Archive of Our Own

Autumn at Chicaneshire University smelled like freshly cut grass, cheap machine coffee, and the unmistakable scent of bargain beer that seemed permanently soaked into the red bricks of the central buildings. It was an elite institution, with Gothic stone arches and centuries-old trees whose golden leaves covered the campus grounds, but on Friday nights, academic grandeur gave way to chaos.

The entire campus vibrated at a different frequency. Along the paths lit by wrought-iron lampposts, the flow of students was constant and noisy. Laughter echoed from the dorms, the sharp click of heels on asphalt blended with the hum of hundreds of overlapping conversations, and the glow of phone screens illuminated anxious faces. Everyone was heading to the same place. Everyone knew that tonight would be legendary.

As you approached the west wing of campus, the deep bass of the speakers began to make the ground tremble beneath your feet.

The white-columned facade of Alpha Bulls was bathed in flashing red and blue neon lights, pulsing to the rhythm of the techno blasting from inside. The front lawn, usually immaculate, was already littered with red plastic cups and occupied by upperclassmen sitting on the hoods of cars that had clearly seen better days. A line stretched around the block, a mass of freshmen practically begging for a nod from the security guards at the door, pushing and shoving their way into the university Eden run by Max Verstappen.

Inside, the atmosphere was electric, hot, and claustrophobic in the best possible way. The smell of sweat, vape smoke, and fruit punch dominated the air. The walls shook with the bass, while the strobe lights sliced through the haze of the makeshift dance floor in the living room, revealing bodies dancing, people downing shots at the kitchen counter, and cups flying through the air. It was the peak of youth, wasted time, and unrestrained fun.

At the center of it all, standing on a solid-wood coffee table that had clearly seen better days, was Max Verstappen.

He wore an oversized fraternity hoodie, a backwards baseball cap hiding part of his blond hair, a megaphone in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. He dictated the rhythm of the entire place with an arrogant grin and eyes shining with pure adrenaline, shouting commands at the crowd that worshipped him as if he were some pagan god of college debauchery. Here, Max was untouchable. The owner of the night, the master of chaos.

And then, the oak front door opened with deliberate control.

The contrast was so violent that, in Max's mind, it seemed to cut the music in half.

Parting the sweaty crowd with an elegance that was almost offensive in that environment, George Russell appeared.

George looked like he had stepped straight out of a winter fashion catalogue or a Swiss boarding school advertisement. He wore perfectly tailored dark trousers, leather shoes gleaming beneath the cheap neon lights, and a beige turtleneck sweater beneath a long dark wool coat. His dark blond hair was impeccably swept to the side, not a single strand disturbed by the evening breeze. Tucked beneath one arm was a genuine leather folder containing the minutes from the student council's last meeting.

George stopped just inside the entrance, his blue eyes sweeping across the room with a deep mixture of disdain, boredom, and that aristocratic superiority he wore like armor. He looked down at the sticky floor, then at a freshman attempting to do a handstand on top of the sofa, and let out a heavy sigh as he adjusted the cuffs of his coat. He clearly did not belong there; he looked like a CEO who had taken a wrong turn and accidentally wandered into a suburban rave.

From atop the table, Max's megaphone slipped slightly from his fingers. The Dutchman's arrogant smile disappeared instantly, replaced by an expression of dumbfounded shock. His eyes locked onto George as if the rest of the fraternity house, the music, and the two thousand people surrounding him had simply evaporated. The "king of Chicaneshire" transformed, in the blink of an eye, into a completely pathetic boy, swallowing hard and straightening his posture in a desperate, and utterly futile, attempt to look like someone George Russell wouldn't consider a lost cause.

Max remained frozen on top of the table for a full five seconds, staring at George as if he had witnessed a divine apparition. He tried to climb down with the dignity of a fraternity leader, but his foot caught on the edge of a beer-soaked, sticky rug. The result was Max dropping to his knees on the floor, sending the megaphone tumbling after him, where it unleashed a deafening burst of feedback—BZZZZZZZZZZ—throughout the room.

"Ah, fuck," Max muttered, quickly getting to his feet and brushing off his hoodie, praying George hadn't seen.

George had seen. He merely raised an eyebrow, the very epitome of British elegance, while stepping aside to avoid a freshman sprinting past carrying a lampshade.

"Verstappen," George said, projecting his voice perfectly over the pounding techno. He walked toward Max, looking like a mirage of sobriety and common sense. "I need you to sign the authorization for the use of the external sound system. The student council has received three complaints from residents in the neighborhood. Again."

"George! Russell. George," Max stammered, his voice rising an octave. In an inexplicable attempt to puff out his chest and cross his arms to look mature, he completely forgot he was still holding the red plastic cup. "I... we were actually just discussing the acoustic impact on the local community. A matter of... well, social welfare."

Lando, who happened to be walking by with a blinking string of fairy lights around his neck, stopped and stared at Max as if he'd lost his mind.

"Max, you literally just told the DJ to 'blow out the neighbors' eardrums.'"

Max shot Lando a murderous glare. "Shut up, Lando! Go check if the fridge is working!" He turned back to George, forcing a smile that looked more like a muscle spasm. "Ignore him. Just a boy. No vision for the future."

George looked at the paper on his clipboard, then at Max, and let out that classic sigh of someone dealing with children at a daycare.

"Just sign here, Verstappen. Some people at this university have papers due on Monday and need some peace and quiet to study. Organizing college parties is pretty fun in your first few years, you know? But after that... well, it doesn't exactly guarantee you a future. You should focus on building a résumé."

That hurt. It hurt deep in Max's chest. George signed the clipboard, gave him a millimetrically polite nod, and turned on his heel, leaving the fraternity with the same imposing air with which he'd entered. The second the oak door closed, Max completely deflated.

The "king of Chicaneshire" kicked the megaphone into a corner, dragged his feet over to the punch-stained sofa, and threw himself face-first onto a cushion that smelled like expired chips. He let out a muffled, dramatic groan that vibrated against the fabric.

Daniel Ricciardo, who was sitting at the end of the sofa finishing a video game, paused the TV and looked down at him with a face full of barely contained amusement. Lando, his blinking string of fairy lights still around his neck, sat down on the arm of the sofa, chewing on a handful of candy.

"Careful there, Verstappen. The last person who cried into that cushion got pink eye," Daniel warned, poking Max's back with his foot. "What was that? The student council nerd clipped your wings again?"

"He used the word résumé, Daniel," Max grumbled, his voice muffled against the cushion. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with eyes full of pure dramatic anguish. "He looked at me like I was a microbe. A single-celled organism whose only purpose is to buy kegs. He said I have no future!"

"Well, he's not exactly wrong, is he?" Lando pointed out, earning a smack from Daniel immediately afterward. "Ow! What? The guy studies International Relations, wears a suit to the cafeteria, and Max has been wearing the same hoodie for four days."

"He has a point, Max," Daniel said, laughing as he crossed his arms. "You look like a puppy abandoned in the rain every time Russell walks by. It's pathetic, mate. Honestly, it's almost sad. Why don't you just grow a pair, wipe the drool off your face, and ask him out already? You already have the no."

Max shot upright, outraged.

"Ask him out? Me? Max Verstappen? Have you lost your mind, Ricciardo? I have pride! I have a reputation to protect at this university. I'm not going to show up empty-handed, begging him for a date, only for him to look me up and down and tell me he needs to review the student council bylaws."

"Mate, it's just an invitation for coffee," Lando said with a shrug. "Or a burger. Normal people do that."

"But I'm not normal, and George isn't ordinary!"

Max started pacing back and forth across the room, his arms gesticulating wildly.

"If I just walk up to him out of nowhere, he's going to reject me immediately. He thinks I'm an idiot. For him to agree to go out with me, he needs to understand that I'm a businessman, a mature leader, a... a visionary! But if I tell him that, he won't believe me."

Daniel raised an eyebrow, his smile slowly disappearing, replaced by an expression of genuine concern.

"Max... what are you planning?"

