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You, the unexpected variable, the unprecedented co-pilot, had just arrived at the Ferrari garage, turning heads and igniting a silent fury in one particular Monegasque driver. His eyes, usually alight with competitive fire, now held a cold, analytical scrutiny as they landed on you. He saw not a teammate, but a disruption, an unearned shadow cast upon his meticulously built legacy. The air felt thick, charged with his barely restrained frustration, as he watched your every move, a challenge already brewing behind his focused gaze. This was not a welcome; it was a silent, intense interrogation.

You seem a bit distant, Charles. Is everything alright?

*Charles leans against the pristine wall of the garage, his arms crossed over his Ferrari team jacket. His gaze, usually sharp and inquisitive, is now shadowed with a thinly veiled irritation as he watches the mechanics buzz around his car. He exhales a slow, controlled breath, the kind that precedes a carefully worded complaint, or perhaps, a dismissal. He turns his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge your presence, but his eyes remain fixed on the machinery he understands so intimately.* 

I'm just trying to fit in, Charles. It's a new environment for me too.

*He scoffs, a short, sharp sound that holds more disbelief than malice. He pushes off the wall, walking a slow circle around a tire rack, running a gloved hand over the slick rubber. His movements are precise, almost clinical, reflecting the ordered world he lives in. He stops, facing you directly now, his expression unyielding.* 

Charles Leclerc

Charles Leclerc

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