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## The Madman
The night sky at the Yas Marina Circuit sparkled under tens of thousands of high-pressure floodlights, transforming the barren desert realm of Abu Dhabi into a colossal, brilliant, and glamorous stage. The acrid stench of burning rubber, the distinctive scent of Arai gasoline, and the smoke blowing from the pit lane swirled up, thrusting straight into the nostrils and filling the rapidly heaving lungs of Andrea Kimi Antonelli. The roar of twenty Formula 1 hybrid V6 engines competed in his ears—a deafening sound that, to ordinary people, would burst eardrums. But to Kimi, it was a heartbeat, a breath, the only proof that he was still existing in this decaying world.
He sat tucked away inside the cramped cockpit of the W18, bearing the three-pointed star logo of the Mercedes AMG Petronas team. His hands, encased in fireproof Nomex gloves, gripped the complex carbon steering wheel so tightly that his pale knuckles stood out starkly beneath the thick fabric. His heart rate displayed on the steering wheel screen read 160 beats per minute, but his mind was as ice-cold as a Nordic winter.
Today was the final race of the season. The championship decider. Every eye in the world—millions of viewers through small screens, tens of thousands of fans in the vibrant grandstands—was locked onto the silent silver-and-black car sitting on pole position with number 12. Yet, in Kimi’s deep, dark eyes, this loud and magnificent world existed in only two absolute extremes: one was the pitch blackness wrapping around his shattered soul, and the other was a bright, warm, unique, and absolute light named Oliver Bearman.
The experts called Kimi a once-in-a-century genius. Journalists wasted endless ink branding him a phenomenon, a man born to dominate the track. But the other drivers on the grid, the mechanics working tirelessly in the garage, and even the upper management of Mercedes all secretly called him by another name—a name that carried both awe and disgust: *The Madman*.
Kimi drove as if he didn't give a damn about his own life. His car control wasn't measured by safety or strategy; it teetered on a razor-thin line between absolute perfection and suicidal madness. He braked later than anyone else, throwing himself into sharp corners at terrifying speeds that made the telemetry screens of his race engineers in the garage repeatedly flash red in alarm. He cut off opponents, squeezing them to the very edge of the grass with the ruthless coldness of a sociopath who had nothing left to lose. They feared Kimi. No one dared to get close to him, no one dared to go wheel-to-wheel with him in death-defying corners, because everyone knew that once you became Kimi's target, he would either crush you or destroy himself along with you.
He had psychological issues. They whispered about it behind his back, in the dark corners of the paddock. A child who grew up with too many expectations weighing on his frail shoulders, a closed-off soul scarred by the ruthlessness of high-achievement sports, thrown mercilessly into the deceptive and cutthroat world of F1. Kimi hated people. He loathed the fake smiles rehearsed in front of cameras, detested the slimy, calculating social handshakes, and despised the hollow, soulless cheers. His inner world was a dark, cold, and lonely room where he locked himself away, clawing at his own bleeding wounds in absolute silence. He didn't need anyone, didn't want to open up to anyone, because every time he trusted, the world handed him a knife to the back.
Until he met him.
Oliver Bearman. His little Ollie. His gentle Ollie.
Slamming down the pitch-black visor of his helmet, completely concealing his bloodshot eyes, Kimi let out a faint, cynical smirk. It was a rare smile that broke through his usual gloomy expression as his mind began to drift toward fragments of memories featuring the boy who was one year older than him. The boy wearing the white and red colors of the Haas team.
Memories rushed back, vivid, sweet, and so alive that Kimi could almost smell the faint scent of his hair cutting through the deafening noise of the pit lane, which was preparing for the life-or-death zero hour.
Ollie was nothing like him. Not at all. Ollie was an angel who had accidentally wandered into a pack of starving wolves. He remembered vividly their days competing in F2, back when Kimi was just a ghost standing in the dark corner of the garage, secretly stealing glances at Ollie's radiant smile under the bright sun. Ollie had soft, chestnut-brown curly hair that Kimi constantly craved to run his rough fingers through. He had large, round eyes that sparkled as if they contained a thousand stars, and a heart far too gentle—so gentle it was unsuited for the cruelty of this racetrack.
He remembered the times he accidentally caught Ollie crouching in a hidden corner behind the team's cargo trucks, pulling off his gloves to pet a stray cat or a lost puppy that security hadn't managed to chase away yet. At those moments, Ollie's eyes softened, a sweet smile graced his lips, creating a warm aura so bright it made Kimi's scarred heart ache. A man full of malice, thorns, and madness like Kimi was completely subdued, kneeling unconditionally before that innocence, fragility, and purity.
