The boardroom smelled of leather and power. Thick carpets muffled footsteps as executives from the team's major sponsors sat around a polished oak table, their watches gleaming under the recessed lights. At the head of the table sat Marlow, the lead representative of a multinational energy corporation — the money behind Cruz's crown.
The meeting wasn't on the official calendar. No press, no recordings. Just strategy.
"Leo Lastname," Marlow began, his voice clipped. "A liability dressed as a headline. He's exciting, yes. But excitement fades. Cruz, on the other hand, is a proven commodity." He folded his hands, waiting for no objection. "We need stability. We need reliability. And we need the team to understand where its true loyalties lie."
Across the table, a younger sponsor rep smirked. "Stability doesn't trend. Cruz isn't filling feeds, Leo is. The kid connects to the next generation, and whether you like it or not, they're the market."
The words cut through the air. The divide was sharp now: the old guard betting on Cruz's legacy, the new blood hitching their fortunes to Leo's wildfire.
Meanwhile, Cruz played his part perfectly. He'd been on the phone all morning with journalists, planting carefully worded seeds.
"Of course, I respect Leo," he told one reporter, his tone gracious. "But Formula 1 isn't just about raw speed. It's about discipline, teamwork, long-term results. Sometimes young drivers forget that."
The quotes spread like wildfire. Headlines wrote themselves:CRUZ: LEO STILL HAS MUCH TO LEARN.IS LEO TOO WILD TO WIN?SPONSORS GROW WARY OF F1'S NEW STAR.
Cruz didn't need to attack Leo outright. He let the media sharpen the blade for him.
Back at headquarters, the team principal walked a tightrope. In one ear, Cruz's sponsors threatened to withdraw millions if their driver wasn't given priority. In the other, Leo's emerging backers dangled promises of youth engagement, new markets, global expansion.
It wasn't a racing team anymore. It was a battlefield dressed as a garage.
Engineers whispered in corners, mechanics passed rumors like currency. Which side are you on? Who will you back when the knives come out?
Some claimed Cruz's crew was already withholding key data from Leo's engineers. Others swore a software "glitch" in the last simulation had been intentional. No one could prove it, but suspicion alone was enough to poison the air.
Adrian stormed through the corridors, every conversation pausing when he passed. He knew what was happening. He'd seen it before in the old days — sponsors twisting arms, politics tearing teams in half. He'd warned Leo it would get ugly. He hadn't warned him it might get this ugly.
In the principal's office, Adrian slammed his hands on the desk."You're letting them bleed the kid dry. First the media, now his own team. Do you want to destroy him before he's even begun?"
The principal's eyes were cold, weary. "I want to keep this team alive. Without sponsor money, there is no team. I don't like it either, but this is reality."
Adrian leaned forward, his voice low, dangerous."No. This is politics. Reality is on the track. And one day soon, Leo's going to make you remember that."
Late that night, Leo scrolled through the headlines alone in his hotel room. Each article painted him as reckless, unstable, or worse: expendable. He wasn't naïve — he could see the strings being pulled, the story being written without him.
And yet, beneath the frustration, something hardened. Let them scheme. Let them play their games.
He would answer the only way he knew how.
Not with words.Not with politics.With speed.
The next morning, the headlines had grown sharper teeth. Someone — and Leo didn't need to guess who — had leaked telemetry data from Silverstone to the press.The story was everywhere:
LEAKED NUMBERS REVEAL LEO'S RISKY STYLE.YOUNG DRIVER PUSHING BEYOND SAFETY LIMITS.
Pundits argued on late-night shows. Some called him fearless, others reckless. A veteran analyst even said:
"If he keeps this up, he'll either be a legend… or a headline in the worst way."
Leo shut the tablet and threw it across the bed. He had never felt so exposed. His driving, his secrets, laid bare for strangers to dissect.
In the garage, the war became visible. Cruz's mechanics openly ignored Leo when he walked past, conversations dying mid-sentence. A senior engineer refused to share setup notes, claiming "confidentiality." Even the catering truck seemed colder — his plate arriving half an hour late, a silent reminder of where loyalties lay.
Leo's camp was smaller, younger, less experienced. But they burned with something the others didn't: belief. The kid mechanic who had left him that note now stood taller, daring to nod at him in the open. A few others followed. Quiet signals. Dangerous loyalty.
It wasn't just a split anymore. It was a fracture. And fractures break things apart.
Behind closed doors, Cruz tightened his grip. In a candlelit restaurant off the paddock, he sat with Marlow and two board members. Their glasses of wine sparkled under low light, but the conversation was steel.
"The team principal won't cut him loose yet," Marlow said, swirling his drink. "But sponsors can apply pressure. We starve his side of resources, limit his strategy options. He'll make mistakes. Then it'll be easy."
Cruz gave a practiced smile. "And when he does, the media will already be waiting. All I need is time."
The men nodded. Deals weren't always signed in boardrooms. Sometimes, they were sealed over whispered promises in shadows.
But there were cracks even in Cruz's fortress. In another corner of the paddock, a junior PR manager passed a folder to Adrian, her hands trembling.
"They think I don't see the memos, but I do. They're planning to bury Leo," she whispered. "This isn't about racing anymore. It's about money. About control."
Adrian scanned the documents — evidence of deliberate underfunding, of performance data being rerouted, of staged leaks to favored journalists. His gut turned to stone.
"They're playing dirty," Adrian muttered. "Fine. Then we'll play louder."
That night, Leo stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The circles under his eyes were darker, his jaw tighter, but his gaze didn't waver.
He thought about walking away. Just leaving it all behind — the politics, the poison, the knives. But the idea lasted only a second. Racing wasn't something he did. It was something he was.
And if they wanted to destroy him, they'd have to destroy the fire inside him.
He leaned closer to the mirror, whispering to himself like a vow:
"You can't bury me. I'm already rising."