A bone-chilling crisis pressed against his throat. One wrong move, and blood would be drawn. Over the past four months of brutal internal warfare, John Elkann remained acutely aware of the perilous situation. At the end of the chaos, turmoil, and endless darkness, Ferrari had finally overcome every obstacle. They had reversed their decline, turned the impossible into reality, and firmly grasped a sliver of dawn. Hope was reignited. Whether it was the board of directors or the Tifosi, the conservatives or the reformists, the Italian traditionalists or the modernizers, the management or the technical staff... in this moment, everyone was firmly united.
Yet, the hero who had achieved all of this was facing a backstab and potentially leaving Ferrari? The situation was unimaginable.
Externally, Elkann could perhaps smear Kai's name, shifting the blame entirely onto the driver and deceiving the Tifosi into believing Kai had betrayed Ferrari's trust. But now, Elkann couldn't be entirely certain that trick would work. Controlling the narrative was no longer a given. More importantly, there was the internal fallout. Outsiders might not know the truth, but the internal factions couldn't be hidden from it. He could fool the public, but he couldn't deceive the other predatory interest groups within the corporate conglomerate. If Elkann failed to retain Kai, it would become the ultimate weapon for rival factions to attack him. It would ignite an inferno that could consume Elkann entirely. Even as the conglomerate's anointed heir, he couldn't simply do whatever he pleased in front of the board. Losing Kai would be the true catalyst for disaster.
The timing, the momentum, the people... everything was on Kai's side. Elkann had originally planned to maneuver from the shadows and control the board, but he couldn't sit still any longer. He needed Jean Todt's help. Todt had been the key to Kai joining the Ferrari Driver Academy, and he was the critical link binding Sergio Marchionne's legacy with the interests of the Ferrari board.
Exhaling softly, Elkann turned to Todt. "Jean, this is a generational driver, and a generational opportunity for Ferrari. Are you really going to watch us let it slip away?"
Who said Elkann didn't know how to play the emotional card?
A faint smile touched Todt's eyes. "John, as I said, the answer is in your hands. It always has been, even as we speak right now."
Seeing through the facade, Todt knew Elkann wasn't genuinely begging for help because he feared Kai leaving. Elkann simply didn't want to hand Kai a massive, concession-heavy contract. If Ferrari simply offered a deal meeting all of Kai's demands, the driver would have no reason to leave. Ultimately, Elkann was still calculating. Even with a blade to his throat, he was still crunching the numbers. A true businessman. Todt actually admired it in a way; at least, he couldn't operate like that. But from another perspective, it was a good thing. It meant Elkann was cold-blooded and shrewd enough to sacrifice pawns without hesitation when necessary. Just like Sebastian Vettel.
The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix had just concluded. The post-race procedures weren't even finished, and the podium ceremony had yet to begin, but the paddock was already buzzing with frantic energy. It wasn't just Ferrari, Red Bull, and McLaren. A visible storm was forming with Kai at its epicenter, sweeping out across the grid. Yet, the protagonist standing in the eye of the storm seemed entirely oblivious, lost in the euphoric haze of the season's end.
"Kai!"
A wildly enthusiastic shout interrupted Kai's conversation with Zak Brown. Turning around, Kai was met with the ecstatic, beaming face of Anthoine Hubert. Bounding forward like a flea, Hubert practically sprinted up to Kai, pumping his fists and screaming at the top of his lungs.
"That overtake! Unbelievable! A stroke of absolute genius! How did you even think of that? How did you pull it off? It was incredible! And the softs! Boxing under the safety car! I was watching from the pit lane and I was absolutely stunned! God, you are a madman! A complete lunatic! And the championship! You're the champion!"
Yelling with joy, Hubert started hopping around Kai in a celebratory, almost shamanic dance. His infectious happiness and elation were practically burning up the air. Caught in the energy, Kai's smile broke out completely. "Champion! Champion!" He cheered right back at Hubert. Over in GP3, Hubert had just secured the championship title, fending off a fierce charge from his teammate Nikita Mazepin to uphold ART Grand Prix's legacy and continue his own meteoric rise.