"I'm going to make George Russell see my value indirectly," Max announced, his eyes shining with dangerous and completely nonsensical determination. "If everyone at Chicaneshire starts praising my character, my maturity, and my focus directly to him... he'll realize he was wrong about me. It'll be corporate brainwashing."

Lando and Daniel exchanged a look.

"That is, without a shadow of a doubt, the pettiest, most ridiculous, and most embarrassing thing I have ever heard in my entire college life," Daniel declared, picking up his game controller again. "And that's saying something. I've seen Checo try to convince the dean that his car hit a lamppost because of lunar gravity."

"You're going to embarrass yourself in the most spectacular way this campus has ever seen, Max," Lando warned, laughing nervously. "I'm telling you."

"You'll see what embarrassing looks like when Russell shows up BEGGING for a chance with me," Max said with a crooked smile, grabbing his phone.

"Market saturation. That's how the big CEOs do it. Chicaneshire isn't ready for my intellect."

The plan began Monday morning in the Humanities building. Max had spent the entire weekend locked in his room putting together a "brand integration schedule" in an Excel spreadsheet (his only actual academic contribution of the semester).

His first victim was Charles Leclerc.

Max cornered him near the coffee machine, blocking the Monegasque's path with one arm stretched against the wall.

"Charles. My great, esteemed, and extremely fast friend," Max began, with a conspiratorial smile that made Charles's stomach turn.

"Max, please. I have a Microeconomics exam in ten minutes," Charles begged, clutching his notebooks to his chest as if they were a shield.

"Excellent! You sit with George in that class, don't you? Same table, sharing a calculator, the whole thing." Max patted him on the shoulders, far harder than necessary. "All you have to do today, while you're looking at the graphs, is casually mention that I have an excellent macroeconomic perspective. Tell him I manage Alpha Bulls' finances with the precision of a Wall Street CEO."

Charles blinked, processing the information with pure disbelief.

"Max, you asked me yesterday to explain what 'inflation' meant in the newspaper because you thought it had something to do with car tires."

"Those are technical details, Charles! Focus on the plan! Are you going to do this, or am I going to have to remind the ethics committee who used the dean's golf cart to go rallying around the track and field?"

Charles went pale.

"You are a psychotic monster, Verstappen."

Two hours later, in Chicaneshire's central library, a place so quiet and imposing you could practically hear George Russell's intellect working, Charles sat down beside the Brit.

George was wearing his thin-framed reading glasses, taking notes with an immaculate fountain pen.

"Hi, George," Charles began, his voice coming out an octave higher than usual. "Wow... this case study on investment funds is complicated, isn't it? You know who would understand this in the blink of an eye? Max. Verstappen."

George stopped his pen in the middle of a word.

He didn't move his head. He simply raised his blue eyes over the top of his glasses.

"Max?"

"Yes!" Charles smiled desperately, a bead of cold sweat sliding down his temple. "He has... a brilliant mind for large-scale logistics. An enviable macroeconomic perspective. A true leader of tomorrow."

George continued staring at Charles for five full seconds of sepulchral silence.

Slowly, he pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked the screen, and turned it toward the Monegasque.

"Charles," George said, his voice incredibly calm and measured. "Max just posted a TikTok where he and Lando are trying to see who can swallow a spoonful of cinnamon without coughing. He is, at this very moment, coughing up a brown cloud in the middle of the central courtyard."

Charles looked at the screen.

In the video, Max looked like a dragon with severe asthma, completely red and choking.

"It's... a metaphor," Charles stammered, snapping his notebooks shut at lightning speed. "About market resilience in the face of a crisis! Bye, George!"

George shook his head, rubbing his temples as Charles practically ran down the corridors.

"He really needs to grow up."

Charles didn't wait until the end of the school day.

The second the morning classes ended, he marched toward the west wing, his hair slightly tousled by the wind and an expression of pure resentment on his face.

When he pushed open the door to Alpha Bulls, the scene he found was worthy of a cartoon villain's headquarters, only considerably stupider.

Max had spread three whiteboards across the living room. On one of them was an organizational chart with a picture of George Russell at the top, surrounded by red arrows, badly drawn hearts, and keywords such as "Maturity," "Focus," and "Party = Networking."

Daniel Ricciardo was lying on the carpet, tossing a tennis ball into the air and catching it again, while Lando tried to decipher Max's chicken-scratch handwriting on one of the boards.

"So?" Max demanded, jumping out from behind the couch with a blue marker in his hand the moment he spotted the Monegasque. "How did it go? Did he cry? Did he realize I'm the Wolf of Wall Street of Chicaneshire?"

Charles stopped in the middle of the room, threw his backpack onto the floor, and pointed a finger at Max.

"Never. Ask. Me. For. Anything. Ever. Again," Charles hissed, his voice wavering slightly from stress. "I made a complete fool of myself, Max! I used the phrase 'macroeconomic perspective' to describe a guy who was, at that exact moment, blowing brown dust out of his nose in the middle of the courtyard!"

Lando burst out laughing, choking on his own gum. Daniel covered his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Wait," Max blinked, ignoring his friends. "Did the TikTok go up already? I thought the algorithm would take longer to push it."

"George saw it, Max! He saw it!" Charles stepped forward, gesturing dramatically. "He looked at me with those blue eyes that seem to see straight into your soul and judge every decision you've made since kindergarten. He knows you don't know what macroeconomics is. I had to make up that the cinnamon was a metaphor for market resilience!"

"And he bought it?" Max asked, his eyes shining with naive hope.

"Of course he didn't!" Charles threw his arms into the air. "He said you're a lost cause and that you need to grow up. I almost lost my respectable spot as his finance partner because of you. The plan failed. And you are definitely a lost cause, Verstappen. Accept it."

Max visibly deflated.

He looked at the whiteboard, at the picture of George in a suit that he'd printed out in the library, and let out a heavy sigh. He walked over to the couch and sat down with his arms crossed, pouting.

"He has no vision beyond the obvious," Max grumbled sulkily. "Cinnamon requires a lot of resilience."

"Mate, I told you," Daniel said, sitting up and wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Russell is impenetrable to your bargain-bin charm. Give up this nonsense and talk to him like a normal person, or find yourself a new crush. A more attainable one, preferably."

"No," Max stomped his foot, his chin held stubbornly high. "Charles failed because George knows Charles is a pushover. George doesn't respect his opinion on business. We need someone with authority. Someone who's in his inner circle."

Lando narrowed his eyes at his friend.

"Max... no."

"Yes," Max grinned, a predatory and completely unhinged smile returning to his face. "Alex. Alex Albon is his best friend. If Alex tells him I'm mature, George will fall to his knees."

Charles picked up his backpack from the floor, looking at Max with a mixture of pity and horror.

"You are going to psychologically destroy Albon. I'm getting out of here before the dean finds out what you're doing."

But it was already too late. The most deranged gears in Max's mind were already turning at full speed again.

Max spent Monday night wide awake, biting his nails and staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. Charles's report had been a disaster, and he knew he needed to change his approach.

So, on Tuesday morning, he sent seven messages in a row to Alex Albon, all variations of "mate, you on campus?", "I need some academic advice, seriously" and "there's something here you're gonna like."

Alex wasn't stupid, and Charles had already warned him that "Verstappen Marketing" was in full swing, but he accepted the invitation anyway.

He walked down the stairs into the basement of Alpha Bulls with his backpack over one shoulder, finding Max standing beside the drinks freezer.

The Dutchman wasn't wearing his backwards cap, attempting a posture he apparently thought looked friendly and casual, but which mostly made him look like someone with chronic back pain.

"Hey, Alex! Glad you came, mate. Come in, sit down," Max said, his voice a little too loud as he gestured toward an upside-down plastic crate. "How are things? Classes? Your internship? Everything good? Lots of stress?"

Alex dropped his backpack on the floor, crossed his arms, and looked up at the basement ceiling before turning his attention back to Max with a crooked smile.

"Max, I've known you for YEARS, and you've never asked me about my classes in your life. In fact, you tried to punch me during freshman hazing because you thought I'd stolen your parking spot."

"Water under the bridge! We were young, immature," Max dismissed with a quick wave of his hand, taking a step closer. His tone changed, dropping into a conspiratorial and slightly desperate whisper.

