Chapter Text
Oscar didn’t expect his first win to feel like this.
The champagne had gone warm in his mouth, the roar of the crowd more distant than it should have been. Everything about the moment had been muted, muffled—like hearing celebration underwater. He’d gone through the motions: the podium, the interviews, the grins for the cameras. But something about it all sat wrong in his chest.
It should have been perfect. He won. Fair and square.
But the media kept replaying that final lap, the radio messages between Lando and the pit wall: “He’s faster than me,” followed by silence. Oscar had known what that silence meant. He’d stayed ahead. He’d earned it. But the tension had bled through every part of the team—he could see it in Lando’s jaw when they embraced for photos, feel it in the hollowness of the congratulations from half the garage.
Zak smiled like a proud father. Lando’s arm had tightened for a second, then dropped.
The headlines would spend the next week chewing it apart: Team Orders Ignored? Norris Frozen Out? McLaren’s Rising Star Sparks Rift?
But none of that mattered right now.
He was exhausted, head aching from the heat, nerves jangling after a race that pushed his concentration past the limit. He didn’t even want room service, just a dark hotel room, a long shower, and silence.
He was halfway down the hallway to his suite when he heard someone call his name.
“Oscar.”
He turned, assuming it was press or a fan who’d slipped past security.
It wasn’t.
The man was familiar in a peripheral way—someone he’d seen around the paddock, dressed in crisp FIA apparel, badge swinging around his neck. Oscar straightened instinctively, offering a polite nod, shoulders heavy with fatigue.
“Just wanted to say congratulations,” the man said. “First win—hell of a drive.”
“Thanks,” Oscar said, his voice rough with disuse. “Appreciate it.”
The official smiled, just a little too long. “Mind if I come in for a minute? Just a quick debrief, part of protocol. We usually talk to first-time winners. Debrief for internal evaluation.”
Oscar frowned, hand still on his keycard. That didn’t sound right. No one mentioned this in any of the post-race briefings. But he was new. Maybe it was normal. Maybe he was just overtired.
“Just a minute,” the man repeated, softer now. “Promise. No paperwork. Just talk.”
Against his better judgment, Oscar stepped aside.
The door clicked shut behind them.
It started subtle. The man asked questions that felt legitimate enough—how Oscar felt in the car, what he thought of his pit strategy. But there was something off in the tone, something hungry behind the eyes that lingered too long. Oscar’s skin began to itch beneath his hoodie.
“Y’know,” the official said, voice low now, too low, “drivers like you are going to be very valuable to us. If you play your cards right, the FIA could make your life a whole lot easier.”
Oscar stiffened.
“Is that a threat?” he asked, ice lacing his voice.
The man chuckled. “No, no. A compliment. A chance. You're young, marketable. Desirable.”
The last word sat heavy in the air.
“I think you should leave,” Oscar said. He moved toward the door, jaw tight.
But the man was faster, stepping into his path, pressing a hand to Oscar’s chest. “Don’t be difficult. I just want to talk.”
“Don’t touch me,” Oscar growled, shoving the hand away.
It escalated fast.
Too fast.
It started with a smile that was too familiar.
Oscar hadn’t let his guard down. He hadn’t been drinking. He hadn’t invited him in. He hadn’t flirted or laughed or misread anything. He had just… been tired. Vulnerable. Too polite. Too trusting.
He said no.
“I’m not comfortable with this.”
He said it again, louder: “No.”
Then again, as the man’s hand closed around his upper arm: “Stop. Let go of me.”
The room still smelled like sweat and champagne and race fuel. His body hadn’t fully calmed down from the GP. His head was buzzing, his heart thudding like tires on curbs, and when the man stepped in too close, Oscar backed up until his spine hit the door.
“I said no.”
The man didn’t care.
He shoved Oscar — hard — into the wall, the impact rattling through Oscar’s ribs. One hand fisted in his hoodie, the other at his waistband. Oscar fought. Kicked. Swore.
