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Summary
Every point he’d gotten since Baku felt like something stolen. Like he’d been the one crashing Oscar’s car into walls, the one telling him to risk it all on every turn, or the one making him miserable after every race.
But—Brazil had been perfect. Right?
Oscar had crashed into a wall. Oscar had rammed into another car. Oscar had gotten a ten seconds penalty. And Lando had extended the lead by fifteen points.
Lando couldn’t be happier.