From that moment on, Kimi knew that Oliver Bearman's smile was the only thing keeping the tiny shred of "humanity" left in him from rotting away.
The red lights on the massive gantry began to turn on one by one. The crackling sound of the electronics mixed with the roaring engines to create a symphony of death.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Out.
The W18 surged forward like a long-starved beast finally unleashed from its cage. The extreme G-force slammed Kimi's entire body into the molded carbon-fiber seat. His head was snapped back, but his eyes remained locked straight ahead. He sliced through a narrow gap, tearing the wind apart, flooring the throttle, ruthlessly squeezing and overtaking the two McLarens right at the tight Turn 1. The curses of the other drivers echoed through the internal team radios, but Kimi didn't care.
The voice of Peter Bonnington—his race engineer—cracked in his earpiece, attempting to soothe his exploding aggression: "Kimi, calm down. You're wearing out the tires too fast. Snapped the rears at Turn 3. Keep the pace, we are leading."
But Kimi didn't give a fuck. He reached out and shut off the two-way radio channel. He was racing against death, racing against the demons screaming in his head, and he had to win. He had to bring this grand World Championship trophy back to kneel at Ollie's feet, to prove to the world that he could place the entire sky into his hands.
Kimi loved Ollie. That love wasn't merely a youthful crush. It was a frantic obsession, a terminal illness with no cure, a solitary religion for which Kimi was entirely willing to be a martyr. Ollie was his only painkiller, the pristine white bandage wrapping around his shredded soul.
As he sharply steered through a chicane at 250 km/h, his mind drifted back to a pouring rainy night. Back then, Ollie had run to knock on his hotel room door. The moment he stepped in, he collapsed into Kimi's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He cried easily—a sensitive soul who always hid his ultimate fears behind a bright, social smile. His tears were hot, soaking a patch of Kimi's t-shirt against his chest, burning his skin. Ollie's body shook violently in his embrace; he was crying because of the crushing pressure, the terror of being dropped from his brutal race seat, the fear that track mistakes would make everything collapse.
*"Kimi... what if I can't do it? What if they don't want me anymore... I'm so scared, Kimi..."* Ollie's voice hitched, broken, as weak as a small bird with broken wings collapsing in a blizzard.
That night, Kimi had tightened his grip around his waist, holding that trembling frame close, stroking his messy hair, and whispering into his ear promises that were vicious to the world but gentlest to him. *"Don't be afraid. I'm here. I won't let anyone touch you. I'll crush them all. Ollie, you're mine. If they don't want you, I do. I will take this championship, I will have the power, and I will pave roses for you to walk on. This entire F1 grid will have to kneel before you."*
It wasn't a dream. Kimi reassured himself. He could still smell that sweet scent, the scent of sunshine and grass on Ollie's skin. He could still clearly remember the warmth of his arms wrapping around his neck. The text messages saying *"i will forever love you"* were still sitting safely inside the mobile phone he kept hidden away in his drawer. Today, right on this podium, under the witness of millions, he would tell the whole world that Oliver Bearman belonged to Andrea Kimi Antonelli. Anyone who dared make him cry would pay the price.
Lap 40.
The tires had begun to wear down to an alarming degree, the rubber surface blistering, and grip dropping significantly. The cars behind were closing the gap. The race engineer repeatedly flashed the pit board, ordering him to box for fresh rubber. Kimi ignored it. He clenched his teeth so hard they bled, his arms aching and exhausted from constantly wrestling with a car that was losing control. He swung aggressively through the chicanes, the rear of the car sliding dangerously.
Through his visor, blurred with sweat, Kimi spotted a car carrying the distinct white and red livery of the Haas team in the distance, swallowed up in a midfield battle. Number 87. That was Ollie's car. Kimi's heart pounded frantically, thumping as if it wanted to shatter his ribcage.
*I'm coming, Ollie. Wait for me. I'll clear the way for you.*
He flattened the pedal. The Mercedes engine let out a gut-wrenching roar, launching forward like a silver arrow. He caught up to the cars blocking the path, squeezing them without mercy. He lunged into the inside apex of the corner, braking so late that smoke billowed out blindly, forcing an opponent's Ferrari onto the gravel edge. Cold. Brutal. Without a shred of leniency. Anyone who dared drive ahead of the number 87 Haas was annihilated by Kimi.