Not far away, a grinning, shorter driver had been circling nearby. After a moment of hesitation, he couldn't resist and jumped into the fray. "Runner-up! Runner-up!" The newcomer was Lando Norris, the newly crowned Formula 2 vice-champion and a confirmed F1 rookie for the upcoming season. Kai and Hubert immediately added Norris to their cheering circle. Zak Brown took a half-step back, yielding the space to watch the young generation celebrate.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kai caught a glimpse of a figure trying to casually stroll past, pretending not to see them as he sneaked toward the mixed zone. He almost got away with it, but Kai's sharp eyes zeroed in.
"Charles!"
Charles Leclerc awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, turning around with a painfully forced smile. "Oh, yeah. Congrats. Congratulations!" With that, Leclerc prepared to flee. It wasn't that he didn't want to celebrate with Kai; he just desperately wanted to avoid making a fool of himself on camera.
Kai instantly saw through the facade. "Charles, come on!"
Norris and Hubert immediately joined the chorus, clapping and chanting, "Charles! Charles!"
Looking utterly exasperated, Leclerc waved them off. Without even pausing for a proper greeting, he scurried away, darting into the media pen with the frantic energy of a flying squirrel. The sheer comedic value of his escape sent Kai, Hubert, and Norris into fits of roaring laughter. Having finally reached the safety of the interview zone, Leclerc turned back, flashed a massive, genuine smile, and gave Kai two emphatic thumbs up. The atmosphere was incredibly vibrant.
Standing quietly in the crowd, George Russell finally reached his breaking point. Russell had believed that by securing the F2 Championship, he had proven himself. Even though he had lost out to Kai in GP3, he still believed he was the most talented driver in the junior ranks. Yet, in the blink of an eye, Kai had not only conquered Formula 1 but had dethroned Lewis Hamilton to become World Champion. The gap between them had been blown wide open. Standing there silently, a bitter taste flooded his mouth.
Russell just wanted to leave. He patted his roommate Alexander Albon on the shoulder, signaling it was time to go. Unexpectedly, Albon stood there completely unfazed, a look of longing on his face. "The podium ceremony hasn't even started yet."
Russell was speechless.
"George, do you think it would be too forward if I went over and introduced myself?" Albon asked with total sincerity.
Russell ignored Albon and turned to leave alone. He burned with the desire to enter the F1 paddock. He burned to prove himself. He burned to climb to the very top and win the World Championship. And most importantly, he burned to defeat Kai.
The scene didn't go unnoticed by the journalists. The season was over. In this tightly-knit paddock, some were departing, and others were arriving. Some were basking in glory, while others turned away in shadows. The off-track clashes and sparks were just as integral to Formula 1 as the racing itself. Their collective story was only just beginning. The media couldn't help but wonder: if this entire crop of young talent entered the grid, what kind of narrative would this generation, led by Kai, forge? The era of Hamilton and Nico Rosberg was fading into history. Who would define the next era alongside Kai? Max Verstappen? Charles Leclerc? Or perhaps these very rookies, carrying their dreams and staring down a future of infinite possibilities?
The upper echelons of the paddock were laced with political warfare, and the lower tiers were surging with undercurrents of ambition. The storm swirling around Kai was interweaving every facet of the sport.
But that was far from all. In the mixed zone, the media throng had turned feral. Their eyes were practically glowing green as they stared down their prey like a pack of starving wolves. You didn't even need to step close to smell the bloodlust surging in the air.
Then the dam broke.
"Kai!"
"Kai, over here!"
Wave after wave of frenzied shouting merged into a blinding, chaotic wall of sound. A tsunami of silver camera flashes crashed down on him. The sheer intensity was overwhelming. The journalists erupted with an energy that rivaled the most fanatical Tifosi, their distorted, desperate expressions hidden behind the blinding strobes. The deafening, machine-gun rattle of camera shutters slammed into his eardrums. His hearing temporarily gave out. The noise spiked past the threshold of human tolerance into an eerie vacuum, leaving only a deep, vibrating hum coursing through his veins. His vision whited out. A sprawling sea of aggressive silver flashes obliterated all color and shadow. A sharp sting lanced through his pupils, fading into temporary darkness, leaving only hazy, dancing spots of light in his field of view.