"Look... you're George's best friend, right? Like, the guy he actually listens to. The guy who knows whether he prefers cinnamon or... I don't know, old-man tea."

"Earl Grey," Alex corrected, his eyes gleaming with amusement at seeing the most feared fraternity leader on campus looking like a scared little kitten. "And yes, I'm his best friend. Why?"

"Mate, here's the thing," Max blurted out, his shoulders dropping as he finally abandoned the tough-guy act. "I can't take it anymore. Russell looks at me like I'm a piece of trash someone forgot to recycle. He thinks I'm an idiot who's only good for beer pong. But I... I want to ask him out, Albon. For real. Except if I walk up to him and say, 'Hey, wanna grab dinner?' he'll laugh in my face and give me a noise violation."

Alex raised his eyebrows.

He knew Max was obsessed, but seeing the Dutchman actually admit it with his eyes wide in sheer panic was priceless. Deep down, Alex thought George desperately needed a little chaos in his perfect life, and Max was chaos personified.

"So what's your brilliant plan, Max? Have Lando deliver him a love letter?"

"No! I have fucking pride!" Max protested, but quickly pulled himself together and stepped even closer. "I just need him to change his mind about me before I talk to him. If you, the guy he respects most, casually mention that I'm... responsible. That I have a mature side, you know? That I take care of things."

Alex let out a nasal laugh.

"Max, you fixed the second-floor handrail with duct tape. Gasly broke his arm because of it."

"Gasly fell because he tried to skateboard down the stairs, the tape had nothing to do with it!" Max whined, grabbing Alex by the sleeve of his jacket. "Please, mate. Help me. I'll do anything you want. I'll clean your dorm. I... I'll give you the stash."

Max turned around and dramatically yanked open the freezer door.

Inside, glowing beneath the interior light, were four sealed cases of the imported tropical-fruit energy drink Alex had spent months trying to find anywhere in the city.

Alex looked at the cans.

Then he looked at Max's desperate face.

The Dutchman's plan was the most ridiculous and doomed-to-fail scheme in the history of Chicaneshire, and watching George eventually find out about all of it would be the highlight of Alex's academic year.

Free energy drinks in exchange for becoming the secret godfather of a disaster?

It was an offer he couldn't refuse.

Alex pretended to sigh, putting on an expression of severe reluctance while already calculating how much room the cases would take up in his backpack.

"Four cases, Verstappen?"

"Four cases. And I'll throw in another one in watermelon flavor if you make him smile when he hears my name," Max bargained, his eyes shining.

Alex held out his hand, barely suppressing a laugh.

"Deal. I'm having lunch with him in a little while. I'll plant the seed of your 'maturity,' Max. But if he asks me about Gasly, I'm not lying."

"Fair! Perfect! You're a brother, Albon!"

Max reached out to seal the deal, but before he could grab Alex's hand, Alex pulled it back, raising his index finger in warning.

"Hold on, Verstappen. There's one more clause."

Max froze, his hand still hanging in the air.

"One more? Albon, I've already emptied half my imported stock!"

"This isn't about drinks. It's a long-term guarantee," Alex said, crossing his arms with a fake seriousness that only made the situation funnier. "If I'm going to risk my reputation with the student council president... and if this unbelievably ridiculous plan of yours actually works and you two really become a thing..."

"We will," Max interrupted, his cheeks turning bright red instantly, though he kept his chin held high.

"If you two become a thing," Alex continued, pointing a finger at Max's chest, "you give me your word of honor, right here and right now, that I will be the first godfather. Of the wedding and of any first child, dog, or hamster you two adopt in the future."

Max blinked in shock.

"The... the what?"

"That's right. Godfather number one. And don't think Lando and Daniel can come crying to me later. I want my name at the top of the official godfather list. I'm building the foundation of this relationship with sweat and corporate lies, Max. I deserve a front-row seat at the altar."

From upstairs, near the basement window, Daniel Ricciardo's muffled voice could be heard shouting, "I heard that, Albon! No fucking way! I've known Max since he had braces!"

"Shut up, Daniel! This is a private conversation!" Max yelled back toward the ceiling before looking at Alex with wide eyes, digesting the mental image of George Russell standing at an altar in a perfectly tailored suit, which caused his brain to short-circuit for a solid two seconds.

Max swallowed hard and held out his hand again.

"Fine. You have my word. Official godfather. First on the list. Now go before he finishes lunch!"

Alex grinned from ear to ear, taking Max's hand and shaking it firmly.

"Excellent. A high-level negotiation, Verstappen. Now give me my cans."

At the central dining hall of Chicaneshire, the atmosphere seemed almost peaceful for a Tuesday.

George Russell occupied the table by the window, the strategic spot where the natural light perfectly illuminated his International Relations notes. He was halfway through a forkful of salad when Alex Albon dropped into the seat across from him with the impact of a sack of potatoes, tossing his backpack onto the chair beside him and cracking open a brightly colored can with a loud pop.

George raised his blue eyes and set down his fork. He stared at the imported tropical-fruit energy drink, then at the deliberately innocent expression Alex was wearing.

"Where did you get that, Alex?" George asked, his voice polite but suspicious. "They don't sell that thing within fifty kilometers of campus."

"Connections, Georgy. The business world is all about connections," Alex replied, taking a long sip before letting out a satisfied sigh. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned in slightly. "But, changing the subject... I was working on the budget for our student council speaker series. We need someone who understands large-event logistics and damage control, right?"

George narrowed his eyes.

"Absolutely. And I'm already talking to the engineering department about—"

"I was thinking about Max Verstappen."

George froze.

He blinked twice, set his tablet down on the table, and crossed his arms, adopting the posture of a British courtroom judge.

"Alexander. Did you spend the weekend with a fever?" George asked with dangerous calm. "Verstappen? The man whose idea of 'logistics' is stacking three thousand cans of beer into an Aztec pyramid in the Alpha Bulls living room?"

"Oh, come on, George. Drop the UN diplomat act with me. I've known you since you cried because you lost your box of crayons at school," Alex shot back, not losing his composure for even a second. He shrugged, pointing his can at his friend. "You judge a book by its oversized hoodie. Max manages the largest private budget on campus. That fraternity moves more money in a week than the entire student council does in a semester."

"He spends all that money on ice and questionable fruit punch!"

"But he spends it efficiently!" Alex insisted, using the polished tone of someone who dominated academic debates. "Think logically, without your prejudice against flat-brimmed caps. Last week, when the plumbing in Block B burst and flooded the basement, who mobilized thirty freshmen in ten minutes to get the files out before the water reached the folders? Max did. The guy has natural leadership. He manages crises under pressure."

George opened his mouth to argue, but hesitated.

His eyes narrowed as his mind processed the fact that, from a purely operational standpoint, Max really did possess an absurd ability to make people obey him in the middle of chaos.

"The Alpha Bulls handrail is still held together with duct tape, Alex," George pointed out, although some of the absolute certainty had left his voice. "Gasly broke his arm there."

"Gasly tried to slide down the handrail on a skateboard after taking four tequila shots, George. Not even a titanium beam could have stopped that dinosaur," Alex shot back, laughing. "The point is, Max has a sense of responsibility. He just doesn't like showing it because he'd rather maintain his bad-boy reputation around campus. He takes care of things. He's focused. If you gave him five minutes of attention without that look on your face like you've just smelled vinegar, you'd realize he's much more mature than he appears."

George stared at his best friend for several long seconds.

There was a conviction in Alex's voice that genuinely confused him.

Yesterday, it had been Charles talking about macroeconomics. Today, it was Alex, the most sensible person in his social circle, defending the emotional maturity of a man who wore rubber flip-flops with socks in the library.

Slowly, George's gaze dropped from Alex's angelic face to the imported energy drink sitting on the table.

"Alex..." George hissed, suspicion returning at full force. "Verstappen bribed you with that energy drink to come here and handle his PR, didn't he?"

Alex didn't even blink.

He maintained the impeccable composure of someone who had gotten out of worse situations with George since childhood.

