The boardroom smelled of leather and money. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, but no one was admiring the view. The long mahogany table was packed: executives, sponsor representatives, lawyers, team leadership. On the screen at the far end, clips of Silverstone looped over and over — Leo's daring move into Maggots, Cruz locking up, the checkered flag waving.
Every replay stoked the fire.
"Look at that!" the marketing director exclaimed, pointing at Leo's overtake. "That single moment generated twenty million views in twenty-four hours. Twenty million! He's a phenomenon. A new generation's hero."
"He's a liability," the operations chief snapped. "One mistake and we're bankrupt. Cruz doesn't take unnecessary risks. He delivers championships. He delivers stability."
"Stability doesn't trend!"
"Trends don't win titles!"
The shouting rose, voices overlapping. The room was splitting just like the sport itself.
Finally, the team principal, a man with silver hair and a voice like gravel, slammed his hand down. The room fell silent.
"Enough. The board is watching. The sponsors are restless. This team cannot serve two kings. We will decide who leads us."
His words hung in the air like smoke. Cruz's allies leaned back in their chairs, confident. Leo's supporters looked nervous but defiant.
The political war had a battleground now.
Cruz arrived late, as always. Tailored suit, calm smile, calculated presence. He greeted each sponsor personally, shook hands, whispered reassurances. He played the part of the champion perfectly.
Then he sat, glanced at the looping replay of Silverstone, and let out the faintest laugh.
"Entertaining," he said, his voice smooth. "But entertainment doesn't win championships. This team deserves better than chaos. Our sponsors deserve better."
His words slid through the room like a knife. Heads nodded. Notes were scribbled. Cameras recorded.
Leo wasn't invited. He was across the city, stuck in a PR event, shaking hands with fans while the real war raged behind closed doors. But Adrian was there, watching from the shadows, reading every move.
When his turn came to speak, Adrian stood. He didn't smile. He didn't charm. He leaned on the table, his voice low but steady.
"You all saw Silverstone. You all saw the reaction. Cruz may be the past, but Leo? Leo is the future. The people love him. You can spin headlines, you can plant whispers, but you can't stop the roar of a crowd. Ignore that, and you're not just backing the wrong driver. You're backing extinction."
The room erupted again, half in applause, half in outrage.
By the end of the meeting, nothing was decided. But everything was clear.
Lines were drawn.Alliances were forged.The war had begun.
Sponsors sent emails overnight, demanding answers. Engineers whispered in corners about who would get Leo's setup data and who wouldn't. Journalists received leaks from both sides, headlines sharpened like blades.
The team wasn't a team anymore. It was two armies wearing the same colors.
That night, Cruz stood on his balcony, overlooking the glittering city. His manager handed him a glass of wine.
"They're divided," Cruz said softly, almost to himself. "Good. Divide them enough, and Leo will be crushed between them."
Meanwhile, across town, Leo sat in his hotel room, trophy on the table, phone buzzing nonstop with headlines he didn't read. Adrian sat opposite him, silent.
Finally, Leo looked up. His voice was quiet but sharp.
"They want a war? Fine. But I won't fight it their way. I'll fight it on track."
Adrian smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed hard. "Then we make sure you win — no matter what games they play off it."
The boardroom battle didn't end when the meeting adjourned. It spilled into hallways, private dinners, encrypted calls. Every sponsor representative left with their own agenda, their own spin. By midnight, the whispers were louder than the official statements.
One leaked memo circulated among journalists:
"Leo is a media sensation, but high risk. Recommend prioritizing Cruz for championship strategy."
Another, from a rival sponsor:
"Leo connects with youth markets. Backing him secures long-term visibility. Consider phasing Cruz into a secondary role."
The war wasn't about racing anymore. It was about money.
Inside the factory, the split deepened. Engineers who once shared data freely now held files back. Two groups formed, almost openly: the "Cruz camp," with their decades of experience and loyalty to the champion, and the "Leo camp," younger, hungrier, excited by the new blood.
Leo noticed it in small ways. A mechanic who once smiled at him now avoided eye contact. An engineer explained a setup adjustment in clipped tones, then walked away to join Cruz's crew. It was still polite, still professional — but the tension was in every gesture, every silence.
And sometimes, the sabotage wasn't subtle.In practice simulations, his car mysteriously ran with outdated components. Tire allocations were mixed up. Once, his lap times were "accidentally" left off the official sheet that went to the media.
It was death by a thousand cuts.
Cruz thrived in it. He gave flawless interviews, calm and dignified, painting himself as the responsible veteran in contrast to Leo's fiery recklessness. Every headline he fed the press was another nail hammered into Leo's coffin.
"Leo is fast, no question," Cruz told one journalist, smiling faintly. "But speed is only one part of Formula 1. Discipline, consistency, teamwork — that's what makes a champion. And I fear he still has much to learn."
The words spread everywhere, echoing in newsrooms, plastered across websites. Discipline. Consistency. Teamwork. Words Leo didn't have yet — or so they said.
Adrian stormed into the office of the team principal one evening, his voice a thunderclap.
"You're letting this team tear itself apart," he snapped. "Do you want a civil war in your garage? Because that's what this is. You either back Leo, or you lose him — and with him, the future."
The principal leaned back in his chair, eyes weary, fingers steepled."You don't understand, Adrian. This isn't about the future. It's about control. The sponsors pay. They decide. And right now, they don't trust your boy."
Adrian's jaw clenched. "Then maybe it's time they learned trust the hard way — on track."
That night, Leo sat alone with the Silverstone replay, watching himself dive inside Cruz, the crowd erupting. He felt the weight of the politics pressing in — the sponsors, the leaks, the whispers — but he refused to let it drown him.
He pressed pause, the image freezing on the moment his car edged ahead of Cruz's. He leaned back, whispering to himself.
"They can fight in their boardrooms. I'll fight here."