Carlos Sainz Jr. didn’t like the sound of engines first thing in the morning.
He preferred silk robes, slow breakfasts, muted jazz and long walks to nowhere. His days were measured in camera clicks and fabric textures, not lap times. If someone asked about his lineage, he’d smile politely and say “My father races. I live.”

Charles Leclerc, on the other hand, hadn’t had a slow day since he was twelve.
Every second mattered. A tenth lost in qualifying. A gear shift too late. The Ferrari, for all its grandeur, had begun to feel like a heartbreak machine. His fingers smelled like rubber and fuel; his voice always a little hoarse from yelling over radios and inside helmets.