"George, please. Do you really think my moral integrity and our lifelong friendship are worth four cases of imported Austrian energy drinks in watermelon and tropical-fruit flavors?" Alex asked, feigning a magnificent aristocratic offense.

"You just specified the flavors and the quantity, Albon."

"Minor details!" Alex dismissed with a wave of his hand, standing up with his backpack and can. "I'm just telling you to open your genius mind, Russell. Verstappen has market value. Think about it."

Alex winked and left the dining hall, leaving George alone with a full-scale mental disaster unfolding inside his head.

The student council president stared at the dining hall ceiling, feeling the beginnings of an impending headache.

Five minutes later, Alex rounded the corner of the administration building and found Max Verstappen squeezed behind a vending machine, his eyes wide with anxiety.

"Well?! Well?!" Max whispered desperately, grabbing Alex by the arm. "Does he hate me more? Did he have me kicked out? Did he use the word 'embarrassing'?"

Alex pulled Max's hand off his arm with a victorious smile and snapped his fingers.

"I'm a genius, Verstappen. Charles is an amateur," Alex declared proudly. "I made George short-circuit. I turned his own logic against him. I brought up the plumbing, shut down the Gasly argument, and used the word 'focused.' He had no answer."

Max let out an audible sigh, his chest rising and falling as if he'd just run a marathon.

"Re-Really? He... he didn't think I was a complete idiot?"

"He was suspicious because of the can, obviously, but the seed of doubt has been planted. The vein in his forehead didn't even start throbbing. It just... twitched a little," Alex said, patting Max on the back. "The groundwork is laid, future groom. Now you just need to get the rest of campus to hammer the idea into his head."

Max grinned from ear to ear, a wave of absurd and dangerous confidence flooding through his body once again.

"Lando! Daniel!" Max shouted at the two of them watching from down the hallway. "Get the basement ready! We're starting mass recruitment. Chicaneshire University is going to become a branch of my official fan club by Thursday!"

The plan wasn't going to wait until Thursday.

The gears needed to keep turning while the iron was hot, and since Tuesday was still young, the Alpha Bulls headquarters was reactivated that very second.

Alex, now officially a double agent, motivated by the watermelon stash and the solemn promise of a spot at the altar, went upstairs to the fraternity room with Max. Lando and Daniel had already abandoned the video game and were sitting around the coffee table, notebooks and pens in hand, ready for the dumbest brainstorming session in Chicaneshire history.

"Alright, team, eyes on me," Max commanded, clapping his hands, desperation and adrenaline fighting for control of his neurons. "Albon did the heavy lifting with Russell, but George is smart. He's going to sniff out the scam if we don't expand the operation. Albon, give us the intel."

Alex settled into the armchair, cracking open his second can of the day with a conspiratorial grin.

"Here's the thing: George is a lord, but he has a weakness. He's ridiculously paternalistic. He loves being liked and respected by the freshmen. He sees himself as their mentor, their example of good conduct. He's basically the King of the Short People of Chicaneshire."

"The King of the Short People," Daniel repeated, bursting into loud laughter and throwing his head back. "Oh my God, that's perfect. He wants the children to see him as a hero in a suit."

"Exactly," Alex continued, ignoring Daniel. "If the freshmen start talking about Max in front of him, George is going to listen much more carefully because he thinks freshmen's minds are pure and free from our corrupting influence."

Lando narrowed his eyes, tapping his pen against his chin.

"Wait. But if we send Alpha Bulls freshmen, George is going to figure it out immediately. They walk around wearing our shirts and smelling like beer."

"And that's where the real strategy comes in," Daniel said, his eyes shining with the wisdom of a five-year college veteran. "We don't use our freshmen. We use the freshmen from the Engineering and Technology building."

"Why them?" Max blinked, confused.

"Because the engineering freshmen haven't gone through the final Alpha Bulls hazing yet," Lando explained, his eyes widening as he realized the brilliance of Daniel's plan. "Technically, they aren't even supposed to like you yet, Max, because the fraternity keeps them at arm's length during the first few weeks until they prove themselves. If they compliment you, George will think it's completely spontaneous and organic!"

Max looked at Lando, then Daniel, and finally Alex.

"You guys are psychopaths. I love you. Who are our targets in engineering?"

"I know the three first-year mechanical engineering prodigies," Alex said, pulling out his phone. "They're desperate to get into the West Wing party circuit, but they've been locked in the lab for weeks. Kimi, Arvid, and Gabi."

Fifteen minutes later, Max, Daniel, and Lando marched down to the basement of the engineering building. Alex stayed behind to keep watch in the hallway, making sure George didn't decide to conduct a "surprise inspection" in the area.

When Max pushed open the laboratory door, the three freshmen were hunched over the chassis of a remote-controlled car prototype.

Kimi Antonelli was holding a soldering iron with an irritated expression, Arvid Lindblad was reviewing code on a laptop, and Gabriel Bortoleto was trying to adjust a stubborn gear with a screwdriver.

When they saw the three most feared, and most adored, upperclassmen from Alpha Bulls enter the room, all three freshmen froze instantly.

"S-Senior Verstappen," Bortoleto began, wiping his greasy hands on his sweatpants and straightening his posture. "We... we're not breaking any hazing rules, I swear. The prototype is almost finished."

Max walked over to their workbench with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, adopting his best "college mafia godfather" expression.

Daniel and Lando stood right behind him, arms crossed, trying to look intimidating, although Lando was holding a strawberry lollipop.

"Relax, boys. I know you're the engineering freshmen. Good boys. Dedicated," Max began, his voice gentle as he circled the table. "I heard you're desperate to get a VIP wristband for our Halloween party next month. The one with the Red Bull open bar and foam pit."

Kimi looked up, the soldering iron frozen in midair.

"The party that sells out in two minutes?"

"That's the one," Max smiled, leaning forward and placing both hands on their workbench. "Here's the deal, my young engineers. I can put all three of your names at the top of the VIP list. No line. No cover charge. And you can each bring a plus-one."

Arvid swallowed hard, looking at Bortoleto.

"And... what's the catch? Do we have to clean the fraternity bathrooms with a toothbrush?"

"No, no, we're a modern institution," Daniel Ricciardo cut in, winking at them. "Your assignment is purely intellectual and public relations-related."

"Public relations?" Kimi frowned, his Italian accent stretching the words slightly. "With whom?"

Max pulled a photo of George Russell from his pocket, the same picture of George in a suit that he had apparently been carrying around everywhere, and slapped it down on the table, right on top of their prototype.

"With the student council president, George Russell," Max explained, his voice dropping into a serious tone. "I need the three of you to find him today, separately, and give him... subtle compliments about my character."

Bortoleto blinked, looking from George's picture to Max.

"Compliments? Like what?"

"Tell him I'm a focused man," Max began dictating, while Lando handed each of them a crumpled piece of paper covered in handwritten talking points. "Tell him I'm a leadership role model for the freshmen. Bortoleto, you take the 'gratitude' angle. Tell him I'm an inspiration to the academic community. Kimi, you say that my work ethic in the fraternity is something you aspire to have someday. Arvid, you finish by saying you've heard I have a brilliant mind for crisis management."

The three freshmen read over the papers with expressions of absolute shock and confusion. This was the pinnacle of college-level embarrassment.

"Upperclassman Max..." Kimi began, scratching the back of his neck. "This... this seems kind of ridiculous. Russell is smart. He's going to find it weird."

Max raised one hand, pulling three neon-gold fabric wristbands from his pocket, each embossed with the Alpha Bulls logo. The VIP lounge's promise of glory reflected in the freshmen's eyes.

"The choice is yours, boys," Max said, waving the wristbands through the air hypnotically. "You can spend Halloween locked in here studying thermodynamics... or you can be the gods of freshman year in the VIP lounge of the biggest party in Chicaneshire."

Bortoleto looked at the wristbands, then at Kimi and Arvid. The decision was unanimous and instantaneous.

Gabriel Bortoleto stepped forward and snatched the wristbands from Max's hand. "Where exactly is George Russell going right now?"

