The hotel room was quiet, but Leo's mind wasn't. The curtains were drawn, the city outside buzzing with lights and life, but he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. The Silverstone trophy gleamed on the nightstand, catching the soft glow of the lamp, but even that victory felt like it belonged to someone else now.
The noise of the world hadn't stopped since the checkered flag. Cameras, interviews, headlines, praise, criticism. Everyone had an opinion, everyone had an angle. Leo barely recognized his own story anymore. It had been sliced apart, rewritten, spun into a thousand narratives he didn't control.
Some nights he wanted to scream. Other nights he wanted to disappear.
But tonight, he just sat in silence.
He thought of his childhood — watching races on a flickering TV, dreaming of one day feeling the roar of the engine in his chest. Back then it was pure. Racing wasn't politics, it wasn't sponsors, it wasn't image. It was freedom. It was the sound of speed, the feeling of being untouchable when the world blurred around him.
Where had that gone?
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The system wanted him to bend, to become a polished puppet. Cruz was perfect for that role: clean, controlled, marketable. Leo was chaos. Fire. Unpredictable. And fire scared people.
But fire also drew them in.
He remembered Silverstone. The rain, the spray, the crowd roaring as he dove inside Cruz, the impossible move becoming real in one heartbeat. That was him. That was racing. That was truth.
And truth didn't need permission.
The pressure felt heavier each day. Some engineers looked at him like a liability. The media painted him as a ticking time bomb. Even within the team, whispers floated: Leo doesn't listen. Leo doesn't respect strategy. Leo is dangerous.
He let the words burn through him. At first they hurt. Now they hardened him.
He wasn't dangerous because he ignored the rules. He was dangerous because he refused to let the rules chain him.
Adrian knocked lightly and stepped into the room. He carried two coffees, set one down beside Leo, and sat across from him. For a long time, neither spoke. They didn't need to. Adrian could read the storm in Leo's eyes.
Finally, Leo broke the silence."They're trying to bury me, Adrian. Every headline, every whisper, every look in the garage. They don't want me here."
Adrian leaned forward, his voice low."No, kid. They're afraid of you. There's a difference. They know you've got something they can't control. That scares the hell out of them. That's why they're fighting so hard."
Leo looked down at the coffee, steam curling upward like smoke from a battlefield. He spoke softly, almost to himself."Sometimes I wonder if I'm strong enough."
Adrian's eyes didn't waver. "You are. But strength isn't about pretending you're not scared. It's about driving anyway. You proved that at Silverstone. You'll prove it again."
When Adrian left, Leo stood at the window and pulled the curtains open. The city stretched beneath him, alive, indifferent, endless. He pressed his forehead to the glass, feeling the cold bite his skin.
He thought of Cruz, somewhere across town, sharpening his knives in silence. He thought of the boardrooms, the sponsors, the whispers. And he thought of the track, waiting for him, the one place where none of that mattered.
He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and whispered to himself:
"I won't break. Not for them. Not for anyone."
And in the silence, for the first time in days, he felt steady.
The silence stretched long after his whisper. The glass against his forehead was cold, grounding him, almost like the cockpit when he first sat in it as a boy. He closed his eyes and saw himself at twelve, crammed into a go-kart that was too big for his frame, teeth clenched, knuckles white as he clung to the wheel.
He had lost that day. Finished dead last. But he hadn't cried, not once. He had gone home, found a mirror, and sworn to himself: I'll never stop until I'm the fastest.
The memory flickered like an old film reel, reminding him of the boy who didn't care about sponsors, cameras, or politics. That boy had only wanted speed. That boy was still here.
But the voices of the present crowded back in. Headlines he hadn't even read haunted him. Dangerous. Reckless. Lucky. He hated those words — not because they hurt, but because they reduced him. Reduced everything he'd fought for into cheap labels.
He wanted to scream, to tell the world they didn't know him, didn't know the hours, the bruises, the nights when he thought his dream was slipping away.
Instead, he sat back on the bed and grabbed a notebook from the nightstand. No cameras, no microphones — just pen and paper. He wrote one word at the top: Why.
And underneath, he let it spill.
Because I was born to drive.Because the world makes sense at 300 km/h.Because I refuse to be ordinary.Because speed is the only truth I've ever trusted.
The words steadied his hands. Each line was like tightening a bolt in his chest, locking him back together.
A knock on the door interrupted him. Not Adrian this time, but one of the younger mechanics from his side of the garage. The kid looked nervous, shifting on his feet.
"Sorry, Leo. I just… I wanted to say, Silverstone? It was the bravest thing I've ever seen."
Leo blinked, caught off guard. The mechanic handed him a small folded note before hurrying away.
Inside, in scrawled handwriting, were six words:"Not everyone has chosen Cruz's side."
Leo held the note tight. It wasn't much, but it was proof. Proof that he wasn't completely alone in the war raging around him.
That night, sleep came slowly. When it finally did, it brought dreams of engines roaring, rain hammering the visor, the world blurring into streaks of color. He was back in the car, back in the fight, where none of the politics could touch him.
When he woke, the sun cut through the curtains, and for the first time in days, he didn't feel crushed by the weight of everything. He felt sharper. Calmer. Ready.
The war outside was ugly, but inside, he had found his anchor.
The boy who swore he'd never stop until he was the fastest was alive — and now the world would have to face him.