
2015 - Melbourne
They are barely twenty. Too loud. Too ambitious. Too alive for the world that’s about to swallow them.
Toro Rosso smells like engine oil, burnt rubber, and youth ... that heady mix of adrenaline and inexperience. Mechanics swarm around the cars like a blur of motion and static. Radios crackle. The pit lane roars.
Carlos tightens his suit, fingers fumbling over the zipper for the fifth time. The gloves feel too stiff. The air feels too heavy. He tries not to think about the fact that this is it ... his first Formula 1 race, the dream he’s chased since he could form coherent thought.
Max appears beside him like a gust of chaos. No nerves. No hesitation. Just that feral glint in his blue eyes, the one that says born for this.
“Stop overthinking, old man,” Max teases, tossing a towel at his face.

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