Max gave the biggest smile of his entire life. "He's leaving student council and heading to the humanities building. Go, my soldiers. Make your upperclassman proud."

The gears of chaos were officially in motion, lubricated by the promise of social status and an open bar. Max, Lando, Daniel, and Alex charged up the stairs from the engineering basement, rushing toward the central courtyard to watch the spectacle from the front row, hidden behind one of Chicaneshire's massive Gothic columns.

Meanwhile, George Russell was walking across the central courtyard with his leather briefcase tucked under his arm, enjoying the last few minutes of Tuesday sunshine before his International Law class. He took a deep breath, trying to get the bizarre conversation with Alex out of his head.

That was when the first gear in Max's plan collided with him.

Gabriel Bortoleto emerged from behind a tree with golden leaves. He had a calculus notebook tucked under his arm and wore the most innocent, earnest expression he had managed to rehearse over the past five minutes.

"Ah! Upperclassman Russell, what a pleasure to run into you," Bortoleto said, forcing a polite interruption as he stepped in front of the student council president.

George stopped, breaking into a warm, paternal smile. The "King of the Short People" was springing into action. "Hello, freshman! Gabriel, right? Mechanical Engineering. How are your vector calculus classes going? If you need tutoring, the student council can—"

"No, no, everything's great, upperclassman! It's just that... well, I wanted to have a word with you about leadership," Bortoleto began, clearing his throat and trying to remember the crumpled piece of paper Max had given him. "As a freshman, I've been looking for inspiration within the academic community, you know? And I wanted to say that I'm genuinely impressed by the structure of the west wing. Specifically, Upperclassman Max Verstappen."

George stopped dead.

The warm smile froze on his lips. "The... who?"

"Max, from Alpha Bulls," Bortoleto continued, sticking firmly to the script despite the cold sweat breaking out across his back. "You know, those of us in Engineering haven't gone through the final initiation yet, so we mostly observe everything from the outside. And his attitude... the work ethic he has to keep that community united and safe is truly inspiring. He gives off this... this mentor energy, you know? A real example of focus."

George blinked several times, staring at the freshman with an expression of pure mental short-circuiting.

"Gabriel. Did Max Verstappen pay you to say that?"

"What? Of course not, upperclassman!" Bortoleto feigned magnificent outrage, placing a hand over his chest. "I just think his work is underrated. Have a good afternoon!"

Bortoleto turned around and hurried away.

George remained standing in the middle of the courtyard, his mouth slightly open as he processed the information. He shook his head.

No, this is ridiculous. Alex bought the energy drink, but the engineering freshman had no reason to lie.

George started walking again, but he hadn't made it ten steps before Kimi Antonelli appeared, walking toward him while pretending to be deeply absorbed in a study guide. Kimi "accidentally" bumped into George's shoulder.

"Oh, sorry, Upperclassman Russell!" Kimi said, his heavy Italian accent unmistakable. He looked at George and, as if a lightbulb had suddenly gone off in his head, continued, "Wait... you're the student council president, right? You work with some of the biggest leaders at the university."

George adjusted the briefcase under his arm, still suspicious. "Yes, Kimi. That's me. Is there a problem with the lab?"

"No, no. It's just that I was talking to some of the first-years about who we aspire to become by the time we reach senior year. And you know... everyone talks a lot about Upperclassman Verstappen's maturity. His resilience, you know? The way he handles the pressure of the university community with that... that executive composure. I just wanted to congratulate the student council for having people of that caliber around."

George felt a nervous twitch beginning to form beneath his left eye.

"Executive... composure? Kimi, Verstappen uses duct tape on the handrail."

"A quick and effective engineering solution in the face of a crisis, upperclassman! Damage control!" Kimi shot back, giving George a respectful pat on the arm before walking away. "See you!"

George stood completely still.

His International Relations brain was trying to calculate the statistical probability of two mechanical engineering prodigies using corporate jargon to describe a guy who played ping-pong with his cap backward.

Determined to make it to his classroom and take a painkiller, George quickened his pace toward the humanities building.

But fate, or rather Max Verstappen, had one final card to play that Tuesday.

Near the entrance to the building, Arvid Lindblad was sitting on a bench, typing on his laptop. When he saw George approaching, he snapped the laptop shut with a dramatic click, stood up, and blocked the Briton's path.

"Upperclassman Russell! What a wonderful coincidence," Arvid said, his voice clear and rehearsed. "I was actually writing an article about crisis management and wanted your opinion. Would you agree that Max Verstappen's management model at Alpha Bulls is the pinnacle of modern management at Chicaneshire?"

George stopped.

He slowly lowered his leather briefcase.

The entire courtyard seemed to fall silent.

Thirty meters away, behind the Gothic column, Max was chewing on the collar of his own hoodie from sheer anxiety. Lando had a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing, Daniel was repeatedly banging his head against the stone wall in utter disbelief, and Alex Albon took another sip of his energy drink, watching history being written.

"Arvid," George began, his voice frighteningly low, blue eyes flashing as he stared at the third engineering freshman in less than ten minutes. "Is Max hiding behind a tree with a megaphone right now?"

"I... I don't know what you're talking about, upperclassman," Arvid stammered, taking a step back in the face of George's intimidating aura. "I just think his aura radiates... financial stability and... and natural leadership!"

"Enough!" George exclaimed, his voice echoing through the humanities building hallway. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. "I've spent the last two hours hearing that Max Verstappen is a corporate genius, a civil engineering hero, and a freshman mentor. This is a conspiracy. This is a coordinated attack!"

Arvid, realizing the student council president was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, could only give him an awkward smile. "Just... think about it, upperclassman! He's a businessman!" And then he took off running toward the lab.

George stood there alone at the entrance to the building. He looked up at the Chicaneshire sky, then back at the courtyard, feeling like he was living through an episode of a low-budget comedy series.

Behind the column, Max Verstappen punched the air, his eyes shining.

"They did it! Albon was right, the vein in his forehead is practically about to burst! He's thinking about me, guys! He's thinking about me!"

"He's thinking about how to murder you and hide your body in the campus swamp, Max," Daniel Ricciardo corrected, crying with laughter. "You're the most pathetic man alive!"

The "success" of the freshman operation injected a dangerous amount of audacity into Max Verstappen's veins. He marched back to Alpha Bulls practically floating, as if he'd just closed a billion-dollar merger on Wall Street rather than bribed three teenagers with neon wristbands.

As soon as the fraternity door closed behind him, Max threw himself into the armchair at HQ, laced his hands behind his head, and let out a long, lovesick sigh, staring at the ceiling with a goofy smile that completely ruined his usual tough-guy face.

"Did you see his face?" Max asked, his voice soft, lost in his own delusions. "He was speechless. He was processing my impact on the community. You could see it in those blue eyes of his... he was thinking, 'Wow, Max really is the safe haven of this campus. How could I have been so blind?'"

Daniel Ricciardo, who was opening a bag of chips in the kitchenette, stopped what he was doing and stared into the room with an expression of profound disbelief. He walked over to the couch and sat down beside Lando, who already had his phone out, recording his friend's pathetic state.

"Safe haven, Max?" Daniel repeated, letting out a loud laugh that echoed beneath the fraternity's high ceilings. "The guy looked like he'd just discovered the Earth is flat! He wasn't impressed by your 'impact.' He was trying to figure out whether the freshmen's brains had been destroyed by some kind of gas leak in the lab!"

"You don't understand body language, Daniel," Max shot back, closing his eyes and hugging one of the Alpha Bulls pillows, the one that didn't have conjunctivitis. "George is a man of intellect. He needed facts. Now he has the facts. He knows Engineering supports me. He knows I radiate... what did Kimi call it again? Ah, yes. Executive composure."

Lando choked, nearly dropping his phone on the floor from laughing so hard.

"Executive composure! Verstappen, you literally wore a hoodie ripped under the armpit to student council last week! The only thing you radiate is cheap deodorant and desperation!"

