cold, carefully crafted interview:
"I race with precision. Others choose chaos. I'll let the results speak at the next race."
It was pure venom, coated in calmness, designed to make Leo look like a reckless child.
Meanwhile, the team's headquarters was in meltdown. The boardroom filled with tension — executives, sponsors, engineers, and managers all talking over one another.
"This kid is a social media goldmine!" one sponsor exclaimed, waving printouts of trending hashtags. "He's young, fearless, relatable. Fans adore him. He's exactly what Formula 1 needs."
Another sponsor cut in, face red with anger. "He's reckless. Our brand doesn't stand for chaos. We back champions, not gamblers. Cruz is still the face of this team."
Adrian sat quietly at the end of the table, arms crossed, listening. He knew this wasn't really about racing. It was about power, image, and money.
Finally, the team principal slammed a hand on the table. "We can't have two number ones. The internal war is tearing us apart. Either Leo falls in line, or we're headed for disaster."
Adrian's eyes narrowed. Disaster for who? he wondered.
Back in the hotel, Leo tried to shut it out. He sat on the bed, trophy by his side, scrolling through fan messages. Thousands of people thanking him, calling him their hero, saying he'd made them believe again. That was real. That was pure.
But he also knew Cruz wasn't done. He could feel the shadow looming.
The win had changed everything.
It made him a star.It made him a threat.And it put him right in the center of Formula 1's most dangerous game: politics.
The press conference that afternoon was a battlefield disguised as a stage. Bright lights burned overhead, rows of cameras pointed like rifles, and microphones waited to catch every word.
Leo sat between Cruz and the third-place finisher, hands folded on the table. He could feel Cruz's energy radiating beside him — cold, sharp, unrelenting.
The first question came immediately."Leo, do you think your overtake on Cruz was too aggressive? Some say it could have ended in disaster."
Leo straightened. He remembered Adrian's words: never defend, always own."I came here to race," he said firmly. "Fans don't want safe. They want heart. Yesterday, they got a fight worth remembering."
The reporters scribbled like mad. The room buzzed. But Cruz leaned into his microphone, voice calm, measured."Racing isn't about heart. It's about discipline. Championships are not won by wild risks. I prefer to keep all four wheels on track."
The crowd of journalists chuckled — some approving, others gasping at the jab. The war wasn't on the circuit now. It was here, in every word, every headline.
Later that night, in a private suite overlooking the circuit, sponsors gathered in secret. Wine glasses clinked, and voices rose over hushed conversations.
"He's a phenomenon," one brand director said, gesturing at a screen showing clips of Leo's overtake. "Our reach tripled overnight. He connects with the young market in a way Cruz never has."
A rival executive frowned. "He's uncontrollable. Today it's a daring move. Tomorrow it's a crash, and our logo is plastered over wreckage. Stability sells. Cruz sells."
Another chimed in, colder than the rest. "Then perhaps we don't need stability. Perhaps Formula 1 has grown stale. Leo is fire. Fire attracts."
They argued deep into the night, their words weaving a web of influence, money, and manipulation. Leo's victory had become a currency. Everyone wanted a piece — but no one wanted to give him control.
Meanwhile, Cruz's inner circle moved with quiet precision. His manager made phone calls to journalists, leaking private whispers about Leo's "recklessness." Anonymous team insiders spoke of his arrogance, his inability to work with engineers, his disregard for safety.
Headlines began to shift."Is Leo Too Dangerous for F1?""Sponsors Divided Over Rising Star."
It was classic Cruz — not an open attack, but a thousand cuts delivered in whispers.
Adrian saw it all coming. He paced the hotel room, phone buzzing non-stop, listening to reports. His fists clenched with each one.
"Damn it," he muttered. "They're going to crucify him. They can't beat him on track, so they'll bury him off it."
Leo sat quietly on the bed, scrolling through fan messages. He looked up at Adrian, eyes steady."Let them try. They can say whatever they want. When the lights go out, it's just me, the car, and the track. They can't touch that."
Adrian studied him for a long moment. He saw something Cruz didn't. Something no sponsor could spin away. Leo wasn't just fearless on track. He was unshakable off it too.
By the end of the week, the sport was split in two. Fans were on Leo's side — the roar of Silverstone still echoed around the world. But the power brokers, the sponsors, and Cruz's allies were sharpening their knives.
The next race wouldn't just be another battle for points.It would be a referendum on Leo's future.
And everyone — fans, media, sponsors, rivals — would be watching.
The headlines didn't stop. For every glowing tribute to his bravery, there were two more questioning his character. On talk shows, ex-drivers argued whether Leo's Silverstone move was genius or suicide. On social media, clips of Cruz's interview were replayed with captions like: "The voice of reason" or "Bitter veteran?" The world was splitting in two — and Leo was the fault line.
In one editorial, a respected journalist wrote:
"Leo Lastname is exactly what Formula 1 needs — passion, chaos, and heart. But he may also be exactly what the sport cannot survive."
The sentence burned into his mind.
At team headquarters, the tension cracked the walls. Executives shuffled papers, argued in tight, hissing voices. The room smelled of coffee, sweat, and fear.
"Leo is a global sensation," one marketing director said, her voice trembling with excitement. "Our engagement numbers doubled. Kids are wearing his number. We'd be fools not to capitalize."
Another slammed his fist down. "And risk Cruz walking? He is our legacy. Sponsors trust him. The board trusts him. If we alienate Cruz, we risk losing stability — and funding."
A third voice, calmer, more calculating, cut through: "Maybe we let the rivalry breathe. Fans love drama. Every time Leo and Cruz clash, numbers skyrocket. It doesn't matter who wins, as long as they fight."
A silence followed. No one said it out loud, but everyone thought it: maybe they didn't need Leo to win. Maybe they just needed him to bleed.
Behind the scenes, Cruz's people fed that idea. His manager held court with journalists in expensive restaurants, whispering over wine.
"Leo is dangerous. He doesn't listen to engineers. He ignores safety briefings. He's lucky, not skilled. One crash — one fatal mistake — and the blood will be on the team's hands."
The reporters nodded, their pens scratching like knives on paper. By morning, the rumors had shape, headlines dripping with poison:
"Is Leo's Recklessness a Time Bomb?""Inside Sources Say Rookie Refuses to Follow Orders.""Cruz: I Won't Race Dirty, No Matter the Cost."
The empire was moving, subtle and ruthless.
Leo read none of it. Adrian made sure of that. He hid the papers, switched off the hotel TV, even took Leo's phone at times.
But word still found its way in. Engineers whispered in corridors. Fans sent him screenshots. Every glance in the paddock felt heavier, colder.
One night, Leo stood on the hotel balcony, the Silverstone trophy glinting beside him. The city lights stretched into the horizon, and the noise of distant traffic drifted up like a low hum.
Adrian joined him, leaning on the railing."They're coming for you, kid," he said quietly. "Not just Cruz. The whole machine. They'll twist every move, every word. You won Silverstone, but out here? Out here, they'll try to break you."
Leo didn't look away from the skyline. "Then let them try. They can't break what doesn't bend."
Adrian smiled faintly, though his eyes carried the weight of war.
By the end of the week, the picture was clear:
Fans adored him, chanting his name louder than Cruz's at every circuit.
Sponsors were split, some seeing gold, others seeing risk.
The team was fractured, engineers choosing sides like soldiers before a battle.
Leo was no longer just a rookie.He was a symbol. A weapon. A threat.
And everyone had decided he was worth fighting over.