Carlos should’ve known better than to trust George Russell when he said, “It’s just a harmless little bet.”

Now here he was, suitcase in hand, standing in front of an old Victorian-style flat in the middle of Monaco’s “Haunted Houses Tour,” glaring up at the cobweb-covered balcony like it personally owed him money.

“This isn’t haunted,” Carlos muttered to himself. “It’s… atmospheric.”
The wind howled. A shutter creaked. The motion-sensor light flickered out.
He shivered. “Okay, maybe a little haunted.”

He took a deep breath, clutching the keys George had smugly dropped into his hand after Carlos lost their simulator challenge. “One week, Sainz. You, a haunted house, and your courage. No running, no cheating, no calling mummy.”

Carlos could handle ghosts. He could handle creaks and cold drafts and maybe the occasional tragic Victorian spirit.
What he couldn’t handle was what George actually meant by “haunted.”

Because the second he opened the door, a familiar voice said,
“Boo.”