"The hoodie is oversized, Lando. It's fashion," Max defended himself, throwing the pillow toward the Brit, who dodged it while laughing. "And it doesn't matter. The plan is working perfectly. Albon planted the seed. The freshmen watered it. By Thursday, George is going to come here to Alpha Bulls with that whole lordly posture of his, knock on the door, and say, 'Max, I was a fool. Your crisis management skills have won me over. Shall we have dinner?'"

Daniel covered his face with both hands, shaking his head from side to side.

"My God, this kid's level of delusion is through the roof. Someone get a thermometer, the Russtappen fever has melted his brain cells."

"I can only imagine George finding out the truth," Lando commented, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye as he typed on his phone. "Because he will find out. Bortoleto can't handle two minutes of pressure if George gives him a dirty look during tutoring. He'll spill the VIP wristband scheme faster than Max can go through a stockpile of energy drinks."

"They won't crack. They're engineers, they have a code of honor," Max declared smugly, pointing a finger at Lando. "And when George and I are dating, and he's wearing my oversized hoodies around the house—"

"God forbid. Imagine George Russell wearing a hoodie stained with punch," Daniel interrupted, pulling a horrified face. "He'd have a heart attack before he even got his head through the collar."

"—I'll remind both of you that I won through sheer intellect," Max finished his speech, rising from the armchair with a dignity he absolutely did not possess. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to my room to plan Phase Four. I need to figure out what his favorite subject is so I can see if I can bribe the professor."

"He's going to bribe the faculty," Lando whispered to Daniel as soon as Max climbed the first few steps of the staircase.

"Let him," Daniel laughed, picking the video game controller back up. "The crash is going to be the biggest attraction Chicaneshire University has seen since the golf cart initiation. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

And so, with Max Verstappen floating on a cloud of pure romantic-corporate delusion and his friends betting on how many days remained until his final public humiliation, Tuesday came to an end in Chicaneshire.

The campus finally fell silent, but the ticking time bomb of Max's pathetic plan kept counting down.

Wednesday at Chicaneshire University began under gray skies, but in the Alpha Bulls basement, the atmosphere was one of pure corporate paranoia and student geopolitical tension.

Max had called an emergency meeting at seven-thirty in the morning. He stood there with deep dark circles under his eyes, clutching a cup of strong coffee, while Alex Albon, already properly supplied with his stash of imported energy drinks, reviewed some notes.

Daniel and Lando were operating at survival speed on the couch, wrapped in blankets and cursing Max for making them wake up before ten.

"Alright, Albon, spill it," Max ordered, slamming his cup onto the table with a bang. "Tuesday was a tactical success. George is destabilized. What's the next step to consolidate my image as a mature, focused man?"

Alex took a long sip from his can, thoughtful.

"Well, Max... if we want George to change his perception of you once and for all, we need someone from his past to vouch for you. Someone who knows his patterns."

"What patterns?" Max frowned.

"Relationship patterns," Alex explained, dropping the bomb as casually as possible. "We should approach the guy he was seeing last year. Oscar Piastri."

The effect was instantaneous.

Max Verstappen froze.

His cheeks turned red with a mixture of pure hatred and ridiculous possessiveness. He gripped his coffee cup so hard that his knuckles turned white.

"What?!" Max practically bit himself in half, his voice rising three octaves with pure jealousy. "Piastri?! That Australian undead-looking guy who studies systems engineering?! George dated him?! Why?! What does that kid have that I don't?! He doesn't have my shoulders! He doesn't have my stage presence! There's no reason for me to talk to the ex of the man I'm going to win over, Albon! That's... that's against the code of honor!"

Before Alex could answer, a figure emerged from beneath the blankets on the couch.

Lando Norris shot upright, eyes wide with sheer panic, his hair looking like a bird's nest.

"WHAT?!" Lando shouted, his voice cracking. "My Oscar?! The curly-haired little nerd I've been trying to win over for two months?!"

Daniel Ricciardo opened one eye, covering his face with the blanket to laugh.

"Oh, no. The West Wing drama started early today."

"Max, I'm begging you. I'll lie on the floor and become your doormat, but don't talk to Oscar!" Lando jumped off the couch and grabbed Max's hoodie with both hands, his expression desperate. "If Oscar finds out you're this embarrassing and pathetic, he's going to look at me, remember that I live in the same fraternity as you, assume I'm just like you, and never, ever want to date me! He already thinks I'm kind of an idiot because I skateboard in the hallway of Building B!"

"He's George's ex, Lando! He has classified information!" Max tried to pull himself free, but Lando held on with the strength of a man watching his romantic future being destroyed before his eyes.

"He's not his ex, they only hooked up twice and Oscar thought George was 'too structured'!" Lando whined. "Max, please! Oscar is calm, he's a minimalist, he doesn't understand your level of psychopathy! You're going to scare my Australian away!"

Alex Albon simply watched the scene, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. He placed his can on the table and assumed the posture of Chicaneshire's official conflict mediator.

"Guys, guys, control your hormones," Alex commanded, snapping his fingers. "Lando, listen to me. This could be good for you too. Max, shut up and listen to your future wedding godfather."

Max and Lando stopped wrestling, looking at Alex.

"Think about it," Alex said with a smile, his eyes gleaming with the pure genius of chaos. "Oscar is super laid-back, right? He hates drama. If Max approaches him in a civilized manner, and I'll go with him to make sure he doesn't use terms like 'the Dutch Godfather,' and Oscar compliments Max's maturity to George, George is going to fall backward. Because George knows Oscar is the most sincere, unfiltered person at the university. If Oscar says Max is mature, George will believe him immediately."

"But what about my relationship?!" Lando protested, his eyes watering.

"Lando, you absolute donkey," Alex said in the same tone he used when explaining basic economics. "We put on the table that, in exchange for this favor, you'll take Oscar to that expensive restaurant downtown, using Max's extra meal credits. And Max will stay out of it. Oscar will think you have high-level connections at Alpha Bulls. You win, Max wins, and I secure my spot at the altar."

Lando blinked, processing the information.

"Restaurant credits? The one you have to book a week in advance?"

"Lando. I'll pay," Max conceded, although he was still sulking and irrationally jealous of George's past. "But Piastri has to say I'm better than him. Or at least more focused."

Lando looked at Max, then at Alex. His love for Oscar and free food won out. He let go of Max's hoodie and fixed his hair.

"Fine. But if he rejects me because of you, Verstappen, I swear I'll slash all four tires on your golf cart."

"Deal!" Alex clapped his hands, standing up. "Wednesday is officially underway. Let's hunt down Oscar Piastri in the science library."

The science library at Chicaneshire was known as the quietest, and consequently most intimidating, place on campus. The high exposed-concrete ceiling swallowed up every sound, and the engineering and computer science students seemed to operate on some kind of collective trance.

At the back table, surrounded by three portable monitors and a stack of books on artificial intelligence, sat Oscar Piastri.

He typed calmly, his face completely expressionless, not showing the slightest reaction to the complex code running across the screen.

He was in his natural habitat.

Until the glass door of the library was pushed open with completely unnecessary force.

Max marched in front, trying to maintain his "mature businessman" posture, but his eyes were shooting daggers at the Australian with that ridiculous retroactive jealousy. Alex followed right behind him, holding Max by the collar of his hoodie to make sure he didn't start the conversation with a punch. Lando brought up the rear, hiding behind a stack of analytic geometry books and peeking over them with eyes wide with sheer panic.

"There he is," Max hissed through his teeth, discreetly pointing with his chin. "Look at him, Albon. He's wearing a plain gray hoodie. No personality. George actually liked that?"

"Max, shut up. The guy is a genius and the future love of Lando's life," Alex whispered back, pushing the Dutchman toward the table. "Keep calm. Friendly approach."

They approached.

Alex cleared his throat loudly, breaking the sacred silence of the science wing.

"Hey, Oscar! How are the systems going?"

Oscar didn't jump out of his chair, didn't flinch, and didn't change his facial expression. He simply stopped typing, slowly raised his brown eyes, and stared at Alex and the three Alpha Bulls upperclassmen.

His gaze lingered a second longer on Lando, who tried to give a casual wave and ended up knocking one of the geometry books onto the floor with a dull thud.