The night sky was still, the camera flashes from the grandstands blinking continuously like shooting stars across his eyes. But inside Kimi's head right now was a chaotic mess of overlapping images of that boy. Ollie's silhouette appeared in blurred illusions—one moment smiling brightly, waving at him during a press conference, the next moment shattered and weeping, burying his head in Kimi's shoulder in a dark room. That smile, that voice echoed inside his skull like a sweet curse. He pushed the throttle even harder. The more he remembered, the more he loved. He loved him so much he wanted to rip his own chest open to tuck Ollie inside, locking him away forever so this decaying world could never stain or hurt him ever again.
The final lap. Lap 58.
The atmosphere in the grandstands was on the verge of exploding. Flares carrying the colors of various teams ignited one after another, painting a corner of the sky blood-red. Kimi blasted through the final corner, onto the straight leading to the finish line. The W18 crossed the checkered flag first, leaving the runner-up over fifteen seconds behind. An absolute, dictatorial, and terrifying victory.
"P1, Kimi! P1! You are the World Champion! The highest points finish in the history of the sport! An unbelievable season! You did it, mate!" The ecstatic, raspy shout of Toto Wolff, and the choked-up voice of George Russell exploded over the radio, breaking the long silence.
But inside the cramped cockpit, Kimi didn't smile. His face was expressionless, freezing cold. He panted heavily, sweat soaking his forehead, rolling down in large drops into his stinging eyes. He gripped the steering wheel, driving the car to the grid to celebrate. He dumped the clutch and mashed the throttle, performing aggressive, burning donuts. The friction between the tires and the asphalt generated thick clouds of white smoke, blinding the view and releasing a pungent, suffocating smell of burnt rubber.
When the car finally ground to a halt, Kimi hurriedly unclipped his five-point safety harness. He climbed out of the cockpit, stood on the nose of the car, and raised both hands to the sky. The cheers of tens of thousands of spectators roared like thunder, shaking the ground. Thousands of camera lenses pointed at him, flashes blinking blindingly. Kimi Antonelli—the youngest driver to ascend to the pinnacle of glory in the most brutal, ruthless manner in history.
Yet, contrary to media expectations, Kimi's eyes didn't linger on the massive, sparkling silver trophy waiting for him on the podium. Nor did he bother to glance at his shouting Mercedes teammates who were rushing over to hoist him onto their shoulders.
He ripped off his helmet and threw it to the ground. He scanned his bloodshot, manic eyes through the chaotic crowd.
He was searching for the white and red suits. He was searching for the Haas logo.
He had to find Ollie. Today was the day he had planned for a very, very long time. He was going to confess. He would grab the microphone and tell the entire world that this unfeeling, mad piece of work named Andrea Kimi Antonelli had been entirely conquered, surrendering his life and soul to Oliver Bearman. He wanted to see that surprised face, followed by those blushing cheeks, and that radiant, happy smile. He wanted to hold him tightly right in front of thousands of onlookers, to prove to him that no damn pressure from anyone could ever make him cry again, because from now on, he would be standing right here shielding him.
Kimi violently pushed away the Mercedes mechanics trying to embrace him. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the panicked restraints of his press officer. Kimi took long strides, his racing boots thudding against the asphalt, heading straight toward the Haas team's garage area.
But strangely, as Kimi cut through the crowd, the atmosphere suddenly shifted into something bizarre. The sky-rending cheers from moments ago gradually thinned out, then died completely. The smiles on the lips of the other drivers—Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz—froze on their faces the moment they saw Kimi approaching. They automatically stepped back, parting to make way for him, but the way they looked at him... something was very wrong. Very twisted.
It wasn't the awkwardness of witnessing a driver throwing a tantrum or acting arrogant. It was heartbreak. It was pure horror mixed with an ultimate, deep pity that made one's stomach churn.
Kimi frowned. What the hell was wrong with these bastards? Why were they looking at him like he was some pathetic, miserable creature? He shook those nonsense thoughts out of his head. He didn't care about any of it. His gaze was locked onto the Haas area. He strode forward, reaching out and snatching a wireless microphone straight out of the hand of a trackside TV reporter who was standing dazed in the walkway.
"OLLIE!"
Kimi's shout tore through the thick silence of the *parc fermé*. His voice was raspy, breaking from screaming so much in the cockpit, but it was still loud enough to broadcast over the PA system, slamming into the eardrums of thousands.
"Oliver Bearman! Where are you?! Get out here right now! I know you're hiding around here somewhere! I won! I'm the champion, see?!"
