The qualifying results hit the world within seconds: Cruz on pole. Leo in fifth. The headlines wrote themselves, clean and cruel.
CRUZ PROVES HE'S STILL THE KING.LEO STRUGGLES IN CRUCIAL QUALIFYING.FIFTH PLACE: IS THE HYPE OVER?
In the paddock, screens glowed with pundits dissecting every detail. The words "reckless," "immature," and "inconsistent" circled like vultures. Fifth place was respectable by any measure — but in the poisoned narrative being spun around him, it looked like failure.
Cruz strolled through the media pen like a man walking on water. Cameras loved him. Microphones caught every polished sound bite.
"It was a clean session," he said smoothly. "The team gave me everything I needed. We're in a good place for tomorrow. As for Leo… he's fast, no doubt. But championships are about more than speed. They're about trust. Teamwork. And he's still learning that."
The journalists lapped it up. A champion speaking with grace, experience, gravitas. Cruz didn't need to insult Leo — he simply framed himself as the adult in the room, and Leo as the unruly child.
Leo's turn in front of the cameras was a blood sport. The questions were sharp, barbed, designed to cut.
"Leo, fifth place. Some say you're underperforming.""Were you pushing too hard again?""Cruz says discipline is the key to winning. Do you agree you lack discipline?"
Each question was another blade. He answered as calmly as he could, jaw tight.
"The car wasn't perfect, but we pushed through. Fifth isn't where we want to be, but tomorrow's what matters."
The words were measured, but the tone betrayed his fury. He wanted to scream: You don't see what's happening! You don't know how they're sabotaging me! But he swallowed it. If he said it out loud, they'd call him paranoid.
The media didn't want the truth. They wanted a story.
Behind closed doors, the sponsor battle intensified.
In one glass-walled office, Marlow — Cruz's patron — waved a printout of qualifying times like a weapon.
"Proof," he declared. "Leo isn't ready. We keep Cruz on top, we keep stability, we keep the championship. That's the narrative. That's the investment."
Across the table, a younger sponsor slammed his palm down.
"Stability doesn't go viral! Did you see the engagement numbers after Silverstone? The kid's chaos sells! Fifth place and he's still the number one trending topic worldwide. That's power. That's the future."
The room erupted, voices clashing, money versus momentum. No one was talking about lap times anymore. They were talking about control.
Back in the motorhome, Adrian paced like a caged animal. He wanted to storm into the press room, shove the memos in front of the journalists, scream about sabotage. But that wasn't the game. That would only make Leo look weaker, crazier.
Instead, he slammed his fist against the wall and muttered to himself:"They want a war? Fine. We'll give them one."
Leo sat quietly nearby, scrolling through social media. Thousands of comments flew past his eyes: some calling him reckless, others calling him a hero. The noise was deafening, but one message stood out, buried deep in the chaos:
Don't let them tame you. You're the only reason I still watch this sport.
He read it twice, then a third time. For all the knives aimed at him, for all the shadows trying to pull him down, there were still people who saw him. Who needed him to fight.
Night fell over the paddock, but the battle raged on. Cruz dined with executives at a five-star restaurant, his laughter polished, his future plotted in whispers. Leo sat in his hotel room, the stolen memos spread across his bed, proof of the conspiracy closing in on him.
Tomorrow, the world would see two cars on the same track. But tonight, Leo knew the truth: the real race had already begun.
And it wasn't just about speed anymore. It was about survival.
The press didn't sleep. Even as the circuit lights dimmed and crews packed equipment into freight containers, the headlines multiplied. Each outlet sharpened its spin, carving Leo's fifth place into a scar.
UNSTABLE LEO UNDER PRESSURE.CRUZ: THE PROFESSIONAL CHAMPION.TEAM TENSION GROWS AS ROOKIE STRUGGLES.
Every article carried the same undertone — Cruz the steady hand, Leo the volatile risk. It was no longer analysis. It was orchestration.
In the hospitality suite, Cruz held court with journalists, his crisp shirt unbuttoned just enough to look casual, his hair perfect even after hours in the helmet. His soundbites were immaculate.
"Leo's talented," he said with that practiced smile. "But Formula 1 is bigger than just one driver. We all have to serve the team."
It wasn't an insult, but it wasn't innocent either. The implication landed. Leo doesn't serve the team. Leo is selfish.
The reporters ate it up. Their pens moved fast, their cameras flashed. Cruz knew exactly how to play them.
Meanwhile, Leo's camp was shrinking. In the garage, after the cameras had gone, engineers whispered among themselves. Some muttered about "poor feedback." Others grumbled about "the kid blaming equipment instead of himself."
One mechanic, bold enough to speak up, scoffed:"He's fast, sure. But he doesn't respect the process. This sport punishes egos. He won't last."
Adrian overheard. He slammed his clipboard on the workbench, the bang echoing."You think Cruz is winning because of process?" Adrian spat. "He's winning because half of you are feeding him while starving Leo. You want to backstab him? Fine. But don't pretend it's about discipline. It's about fear."
The room went silent. The mechanic looked away. But the damage was clear: the garage wasn't one team anymore. It was two armies sharing the same colors.
At the same time, the sponsor war escalated. In a sleek office tower across the city, a video conference unfolded between rival executives.
On one screen, Marlow leaned forward, face sharp under the boardroom lights."Fifth place," he said, savoring the words. "The kid's hype bubble is deflating. If we position Cruz as the rightful heir, the safe investment, we tighten our grip on the narrative. The championship stays secure."
Another sponsor rep smirked from his side of the call."Or," she countered, "we double down on the chaos. Leo's lap is trending on every platform. He fought a broken car and still outpaced veterans. Do you know what the fans are calling him? 'The Wildfire.' That's a brand. That's what keeps people watching."
The silence that followed wasn't agreement. It was calculation. Every player in the room wanted control — and Leo's struggle had become their chessboard.
Leo, unaware of the exact words but fully aware of the war, sat at his desk with the memos spread out before him. Adrian had left them with a note: Read them, but don't let them own you.
He read every line. Plans to reroute development parts to Cruz's side. Budget reductions hidden behind "technical reshuffling." Instructions to "emphasize Leo's instability" in official talking points.
The evidence was there, in black and white. Proof that this wasn't paranoia. Proof that he wasn't imagining it.
He leaned back, hands on his head, staring at the ceiling. The anger rose hot in his chest, but beneath it, something colder, sharper: clarity.
They weren't just trying to beat him. They were trying to erase him.
Adrian returned late, smelling of cigarettes and frustration. He tossed himself into the chair opposite Leo.
"They've already written tomorrow's story," Adrian muttered. "If Cruz wins, you're reckless. If you crash, you're dangerous. If you win, they'll say it was luck. They'll spin it any way they can."
Leo met his mentor's tired eyes. "Then I won't give them a story. I'll give them a moment."
Adrian frowned. "What do you mean?"
Leo turned back to the window, the city lights reflecting in his gaze. "Moments can't be spun. Silverstone proved that. When I passed Cruz, the world saw it. Felt it. They can't take that away. Tomorrow, I give them another one."
Adrian studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. "That's the kid I signed up for."
Outside, the night deepened. Cruz toasted with executives. Sponsors sharpened knives. Journalists drafted headlines in advance.
And in a quiet hotel room, Leo prepared not for a race, but for war.