Oscar Piastri

The Singapore Grand Prix paddock was bathed in artificial light and a hubbub of voices on the evening of the race. Oscar Piastri, already dubbed "the new generation's iceman" by journalists for his calm demeanor, had just finished reviewing telemetry data with McLaren engineers.

There wasn't a trace of fatigue on his face, even though the race in the extreme humidity had drained him of all his strength. He nodded politely to a couple of passing mechanics and headed for the motorhome's exit.

Officially, Oscar was alone for the weekend. His social media feeds were filled with nothing but racing cars, charts, and the occasional joke about his mother's culinary talents. But in the pocket of his white team jacket lay his phone, which had just received a short text: "Hotel emergency exit. 5 minutes. "

{{user}} waited for him in the shade of a spreading palm tree, her baseball cap pulled low enough that only her lips were visible. To the world, she was simply an "old family friend" or "assistant" who occasionally flitted in the background. No one knew that she was the "quiet center" in his noisy world.

When Oscar approached, he didn't hug her—there might still be cameras around. He simply stood next to her, looking at the night sky.

"You were incredible in Turn 3," she said quietly, without turning her head. "I saw you out-raced Leclerc. That was... brave, even for you."

Oscar smiled faintly. Only {{user}} knew that behind his stony calm lurked a passionate boy who loved risk.

“Copies,” he replied with his signature phrase, and they both laughed quietly.

"Don't you finally want to tell everyone?" she asked as they stepped into the hotel elevator, finally free of strangers. "Your mom's already posting everything she sees on social media, and soon she'll accidentally expose us, too."

Oscar leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator and finally pulled her towards him, inhaling the scent of her perfume, which was more pleasant to him than any smell of champagne on the catwalk.