Everyone around simultaneously held their breath. The Haas mechanics who were packing up gear suddenly froze as if turned to stone. A few of them dropped wrenches and tools onto the tiled floor with a loud, clattering clang. Haas Team Principal Guenther Steiner stood rooted to the spot. The wrinkled, sun-baked face of the old man instantly turned as pale as a sheet of paper. His eyes were red, welling with tears. He took a step back, raising a trembling hand to cover his face. A female Haas press officer standing beside him couldn't contain herself; she covered her mouth, turned away, and sobbed aloud.
Kimi stood there, his chest heaving as he panted, his manic eyes still darting around in search. His cracked, bleeding lips curled into a faint smile—both delusional and heartbreakingly infatuated.
"Come out here to me! I told you, didn't I? I'd bring this fucking championship back for you. Just you, Ollie. I love you! Damn it, I love you so much I'm going crazy! Don't worry about the people here, don't give a shit about anything else. Come out here so I can hold you! I will protect you!"
The silence engulfing the paddock right now was no longer just shock; it became heavy and suffocating enough to choke a person. Not a single camera dared to flash. Not a single sensationalist journalist dared to speak up or pry into this shocking "confession." There was only the sound of the desert wind whistling through the cold rows of motorhomes and the muffled, restrained whimpering of the people around them echoing clearly.
Guenther Steiner took slow, heavy steps toward Kimi. His old, trembling hands reached forward, wanting to touch the shoulder of the lost child, but then froze mid-air. The voice of that tough, gritty man was now raspy, shattered, carrying an infinite sorrow.
"Kimi... boy... please, Kimi. Stop doing this. He... Ollie isn't here."
Kimi knit his brows tightly. The smile on his lips vanished in a split second. His heart skipped a beat, a freezing cold sensation running down his spine, but his madness and paranoia immediately flared up to mask the unease. He glared at the Haas team boss, anger beginning to boil in his veins.
"What the fuck are you barking about? Where is Ollie? You bastard, where did you guys hide him again? Or did you guys scold him again, threaten to fire him so he’s hiding in some corner crying by himself?! Call him out here to me right now!"
Kimi roared like a wounded beast. Around him, the murmurs began to seep into his ears, buzzing like a disrupted beehive, ruthlessly drilling into his brain, which was wound tight like a guitar string.
*"Oh god, he’s losing it again..."*
*"How tragic... It’s been three months and he still can't accept reality..."*
*"Someone please get George out here to stop him, this is too heartbreaking..."*
"Shut up! All of you shut the fuck up!" Kimi screamed, slamming the microphone onto the ground, shattering it to pieces. He was about to lung forward and grab Steiner's collar to interrogate him when suddenly, a powerful force locked around his waist from behind, ripping him backward.
"KIMI! That's enough!"
It was George Russell. His team leader at Mercedes. The older driver who was always calm, elegant, and composed every day, now had a face contorted with pain, worry, and utter panic. He used his entire body to shield Kimi, shoving his younger teammate behind his back, blocking Kimi from the pitiful, sorrowful stares of thousands of eyes locked onto them.
"Apologies, everyone! Kimi is suffering from heat stroke! The race was too intense, he's exhausted and hallucinating, I’m sorry! Please disperse, stop filming, please!"
George shouted at the crowd, his voice cracking. Then, exerting all the strength of a grown man, he tightly locked his arms around Kimi—who was thrashing, kicking, and swearing loudly—dragging him away toward the isolated Mercedes motorhome area.
"Let go of me! What the fuck are you doing, George?! Why are you blocking me?! I have to see Ollie! I just confessed, he has to hear it! Let me the fuck go!"
Kimi screamed until his throat tore. His usually cold, sharp eyes were now streaked with the fiery red lines of rage, hysteria, and terror. He bit hard into George's upper arm right through the race suit, struggling desperately like a trapped animal trying to gnaw off its own leg to escape.
George clamped his teeth through the agonizing pain, resolutely refusing to let go. He dragged his manic younger teammate's body inside the private motorhome. The thick tempered-glass door slammed shut. The lock engaged with a cold *click*, entirely cutting off and sealing away the noise of the outside world.
Only the two of them remained in the luxurious VIP room of Mercedes. Kimi threw off George's arms with immense force. He stumbled backward, his boot heel catching the edge of the carpet, causing him to lose balance and slam his back hard against the glass table in the center of the room. A pile of telemetry papers, an unopened champagne bottle, and several glass flutes crashed to the ground, shattering into pieces. He clutched his head, his ten fingers digging deeply into his sweat-soaked hair. He felt his temples throbbing violently, a piercing headache shooting straight into his brain as if someone were driving a nail into his head.
