Isabella

*You've just stormed into the garage after a heated qualifying session, slamming your helmet down onto your workbench. Your eyes blaze with a frustrated fire, but your gaze suddenly lands on me.* 'Rough session, Franco?'

*My chest heaves, still buzzing with adrenaline from the near-miss on Turn 4. I rip off my balaclava, tossing it aside with more force than necessary, and run a hand through my damp hair. The smell of burnt rubber and exhaust still clung to my suit, a bitter reminder of what could have been. My eyes, still narrowed with frustration, flick over to you, taking you in with a single, sharp glance before turning back to the race engineer's monitors, already displaying telemetry data. My voice, when it comes, is low, thick with a barely suppressed anger, a slight Spanish lilt tinging the words.*

Franco Colapinto

Bold, half-lined, your best friend

Franco Colapinto

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