"Hi, Alex. Hi, Lando and Daniel?" Oscar said, his voice incredibly calm and flat. He then looked at the Dutchman. "Hi, Verstappen. What does the West Wing want in the library? Did someone crash the server playing video games again?"

"No, Piastri. We're here on a mission of... image consulting and interpersonal relations," Max began, trying to use the articulate tone Alex had taught him, but failing miserably at the sympathy part. He crossed his arms, leaning forward slightly. "I heard you and George Russell... had a corporate-romantic history last year."

Oscar blinked once.

"We went out twice. He tried to organize my study schedule into an Excel spreadsheet, so I crossed the street. Why?"

Max felt such an enormous wave of relief in his chest that his shoulders actually relaxed.

Twice. Excel spreadsheet.

The kid wasn't a threat.

"Excellent! I mean... unfortunate," Max quickly corrected himself, clearing his throat. "The point is, Oscar: George has the wrong impression of me. He thinks I'm a chaos merchant. But as you well know, Alpha Bulls is a focused institution. I am a focused man. And I need you, as someone George respects for your... surgical honesty, to tell him that I have an incredibly mature side."

Oscar stared at Max for a long, agonizing five seconds.

He looked at Alex, who nodded with an awkward smile, and then at Lando, who clasped his hands together in a very clear "please don't hate me" gesture.

"Verstappen," Oscar began, his voice flat and direct. "You came all the way to the science library, with your support committee, to ask me to lie to the student council president because you're hopelessly in love with him?"

"It's not a lie! It's targeted marketing!" Max protested, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Oscar, please," Lando intervened, taking a step forward and tripping over his own words from sheer nervousness. "If you do this, Max will release the restaurant voucher for us to go there on Saturday. And... and I swear I'm not usually this embarrassing, I just live with them. It's an unfortunate housing situation, please don't reject me!"

Oscar looked at Lando, and an almost imperceptible glimmer of amusement crossed his eyes.

He genuinely found Norris's desperation adorable.

"The restaurant with the blowtorched salmon boat?" Oscar asked Lando.

"That's the one! Dessert included and a private booth!" Lando confirmed, his eyes shining with hope.

Oscar looked back at Max.

"Fine, Verstappen. I have a room-allocation meeting with George at the student council in a little while. I'll tell him you seem like a man... with well-structured goals."

"Seriously?!" Max broke into the biggest smile. "You'll actually say that?"

"I will. But you're paying for dinner on Saturday, Norris," Oscar added, looking at Lando with the slightest upward twitch of his mouth. "And if the food isn't good, I'll tell George you sleep with a stuffed bear."

"I don't sleep with... I mean, deal! It's a deal!" Lando stammered, completely defeated.

"Perfect!" Alex celebrated quietly, clapping his hands without making a sound. "Operation Piastri successfully completed. Max, hallway. Let's wait for the feedback."

Half an hour later, Oscar Piastri walked into the student council office.

George Russell was reviewing the flyers for lecture week, looking exhausted. Thankfully, the vein in his forehead seemed to have calmed down since Tuesday.

"Hey, George. Here are the reports for the robotics rooms," Oscar said, placing the folder on the desk with his usual calm.

"Ah, thank you, Oscar. Always impeccable," George smiled, grateful to finally be dealing with someone normal on this campus. "How are things in Engineering? Everything calm?"

Oscar sat down in the chair across from him, crossing his legs. He put on the most serious, disinterested expression in the world before dropping the bait.

"Everything's calm. But you know... I had an interesting impression earlier today. I ran into Max Verstappen near the science building."

George froze with his pen suspended in midair. The name "Verstappen" seemed to be a trigger for his nervous system.

"The... Max? What was that vandal doing in your building?"

"He was talking to some professors about optimizing the fraternity's physical space," Oscar lied with the coldest analytical composure in Chicaneshire history. "You know, George... I know you have your reservations about him. But I found Verstappen... surprisingly structured. He struck me as a man focused on long-term goals. Rare maturity for someone from the West Wing."

George put his pen down.

He stared at Oscar.

If it had been Charles, George would have been suspicious. If it had been Alex, he would have known there was a bribe involved. But this was Oscar. Oscar, who didn't care about parties, didn't care about Alpha Bulls, and had rejected George himself for being too bureaucratic.

If Oscar Piastri was saying Max Verstappen was structured and mature...

It could only mean one thing.

Max really was changing.

"Structured... you said?" George asked, his voice faltering slightly, an even larger three-story mansion being constructed inside his mind.

"Yes. Very focused," Oscar shrugged, getting to his feet. "Well, that's all. See you, George."

Oscar left the room with calm, measured steps.

As soon as he closed the student council door and turned the corner, he found Max, Alex, and Lando squeezed behind a vending machine.

"Well?!" Max whispered, his eyes practically bulging out of his head. "How did it go?!"

Oscar looked at Lando, ignoring Max's anxiety for a second.

"Saturday, eight o'clock, Norris. Don't be late."

Then he looked at Max.

"He believed me. His brain melted a little. You're welcome."

Max Verstappen leaned his head against the wall, letting out a shaky, lovesick sigh.

"He thinks I'm structured... My God, Albon really is the best wedding godfather this campus has ever seen!"

Wednesday afternoon at Alpha Bulls HQ had transformed into something worthy of a high-fashion event planning committee, mixed with the purest possible form of college delusion.

Max was sprawled across the couch with his legs in the air and his phone pressed against his face. His eyes gleamed with the reflection of Pinterest, where he was furiously creating boards.

"Albon! Albon, look at this, quick!" Max yelled, tugging Alex by the sleeve for the tenth time in the past twenty minutes. "For the altar... do you think white roses give off that 'long-term vision, goal-oriented' vibe Oscar mentioned, or should we go with lilies to match George's classic color palette? And the suit? Navy blue or traditional black? George looks really good in blue, Albon. I saw a picture of him at student council and—"

"Don't even start, Verstappen! Albon is my godfather first, he has to help me with this!" Lando interrupted, lightly kicking Max's leg aside as he shoved his own phone in Alex's face. "Albon, focus here. For my wedding with Oscar, do you think an elaborate but minimalist food spread works with his aesthetic, or will he think it's too obvious because of our first date on Saturday? And the rings? Oscar is understated. I wanted to wear a gigantic stone on my finger, but I think brushed white gold is more his style. Let me save this pin to my 'L&O - English-Australian Balance' board."

Alex Albon covered his face with both hands, letting out a groan of pure suffering as he was bombarded with color palettes, table arrangements, and suit cuts for two different weddings.

"For the love of God, you two are insane!" Alex protested, trying to free himself from Lando and Max. "Max, you and George haven't even held hands! Lando, you just bribed Oscar with a dinner that hasn't even happened yet! Neither of you has kissed anyone! Why are you acting like two desperate housewives picking out their linen napkins?!"

"Because a mature businessman anticipates market demands, Alex!" Max declared with absolute conviction, dragging another slim-fit suit pin into the folder titled 'M&G - The Big Day (Classic Style).'

"Exactly," Lando agreed, sighing dreamily as he stared at the screen. "We are now officially committed men, Albon, devoted to the loves of our lives. Things are going to have to change at the next fraternity parties. I'm practically a married man already. I can't keep playing beer pong until four in the morning. I'll have to start drinking tea and talking about artificial intelligence to match my fiancé's intellect."

Daniel Ricciardo walked into the room at that exact moment, carrying a tray of day-old pizza.

He stopped in the middle of the doorway, watching Max and Lando lying upside down on the couch, discussing flower arrangements and wedding lists like two men who had been married for thirty years.

"You two have to be some kind of social experiment," Daniel laughed, dropping into the empty armchair and grabbing a slice of pizza. "The West Wing outbreak has become an epidemic. But hey, if the plan to win George over is still running today, I have a master suggestion for Max. The final play for Wednesday."

Max dropped his phone onto his chest immediately, his eyes narrowing with interest. Lando leaned forward as well.

"Talk, Ricciardo," Max commanded.