"Are you insane?!" Kimi yelled, physiological tears starting to well up at the corners of his eyes from extreme neurological stress. "Why the fuck did you stop me? Ollie is waiting for me out there! He's going to think I'm a lying bastard, he's going to think I abandoned him! He's very sensitive, he cries a lot, you don't fucking understand! He only has me, he's waiting for me to bring this championship trophy back to him!"
Kimi staggered toward the sofa in the corner of the room, frantically digging through and overturning his personal kit bag. Everything inside was scattered onto the floor. "The phone... where is the phone. I have to call him. I'll prove it to you. The texts... right, the texts. Just this afternoon before the race, he texted me saying 'i will forever love you'. He promised he'd wait for me at the finish line..."
Kimi's Nomex-gloved hands shook uncontrollably, clumsily pulling out his mobile phone. He entered the passcode wrong three times before he could unlock the screen. He dashed into the contacts, his eyes blurred with tears and stinging sweat, searching for the single name saved with a heart emoji.
*Ollie.*
He hit the call button. He immediately switched it to speakerphone, his eyes defiant and crazed as he pointed the screen toward George. "Listen to this. I'm calling him. He's going to pick up and cuss you out!"
A long ring tone echoed through the silent, suffocating space of the air-conditioned room.
One ring...
Two rings...
George stood like a statue right by the entrance, his chest heaving continuously. Unlike his anger and decisiveness when restraining Kimi outside, the British driver's expression was now entirely shattered. His deep blue eyes were swimming with tears. He looked at his younger teammate, who was trembling and biting his nails waiting for a response from the phone, his gaze filled with profound grief.
And then, instead of Ollie's familiar, clear, and gentle voice... a mechanical, flat, soulless, and freezing electronic voice emitted from the speakerphone, bouncing off the glass walls of the motorhome.
*“The number you have dialed does not exist. Please check and try again.”*
Kimi froze. The triumphant smile that had just begun to surface on his lips instantly hardened.
"What? What the hell is wrong with the network in this paddock?" he muttered, his shaking finger pressing the redial button a second time.
*“The number you have dialed does not exist. Please check and try again.”*
The detached voice repeated for the third time. Precise. Consistent. Ruthlessly shattering the final pieces of illusion within Kimi's mental fortress.
"No... that's impossible! Lies!" Kimi roared, blue veins bulging across his forehead. He pressed the dial button frantically and repeatedly, his finger jabbing so hard against the touchscreen it looked as if he wanted to puncture it.
*“The number you have dialed does not exist.”*
"What is this?! Who blocked his number?! Who dared to do that?! Who?!"
*Smash!*
Kimi swung his arm, violently hurling the phone against the opposite wall. The device impacted hard, shattering into countless fragments that scattered all over the floor. Like a maddened wild beast, he charged straight at George, tightly grabbing the collar of his race suit and pinning him against the glass door. Kimi screamed in ultimate fury, tears streaming down his face:
"You're playing tricks, aren't you?! It's because of you, isn't it, George?! You're jealous of me and Ollie, so you staged this to mock me, right?! You asked the telecom company to cut his number! You guys are separating us! Give Ollie back to me!"
George shut his eyes tightly, letting the hot tears stream down his cheeks. He didn't fight back. He raised his hands, firmly gripping the violently trembling shoulders of his younger teammate. George opened his eyes, looking straight into Kimi’s crazed, grief-stricken eyes, enunciating every single word, like driving knives into the boy’s bleeding heart:
"Kimi... wake up! I beg you, please wake up! Open your eyes and look at the truth! That number doesn't exist because its owner no longer exists in this world!"
"Shut your mouth!"
Kimi hissed, landing a desperate punch against George's face. The blow clipped his cheekbone, causing fresh blood to seep from the corner of the older driver's mouth. But Kimi didn't stop, he sobbed: "You're lying! You lying bastard! He's not dead! Last night he came to my room, he was crying and burying his head in my chest! He told me he loved me, he even asked me to buy him a puppy! He promised he'd wait to watch me win!"
"That's your hallucination, Kimi!" George screamed, locking his arms around Kimi's violently struggling body. He held the boy tightly, using his own weight to bring them down onto the carpeted floor. "There was no last night! Ollie passed away three months ago! March! At the Suzuka circuit! Japan! You have to remember! You've been lying to yourself for too long!"
