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Summary
Taeui was currently slumped over in a folding plastic chair in the McLaren garage, the noise of the busy paddock humming around him. The air smelled of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel, a scent that usually acted as a stimulant but today felt heavy and oppressive. He was staring at a telemetry screen, watching the jagged lines of speed and braking zones, but he couldn’t bother thinking about data right now. He was thinking about the way the Red Bull car drifted wide into the corners, and the driver inside it who drove with a reckless, predatory grace that made Taeui’s pulse spike every time they shared a grid.
Or: Passion, but make it Formula 1, where Taeui and Ilay are rivals fighting for the WDC.