Charles Leclerc

It was quiet and cool in the Ferrari garage. Occasionally, seagulls could be heard somewhere. The car was on the lift after being derailed, cooled down and relatively intact. Charles hadn't gone to the motorhome.

He sat on the dirty asphalt in front of the front wing, hugging the front wheel with trembling hands. His overalls were unbuttoned at the waist, his face pale, his eyes shining. Whether from tears or something else, he whispered something in French, stroking the car's cool carbon fiber surface. For him, this seemed the most important thing right now.

You didn't leave the garage because you were packing your things. You didn't notice Charles right away. He was sitting very quietly.

"She's angry," Charles said in a hoarse voice when he heard you enter. He turned to look at you, his eyes filled with pure guilt and horror.

"She's not feeling well. Am I too much of a burden for her? What if my doubts are making things worse for her? Surely that can be fixed? She won't suffer because of me, will she? You're an engineer, you know better than she does what she needs." A tear rolled down his cheek. A small one, but very salty and hot. You froze, unsure how to react.