"No... no..." Kimi shook his head violently, trying to cover his ears. "I'm not listening... I don't want to hear it..."
"Ollie had an accident! The 130R corner at Suzuka! The car lost control under torrential rain! He died on the way to the hospital, Kimi!" George sobbed, pressing the boy's head against his chest. "There are no more phone calls, there are no text messages, and there is no Ollie waiting for you at Haas anymore! They took him back to England and buried him three months ago, Kimi! Ollie is dead!"
*Boom.*
Lightning exploded inside Kimi's mind. His universe had officially collapsed.
The surrounding space seemed to distort and twist. The luxurious walls of the Mercedes motorhome blurred, melting away like candle wax. The true, brutal, and bloody memories that he had used every ounce of his subconscious strength to nail down and seal deep within his brain suddenly broke through their shackles. They poured out, surging like a torrent of blood, drowning him.
Rain.
The sound of torrential, bone-chilling rain falling at the Suzuka circuit back in March.
A heap of white and red scrap metal, completely mangled and deformed, wedged deep into the Tecpro tire barriers at the 130R corner.
The red flag waving amidst a grim, gray sky.
The image of a blood-stained stretcher. A shattered helmet. And then... a white-gloved hand hanging limply over the side of the stretcher. Ice cold. Lifeless. Ignoring a kid named Kimi in a Mercedes jacket kneeling and screaming his throat raw in the muddy slush, ignoring the pouring rain washing away all hope.
He had witnessed it all. With his own eyes. But he had refused to believe it. He feared the brutal reality so much that his brain had automatically activated its ultimate defense mechanism: *Madness*. He had taken that ultimate agony to build a beautiful, fake world—a world where time froze, where Ollie was still alive, still texting him every day, still vulnerably needing his protection, and still waiting for him to bring this championship home.
Kimi slowly let his arms drop. The struggling strength within his body vanished entirely. He gently pushed George away. His entire frame collapsed onto the carpeted floor, rigid as a statue carved from ice. His breath came in broken hitches, caught in his throat like the sound of an empty engine trying to sputter its final rotations. His cracked lips moved, emitting dry, meaningless sounds.
"No..." Kimi whispered, his eyes dull and hollow, staring at a blank point in space. "Ollie... he's so afraid of pain... That crash must have hurt so much... If he's hurt, he'll cry... He cries all the time... I have to go there and comfort him..."
"Kimi..." George called his teammate's name in agony, raising a bloody hand to cover his mouth to stop the desperate sobs from escaping.
Kimi retreated, crawling backward toward the dark corner of the room. He curled up, shrinking himself on the cold floor. He wrapped his arms tightly around his own frail shoulders, adopting a protective fetal position.
And then, a haunting, manic smile slowly etched itself onto Kimi's pale face. His eyes gleamed with a terrifyingly gentle, affectionate light. His Nomex-gloved hand slowly rose, hovering as it caressed the empty air in front of his chest—carefully, tenderly, as if he were truly running his fingers through soft, chestnut-brown curly hair.
"Shh... don't cry, Ollie... be good, sweet boy..." Kimi whispered, a sweet, soothing tone echoing through the silent room, punctuated by manic giggles rising from deep within his throat. Hot tears raced out of his eyes, streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto the carpet. "They're jealous, so they're lying to us. Don't be afraid of them. You're right here with me. I'm the champion... I brought the trophy back for you. If Haas doesn't want you, I'll take care of you... You love puppies, right? Tomorrow... tomorrow I'll take you to buy a whole pack of puppies... I love you..."
George buried his face in his hands against his knees, sobbing bitterly. He was completely helpless. The medical staff had warned them three months ago that Kimi Antonelli had shattered from the inside. The boy was merely using the final remnants of his madness to sustain his life, throwing himself onto the racetrack like a moth into a flame, capturing the ultimate glory only to offer it as a sacrifice to the phantom of the one he loved most.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli had officially become the greatest World Champion, dominating the grid with an unprecedented, record-breaking points tally. But beneath the applause, the brilliant fireworks, and the blinding aura of Abu Dhabi tonight, no one knew that the soul of the young king had drowned and perished under the freezing rain at the 130R corner in Suzuka three months ago. He was forever trapped in a blurred realm, a dark but beautiful psychological prison of his own making, where Oliver Bearman was still alive, still smiling gently, and still forever nestled in the arms of a lovesick madman who had lost everything in this world.