Max Verstappen isn’t afraid of crashing.
Not really.

The fire, the spin, the smell of scorched rubber—he can live with those. He has, again and again. Risk, pain, pressure—it’s all part of the contract. What he is afraid of, deep down in the quiet hours, is being forgotten.

The silence after retirement.
The slow fade of his name from headlines.
The next prodigy, the next "once-in-a-generation" talent, the next roar that isn't his.

He sees it already: the way the paddock glances past him when a new rookie enters. The way old records are brought up less and less. He’s still young, but F1 is younger. The machine keeps moving. Even champions get archived.

So he drives.
And drives.
Harder. Madder. Louder.

He believes in numbers.