Despite having only been in the paddock for a single year, Kai had been in the spotlight from day one. He had seen the massive crowds, unlocked the doors to this new world, and grown intimately familiar with being the center of attention. But compared to the sheer scale of the spectacle before him now, everything else was a minor scuffle. Trivial. The noise and the chaos seemed to dissolve, transforming into a boiling heat that pumped directly into his bloodstream. His entire body hummed. His soul felt as though it were being scorched. This was the true center of the world. A place where you could feel the blistering heat of attention physically burning your skin. A place where every movement, every smile, could send ripples across the globe.
His footsteps hitched momentarily. Quickly recalibrating, he straightened his spine and marched forward, claiming his rightful place at the absolute epicenter of the lights, the cameras, and the narrative. Relying on muscle memory from Friday and Saturday, he found his mark in the media pen. Before Kai could even open his mouth, an ocean of arms thrust forward. Phones, dictaphones, and branded microphones were shoved violently toward his face, practically trying to jam themselves down his throat.
Kai took a half-step back, offering a polite, declining gesture. "I'm incredibly touched, but I'm afraid I can't accept all these gifts."
The air fell completely silent. Kai gave a soft shrug and opened his hands. "Well, it seems I used up all my luck on the track. The first joke absolutely bombed. I know you're all locked and loaded, so come on, fire away."
After a one-second delay, the entire pen erupted in roaring laughter. Totally unexpected. Nobody could have predicted that after driving a mind-bending, history-making, miraculous race, Kai would step up to the microphones and start cracking jokes. It immediately made his brief flicker of overwhelmed stiffness seem incredibly endearing. How could they forget? The kid standing in front of them had just turned nineteen two weeks ago. Classic Kai.
Amidst the surging chaos, Kai remained as composed as ever. He raised his hands in a mock surrender. "Ahem. I am now ready to accept your questions."
His effortless command of the room made the journalists laugh even harder. The atmosphere instantly shifted to one of genuine warmth. Even Will Buxton couldn't bring himself to ruin the mood. Finally, a reporter spoke up.
"Kai, how are you feeling right now?"
It was the most standard question in the book, yet Kai took a deep, exaggerated breath, as if he had just been handed a monumental task. The reporters chuckled again.
"I have no idea. Or rather, I'm not entirely sure. My brain is still spinning at two hundred miles an hour. I'm still hyper-focused on the race. Thousands of thoughts are boiling in my head. It feels like the Grand Prix hasn't actually finished yet. I need some time to process all this. You guys can leave your contact details, and I'll get back to you when I figure out an answer."
The media pen dissolved into fits of laughter. There was no pre-packaged PR fluff, no tear-jerking monologues. Just an honest, remarkably grounded answer coated in Kai's signature wit. Who could possibly resist that? The tension bled out of the journalists, and even their follow-up questions carried a joyful lilt.
"Kai, how on earth did you pull that off? I mean, that was an epic race. A defining moment of the season, a true championship shootout. Right up until the final corner of lap 54, the victory still looked like it belonged to Mercedes. But here we are, witnessing a miracle!" The reporter's voice trembled with emotion. In the world of sports, no one could resist the allure of such a monumental duel.
The corners of Kai's mouth quirked up. "I told you. I didn't have confidence, but we would win." It was delivered with the same casual, breezy confidence as before. But hearing that phrase now, compared to before the race, evoked an entirely different emotional weight.
"Trust me, I know how out of place I look in this paddock. And I'm not just talking about my face, even though I know you're all extremely jealous of how good I look. But..." Laughter rippled through the crowd, briefly interrupting him. Kai barely missed a beat. "I mean, I'm an anomaly who accidentally stumbled into the world of formula racing. Everyone has been watching me. Some with good intentions, some with not-so-good intentions."
"But right now, standing exactly where I am, I want to take this opportunity to send a message to all the kids out there who feel like they don't belong. The ones who feel like they can't fit into any environment. Please, keep being different. Keep being out of place. Because those sharp edges are exactly what give you your color. Don't let the rigid rules and boxes snuff out your creativity and your fire. Keep believing in the dream. And one day, when you're standing right here, pass the message along."
