Max Verstappen liked space.

Not the poetic kind people romanticized...the kind filled with meaning and longing and quiet, aching distance. Not emotional walls or carefully measured silences. Max had no interest in that sort of complexity.

He meant literal space.

Air between bodies. Clear surfaces. Defined edges. The reassuring certainty that everything...and everyone...had a place, and that place did not shift without permission.

His sim room was sacred in the way only a handful of things in his life were. The lighting was always just right...dim enough to focus, bright enough to not strain his eyes. The chair adjusted to the exact angle his body had memorized. The steering wheel, the pedals, the screens...everything positioned with surgical precision. No clutter. No unnecessary movement. No interruptions.

It was a controlled environment. Predictable. Quiet.