“Get the fuck off me—”
But he was smaller. Dizzier. Disoriented. Still aching from the race, dehydrated, outmatched. He punched and scratched and struggled but the man dragged him to the floor, forced him onto his stomach with a forearm braced against the back of his neck.
Oscar gasped, struggling to breathe.
Then: cold fingers yanked at his belt, undid the zip. Fabric burned down his hips.
His scream was muffled by the hotel carpet.
He bucked, panicked, kicked again — it landed, the man grunted, but came down harder.
Oscar felt his shorts pulled down to mid-thigh. Skin against cold air. Vulnerable. Helpless.
“Don’t—” he choked. “Please don’t do this.”
His voice broke.
The man spat, grabbed him by the hips. Oscar thrashed.
A hand gripped his hair and slammed his head forward. His temple cracked against the leg of the desk. The sound was sickening. White light shattered across his vision. He was still awake — barely.
He felt the man behind him. The weight. The positioning.
The hand braced on his lower back.
Then pain.
An intrusion so sudden, so blinding, that Oscar bit down on his own lip hard enough to draw blood. He cried out, choking on it.
It felt like tearing. Splitting. His body folded inward. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
The man grunted above him. Each thrust forced Oscar’s knees to slide against the carpet, scraping skin from them.
Oscar tried to float away — eyes open but unfocused, somewhere else. Somewhere safer. His hands trembled where they were pinned. The room smelled like sweat and blood and something bitter and raw.
The pain didn’t stop. It pulsed with every movement.
He stopped fighting.
He couldn’t even cry.
Eventually, it ended. He could feel the warm release seeping out from inside of him and down his legs.
The man zipped up. Said nothing.
Oscar didn’t turn to look.
He waited until the door clicked shut behind him before he let out a sob. Just one. Then another.
His body screamed, every muscle on fire. His underwear was half off. His thighs were sticky. His temple throbbed with every heartbeat, blood still leaking into his hairline.
He pulled his shorts back up with shaking hands, barely able to stand. He made it to the bathroom and vomited into the sink. Then he pressed his fingers to the back of his neck and felt the tremble there, like a piano wire stretched too tight.
He stared into the mirror. The rest blurred—sensory shards: pressure, pain, fear, the sound of breathing that wasn’t his. Then silence.
He didn’t recognize the boy in the reflection.
He blacked out.
When Oscar woke up, he was curled on the carpet, half-dressed, his hoodie twisted and damp beneath him. His head pounded with blinding intensity. Reaching up, he felt the wetness near his hairline and pulled back a shaking hand covered in blood.
It wasn’t a dream.
He remembered all of it. Every second. Every no, every moment he’d tried to get away, every time he said stop.
And it still happened.
He staggered back to the circuit medical centre, claiming he’d slipped and hit his head on the shower rail. The nurse looked skeptical but didn’t press.
They led him into a dim room where a tired-looking doctor examined the gash on his temple and asked him routine questions about vision, nausea, and dizziness. He answered them all numbly.
Oscar kept fidgeting, not able to sit comfortably. As the doctor examined his head and the rest of his body he kept wincing, a telltale sign he knew he shouldn't be displaying.
But then the doctor looked him in the eye and said gently, “You fought back, didn’t you?”
Oscar didn’t reply. He didn’t blink. He just stared at a fixed point on the far wall.
“I’m not going to make you say anything,” the doctor continued. “But I believe you. And I want you to have this.”
She handed him a thin, folded pamphlet. White, blue, and gray. On the front, it read:
“What Comes Next: Resources for Survivors of Sexual Assault”
Oscar’s hands shook as he took it.
“You did nothing wrong,” she said softly.
He nodded once and left without a word.
Back in the hotel, Oscar dropped the pamphlet on the desk, stared at it for a long moment, and then crumpled it into a fist.
He shoved it into his duffel bag and stripped off his clothes, stepping into the shower before the water had time to heat.
He scrubbed until his skin stung, until his head throbbed from more than the concussion, until the water went cold and the room filled with steam.
When he finally stepped out, the mirror was too fogged to show him his own reflection.
He was grateful for that.