Hearts swelled. The blood rushed through their veins. Just as the moment threatened to tip over into overwhelming, tearful sentimentality, Kai's smirk returned in full force.
"Anthoine! Yes, I'm talking to you!"
Standing near the back of the crowd, Anthoine Hubert instantly became the center of attention. Amidst the roars of laughter and cheering, Hubert threw his hands in the air, bowing to the crowd and hamming it up for the cameras, pushing the vibrant atmosphere to its absolute peak. The crowd boiled over, and the journalists couldn't help but get swept up in the electric energy.
"Kai, the Tifosi have been waiting for this day for ten agonizing years. Countless dark, torturous nights. Even the most hardcore fans had nearly given up hope, fearing Ferrari had been left behind by the modern era. But you did it. You led Ferrari back to the championship throne. You broke the alternating dominance of Red Bull and Mercedes. You delivered Ferrari their first World Championship in the hybrid era. What do you have to say to that?"
It was the simplest, most mundane question possible, a standard press conference staple. Kai thought so too, preparing to fire off an immediate response. But entirely unexpectedly, a tidal wave of unimaginable emotion crashed into his chest. He froze. Every word died in his throat.
He wasn't a superhero. He certainly wasn't a savior. He had never intended to shoulder the crushing weight of Ferrari's renaissance, nor had he planned to become the team's spiritual leader. Everything that had happened was just a beautiful accident. Yet, it had happened. Step by agonizing step, he and Ferrari had arrived at this exact point to witness history and script a miracle. Without warning, the image of Sergio Marchionne sitting up in his hospital bed materialized in his mind. The resilient old man with a gentle smile saying: I have a blueprint. We are going to build it together. That grand, magnificent blueprint had been partially realized tonight. But Marchionne wasn't here to see it. The profound sorrow of that absence surged violently upwards. Kai couldn't hold it back anymore. His eyes went red. His shoulders slumped. Helpless, he let the scalding tears trace down his cheeks, standing there in absolute silence.
The greater the joy, the sharper the bitterness. The deeper the happiness, the heavier the grief. Standing at the absolute pinnacle of the sport only magnified the stinging regret of those who were missing. The noise continued to swirl around them. The night breeze carried the sounds of the Tifosi's wild, uninhibited celebrations, and the scent of gunpowder from the fireworks lingered heavily in the air. Yet, the media pen had fallen completely silent. Every journalist, every paddock staffer simply watched Kai. The vibrant, fearless rookie who had just scaled the absolute peak of his career, who had effortlessly charmed the media just seconds ago and should have been drowning in pure euphoria, was standing there weeping like a child, consumed by an uncontrollable sorrow.
Though no words were spoken, the journalists felt the crushing weight of that emotion. From Monza to Yas Marina, it had only been three short months. But that rollercoaster of a journey had been loaded with agonizing complexities. Only those who had lived through it could truly understand the bitter taste hidden within Kai's tears. Watching on televisions around the world, the celebrating Tifosi slowly quieted down. The roaring passion in their chests still burned, but the moment they saw the broadcast, time seemed to freeze. A profound, complex mixture of emotions blossomed on their tongues.
Finally, Kai lifted his head. Gathering his courage, he faced the cameras openly. He didn't even bother to wipe the messy tears from his cheeks. He simply stood tall, embracing the glare of the flashes, his eyes piercing through the blurry tears to stare firmly into the lenses.
"I'm sorry. We were one step short of the Constructors' Championship."
With that single sentence, millions of hearts shattered. The entire world of the Tifosi pressed pause. Overwhelmed with emotion, they stared at their screens, using their souls to gauge the raw weight and warmth of that moment.
"We won some, and we lost some. But no matter the outcome, we face it together. I know we are still the underdogs. Tonight's victory doesn't mean we are fully resurrected. The road back to absolute dominance is still long and brutal. But tonight is a revelation. It is a spark of light. We will keep pushing. We will keep fighting. I don't know what will happen next season, but I promise you this: we will fight with everything we have, right down to the very last second."
In front of televisions everywhere, figures quietly stood up, pulling their shoulders back and standing tall. Their spines seemed to physically absorb the energy radiating from his words.
