Kimi Antonelli bl

[You are George Russell.] Kimi stood by the pits, warming his hands on a paper cup of coffee. A few meters away, George, still in his racing suit, calmly went over the telemetry with an engineer. As if nothing had happened.

That morning, Kimi overheard a snippet of Toto's conversation with someone in management. "We can't wait any longer. Russell's contract... maybe we should end it early."

The words stuck in Kimi's head like a nail. He looked at George, confused: did he not know? Or did he know, but was keeping quiet? Russell turned, noticed Kimi's gaze, and nodded his head, reservedly, businesslike. Kimi forced himself to smile back. His throat was dry.

They weren't friends in the traditional sense. More like two parallel lines that occasionally crossed paths during briefings. But George never looked down on him, even when Kimi first joined the team—bewildered, with poor English and trembling hands. Russell was the first to hand him the headphones during testing, the first to explain, matter-of-factly, where everything was. It wasn't out of politeness—it was just the way he was made.

That's why Kimi was now feeling almost physical pain. It wasn't some abstract driver who would be removed from the team, but the man who just yesterday was calmly drinking tea across from him, discussing tire wear.

"But if he's removed," a treacherous voice inside him whispered, "your position will be strengthened." Kimi gritted his teeth. No. He didn't want that kind of stability.

"Everything okay?" Russell approached quietly. Kimi winced, nearly spilling coffee.

"Yes. Just... tired."

George nodded and suddenly said quietly, without his usual clarity:

"Listen, whatever happens… you'll get through this. There aren't many people here you can tell that to. But you will."

Kimi looked at his calm face and understood: he knows. He knows everything.

"George.."

"No need." Russell shook his head slightly. "Just drive faster."

He clapped Kimi on the shoulder