"The Chairman told me that we are winners. Not just because we take home the trophies, but because no matter the adversity, no matter the situation, we never surrender our fighting spirit. Tonight, we are winners. Because Ferrari fought to the bitter end."
Every syllable struck like a hammer on an anvil. Fans took a deep breath, straightened their backs, and thrust their fists toward the sky.
Fight! One by one, the sparks ignited into a roaring prairie fire. Tifosi in every corner of the globe rose to their feet. No exceptions. Victory was worth celebrating, but it wasn't the whole story. They had secured the Drivers' Championship but agonizingly missed out on the Constructors' crown. It wasn't just the Tifosi; every motorsport fan could see that Sebastian Vettel, once the bearer of all their hopes, had been the ultimate disappointment. Never mind the unforced error leading the German Grand Prix at Hockenheim. Never mind the unnecessary lap-one collision with Hamilton at Monza while running second. Brazil alone was an unforgivable abdication of responsibility.
And Kai? Amidst overwhelming odds and brutal trials, he had single-handedly hoisted the Prancing Horse standard onto his shoulders. He fought relentlessly to the bitter end, dragging the team forward at maximum velocity, keeping the Constructors' battle alive until the checkered flag fell in Abu Dhabi. He had single-handedly illuminated Ferrari's season. It was a heart-wrenching, adrenaline-fueled season. It was a season scarred by regret. But it was also a season worth celebrating, worth etching into the history books. Ferrari red didn't just represent speed; it represented passion and unwavering combativeness. They would keep fighting. They would once again wear the Ferrari red with absolute pride. This wasn't the end. There was no need for sorrow or lingering regret, because a brand new page had been turned. A new chapter of Ferrari history was theirs to write. It wasn't just about restoring old glory or returning to the peak; it was about forging a brand new narrative and a totally new future. They had found their new leader, their new totem. They would inherit Ferrari's legacy and charge into a new era to write a new history.
"Fight!" One shout.
"Fight!" Another.
The screams echoing from around the globe miraculously merged into a single chorus. They didn't need to be organized; it was a spontaneous, primal eruption. The burning passion deeply rooted in their souls ignited, gathering into a massive tidal wave that crashed down upon Yas Marina like a waterfall plunging from the heavens.
When Max Verstappen stepped onto the podium, this was the sight that greeted him. A boundless ocean of Ferrari red stretched out before him, radiating raw passion and militant fervor. The fiercely united Tifosi were unleashing an energy unlike anything he had ever seen. There was a time when Ferrari was the undisputed king of the paddock. But a long decade of drought had eroded those memories, blurring the grandeur and brilliance of that era. Yet, looking out at the crowd, Verstappen's dormant memories began to awaken. He remembered tagging along with his father to the paddock as a child. He remembered sitting in "Uncle Michael's" lap, watching the engineers tweak the car's setup. He remembered standing at the edge of the pit lane, witnessing the Ferrari red absolute dominance over the asphalt. The entire world used to lose its mind over that splash of scarlet.
Memories he thought had faded or vanished entirely surged vividly through his mind. Unconsciously, Verstappen's own blood began to pump faster. For months, he had obsessed over his 'youngest-ever' records being obliterated by Kai. He felt as if the very foundations of his status in the paddock were crumbling. The crushing expectations from Helmut Marko and his own father had pushed him to the brink of a breakdown. He had internalized the pressure, turning brutally critical of himself and retreating into silence. But now, staring at the awakened sea of red resurrected by Kai, those childhood memories came flooding back. He remembered gazing up at his father and Schumacher with pure adoration. He remembered desperately dreaming of climbing into one of those beautiful machines. He remembered the primal hunger to race, to push the absolute limits of speed.
Uncontrollably, his own fighting spirit reignited. Tonight, Kai had won beautifully. Whether it was tactical brilliance or raw racing instinct, that sheer audacity and courage had rightfully earned him his first World Championship. He deserved every ounce of applause. But Verstappen wasn't going to stand still. He wasn't going to let himself be chained to broken records. He had to shake off the rust and catch up immediately. This clash of generational talents was only just beginning. A fierce grin crept onto his lips, and Verstappen quietly allowed himself to absorb the energy of the carnival. It had been another wildly disappointing, below-expectations season for Red Bull, but in this moment, Verstappen was overflowing with hope. The chaotic, foggy haze of his paddock existence seemed to finally clear, letting in a ray of dawn. His metamorphosis was complete.
Then, Verstappen looked over at Lewis Hamilton.
Emotionless. Still as a monk deep in meditation. But upon closer inspection, one could spot the profound disappointment and frustration etched between his brows. Despite his best efforts to suppress it, the competitive fire leaked through, an intense energy forged from anger, heartbreak, suffocation, and a burning desire to win. Perhaps no one but Hamilton himself would ever truly know which stung more: losing a race he had seemingly held in the palm of his hand to miss out on five consecutive titles, or watching Kai use his shoulders as a stepping stone to accomplish the very rookie miracle Hamilton had once so desperately sought. It was a brutally severe psychological test. Verstappen didn't envy Hamilton's position right now in the slightest.
And sure enough, when Kai was finally called to the podium, Hamilton's true test began.
"Fight!"
"Fight!"
The chants rolled in like waves, continuous and absolute. The moment Kai stepped onto the podium, he effortlessly ignited the crowd. The heat shot straight to the heavens. The entire world was spinning at high speed on Kai's axis. Hamilton stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed, eyes lowered. Expressionless. Refusing to react. He maintained an aura of polite, restrained calm, yet the rigid tension in his neck and shoulders leaked an icy chill. It was a coldness pushed so far to the extreme that it looped back around into burning heat. Whether it was pure rage, competitive fire, or a volatile mix of both, the man was practically radiating flames.
The noise, the heat, and the passion formed a tempest, swallowing everyone whole. "Fight!" It wasn't just a chant; it was an expulsion of deeply rooted energy. Resolute, uncompromising, and tenacious. It twisted into a unified force, sparking with unbelievable intensity. The sound crashed like thunder against the asphalt, echoing relentlessly between the sky and the earth. It felt as though the very atmosphere beneath the Abu Dhabi night sky was vibrating with the heat.
Standing in the packed crowd, Francesco Nappi looked like a mummy. His left arm and left leg were heavily bandaged, and the medical center staff had jokingly wrapped his uninjured head in gauze for good measure. Not only the Ferrari crew, but mechanics from rival garages were practically doubling over with laughter at the sight of him. But Nappi didn't care. He just tilted his head up, locking eyes on the figure standing atop the highest step of the podium. Just nineteen years old. Young, green, supposedly clueless about formula racing. Yet, relying on nothing but raw guts and fighting spirit, he had led them on an unimaginable crusade.
Champions! They were World Champions! Ferrari was on top of the world again!
The moment Kai hoisted the championship trophy high into the air, Nappi lost all control. Forgetting everything, he screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Captain!"
It was the only word in his head. Not 'Rookie', not 'Ferrari's Golden Boy', not even 'Kai'. Just, Captain! He had heard Borreipaire use it half-jokingly over the radio during the race, and it had seared itself into his brain. He couldn't forget it. It was the most perfect, fitting title. He kept screaming it, venting the last remaining drops of energy in his body. Tears streamed down his face, but his smile broke through, uncontrollable and absolute.
Laurent Mekies was stunned, completely unprepared for the outburst. Before he could even process it, Jock Clear, a man who thrived in chaos, bellowed the word out too. Mekies nudged Clear hard, shooting him a warning glare and gesturing subtly toward Maurizio Arrivabene's visibly sour expression. Clear couldn't have cared less. He looked at Mekies, flashed a cheeky grin, and kept screaming like an overgrown kid, entirely ignoring Arrivabene's reaction.
"Captain!"
A second later, Borreipaire joined the chant. Then Mattia Binotto. Seeing the heavyweights of the pit wall fall in line, the rest of the crew followed suit. The situation entirely spiraled out of control. Mekies let out a helpless chuckle. Stealing a quick glance at the stone-faced Arrivabene up near the podium, Mekies temporarily erased Sebastian Vettel's face from his mind, threw off his corporate burdens, and joined the roar. The feeling was bizarre yet incredibly moving. It was just an ordinary noun, but the moment it left their lips, their blood boiled uncontrollably. The brutal, thorny journey from Melbourne to Abu Dhabi came rushing back, culminating in a violent eruption of pure joy and happiness. Unconsciously, they shouted louder and louder, the euphoria building with every breath. Over and over. The chant rippled outward, transforming into an ocean spreading across Yas Marina.
Standing on the top step of the podium, Kai froze. He looked down at the magnificent scarlet sea, unified in their passionate, full-throated roar. That single word, Captain, was so heavy, so blistering hot, that it felt like it was searing his chest. It struck him completely off guard, unleashing an overwhelming torrent of complex emotions.
It wasn't just the man himself, nor just the podium. Standing in the VIP suite, Jean Todt looked down with his arms crossed over his chest, a natural smile touching his lips. He hadn't realized just how much he missed life on the front lines, the intoxicating joy of victory, the agonizing torture of defeat, all culminating in the overwhelming sense of fulfillment when finally reclaiming the throne. It filled his chest completely.
A figure stepped up beside him. Todt instinctively turned his head. Without waiting for a greeting, Bernard Arnault spoke first. "A spectacular sight, isn't it?" A short distance behind them, Frédéric Arnault stood sharply dressed in a tailored suit, gazing out at the red sea with his chest puffed out, radiating the proud arrogance of youth. Todt shifted his gaze back to the elder Arnault. He knew their every move was being heavily monitored. A meeting between the CEO of LVMH and the President of the FIA in Abu Dhabi, throw in a local Sheikh, and it was the ultimate power summit. Clearly, Arnault knew this too, yet he had shown up anyway.
Todt flashed a brilliant smile. "We've all been waiting for this."
A short sentence, loaded with profound implications. Todt was right.
Down in the crowd, James Gay-Rees, the producer from Box to Box Films responsible for the Netflix documentary, was physically absorbing the rolling waves of heat. His feet could barely touch the ground; he was simply drifting with the current of the mob. Gay-Rees was drowning in regret. Netflix had the opportunity to capture history, to document a miracle. But they had watched the era-defining protagonist slip right through their fingers. They were reduced to mere spectators, entirely missing the chance to chronicle the blood-soaked, championship-deciding war between Mercedes and Ferrari. It was a colossal missed opportunity. Looking at the podium, and then back at the sprawling masses of Yas Marina, Gay-Rees had a terrifyingly strong premonition: this was only the beginning. If Netflix didn't want to miss the boat entirely, they had to seize the off-season. They needed to drag the FIA, Netflix executives, Ferrari, and Mercedes back to the negotiating table for an emergency summit. Listen. The deafening roars echoing beneath the night sky were the ultimate bargaining chip. This level of fanaticism, this sheer religious fervor, was a rare spectacle in any sport. In that moment, the first parallel that popped into Gay-Rees' mind was Lionel Messi.
"Captain!"
The next second, Kai was drenched in ice-cold champagne. A literal chill to the bone! Whipping his head around, Kai saw Max Verstappen laughing hysterically, reveling in the chaos. The Red Bull driver was unleashing a sustained champagne barrage aimed squarely at Kai, seemingly taking revenge for the brutal on-track battles. Even over the deafening noise of the crowd, Verstappen's unrestrained laughter rang clear. Seeing Kai look disheveled was apparently the best medicine.
All the touching sentiment and overwhelming emotion instantly evaporated. Leaning into the champagne fountain, Kai snatched his own magnum of Ferrari Trento, shaking it violently to build pressure. Braving Verstappen's continued fire, Kai closed the distance in three quick strides, shoved the neck of the bottle right down the collar of Verstappen's race suit, and pulled the trigger.
Ice cold! That was Verstappen's immediate realization. One second he was the life of the party, the next he was being absolutely obliterated. Verstappen tried to return fire, only to realize his ammunition was spent. Left with no choice, he fled in a panicked scramble. Watching Verstappen hop wildly around the podium like a fish violently flopping on a riverbank sent the entire paddock into fits of laughter. Down below, the Ferrari crew erupted into playful shoving and celebrating. Even the previously somber Mercedes mechanics finally cracked, shaking off the gloom to celebrate their own monumental Constructors' achievement.
And with that, the 2018 Formula 1 season, every race, every rivalry, every brutal battle, officially brought down its curtain. End of the season!