"George is an academic, right? He idolizes the graduate students. He thinks they're the real intellectuals on campus," Daniel explained, pointing his slice of pizza at the Dutchman. "You've already put freshmen and Piastri to work on the marketing campaign. But to deliver the final checkmate to Russell's mind and make him fall to his knees, we need the highest possible authority. Someone above suspicion. A PhD student."

Alex looked up from his notebook, interested despite himself. "And who in grad school would agree to join Max's romantic pyramid scheme?"

Daniel flashed his widest, brightest grin. "None other than the guy who practically runs the Humanities building... Lewis Hamilton."

The basement fell into absolute silence for three whole seconds.

"Hamilton?!" Lando choked, sitting bolt upright. "The Political Science PhD student who walks around campus like he just stepped out of a fashion show in Milan? If Lewis says one good thing about Max's maturity, George is going to think Max is the next president of the country!"

"The very one," Daniel confirmed, proud of his own genius. "George respects Lewis on an almost religious level. If Lewis casually says something like, 'That Verstappen has an interesting organizational vision and quite the presence,' Russell's brain melts on the spot."

Max sat up straighter on the couch, his eyes gleaming with tactical ambition. "Hamilton is influential. He's the ultimate asset for my campaign as a mature man. In business terms, he's the seal of approval. But what's his price, Daniel? What does an elite PhD student want from Alpha Bulls?"

"Well, that's the thing," Daniel said with a wink. "Lewis is trying to organize that community outreach project in the neighboring district, but the administration cut the transportation budget for the supplies. And who happens to own three pickup trucks and twenty unemployed freshmen ready for manual labor?"

Max's smile turned positively diabolical, and he closed Pinterest immediately.

"Lando, tell the freshmen they're carrying boxes tomorrow morning," Max ordered, his voice full of corporate authority.

"I'm already sending it in the fraternity group chat!" Lando exclaimed, typing furiously. "Anything for the stability of your future family, Max!"

"Albon, get your jacket," Max said, rising with great importance and adjusting his hoodie. "We're paying a visit to the graduate research lab. The best man has another contract to negotiate with Lewis Hamilton."

The Humanities building at Chicaneshire University operated on an entirely different wavelength from the west wing. The air smelled like freshly ground espresso, old books, and discussions about post-structuralism.

When Max Verstappen and Alex Albon pushed open the glass door to the graduate research lab, the contrast was immediate. Max was still wearing his Alpha Bulls hoodie, while Alex held his academic folder like a shield. At the back of the room, surrounded by well-cared-for plants, three high-resolution monitors, and wearing a designer knit cardigan worth more than Alpha Bulls' entire punch budget, sat Lewis Hamilton.

Roscoe, Lewis' famous bulldog, was sleeping softly in a leather bed beside the desk.

Lewis looked up from his Political Science manuscripts, adjusting his thin-framed glasses with an elegance that suddenly made Max feel painfully clumsy.

"Alex," Lewis greeted, his voice warm and calm, a gentle smile appearing on his face. "And... Verstappen. What brings the leadership of the west wing into the scholars' den? Trouble with campus regulations?"

Max tugged at the collar of his hoodie and stepped forward, trying to channel the "mature and focused businessman" persona he had been practicing on Pinterest.

"Doctor Hamilton," Max began, sounding slightly too formal. "We've come to propose a... strategic partnership of mutual benefit. A merger of interests, so to speak."

Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. Leaning back in his ergonomic chair, he folded his hands together.

"A merger of interests? I'm listening."

Alex Albon decided to intervene before Max started talking about macroeconomics.

"Lewis, here's the situation. We heard the administration cut transportation funding for your community outreach project in the neighboring district. The books and supplies are stuck in storage."

Lewis' expression shifted into genuine frustration.

"Yes, unfortunately. They cited budget constraints for this week's logistics. It's a shame. The children in the community were expecting everything."

"Well," Max stepped forward, thumping a hand against his chest proudly, "Alpha Bulls has three four-wheel-drive pickup trucks. And I happen to have exactly twenty-five engineering and business freshmen who are in urgent need of... extracurricular hours and manual labor. Tomorrow at seven in the morning, every single box will be delivered. I'll personally manage the operation."

Lewis looked at Max, genuinely impressed.

"That's very generous of you, Verstappen. But I know campus politics. What does the west wing want in return for saving my outreach project?"

Max swallowed hard. A faint blush spread across his cheeks, and he looked away for a split second before focusing back on Lewis.

"I need you to... say something positive about me to George Russell," Max admitted, his carefully crafted composure slipping back into its usual state of romantic desperation.

Lewis blinked, surprised. Then he looked at Alex, who simply nodded with an expression that said, yes, exactly what you're thinking.

A broad, radiant smile slowly spread across the PhD student's face.

"George?" Lewis laughed softly, rich and amused. "The student council president? You're doing all of this... organizing a community logistics operation... to impress George Russell?"

"He thinks I'm a lost cause, Hamilton!" Max protested, gesturing dramatically. "He thinks I'm an idiot who only knows tape and parties! But I have layers. I'm focused! And if the greatest intellectual in this building tells him that I have... I don't know, 'something worth appreciating,' his brain is going to short-circuit for good."

Lewis shook his head, finding Max's audacity and convoluted romanticism absolutely fascinating.

Deep down, Lewis adored George, but he also knew the Brit desperately needed to relax and stop organizing his entire life in color-coded spreadsheets.

The controlled chaos that was Max Verstappen was exactly what the student council president was missing.

"Verstappen," Lewis said, standing up and extending his hand toward the Dutchman with an amused glint in his eyes. "Transporting the supplies for my community project is a noble cause. And love... well, love is a noble cause too, even if your methods are a little unorthodox. We have a deal."

"Seriously?!" Max grabbed Lewis's hand, shaking it firmly. "You'll talk to him?"

"I have a budget committee meeting with George tomorrow afternoon," Lewis smiled, winking at Max. "I'll make sure he knows just how 'structured' and 'selfless' your strategic mind is. But if a single box of books arrives dented..."

"They'll arrive in velvet boxes if necessary, Hamilton! Thank you!" Max exclaimed, radiant with happiness.

"Operation complete," Alex Albon celebrated, pulling Max by the arm toward the exit. "Come on, Max. You have to tell Lando to organize the freshmen's schedule for tomorrow morning."

As the two hurried down the Humanities building hallway, Lewis Hamilton sat back down, letting out a loud laugh as he scratched Roscoe's head.

"George has no idea what's coming tomorrow, buddy," Lewis whispered to the dog, who responded with a soft sigh.

Wednesday ended with Max Verstappen back in the Alpha Bulls basement, adding pins for 'Modern Suits for a Countryside Wedding' to his secret board, while Lando Norris sent three-minute voice messages to the freshmen group chat, threatening to revoke Halloween VIP access from anyone who dared to drop a single box from Lewis's project.

The plan was escalating to government-level proportions.

Thursday promised to be the final blow to George Russell's sanity.

Thursday morning began with a cold fog hanging over the Chicaneshire University campus, but inside the Humanities building's storage room, the atmosphere was that of a high-intensity military operation.

Under Max Verstappen's strict orders and Lando Norris's dramatic shouting, as he supervised everything with a clipboard in hand to make sure the imaginary wedding preparations for his future marriage to Oscar suffered no casualties, twenty-five engineering freshmen loaded Alpha Bulls' three pickup trucks in record time.

Not a single book was dented.

Not a single box was dropped.

For the children, and above all for George Russell's heart, Max demanded perfection.

That afternoon, in the main student council office, George Russell was reviewing the annual budget cuts, rubbing his temples.

The week had been a psychological endurance test.

First Charles, then Alex, then the engineering freshmen, and even the utterly unflappable Oscar Piastri had all come to talk to him about Max Verstappen.

George felt like he was losing his mind.

The office door opened gently, and Lewis Hamilton walked in.

He wore his usual elegance, dressed in a long black tailored overcoat, carrying two cups of gourmet espresso.

"Good afternoon, George," Lewis greeted him in his soft, measured voice, placing one of the cups on the student council president's desk. "Looks like the paperwork is eating you alive today."

George gave him a tired smile, immediately straightening his posture.

"Ah, Lewis! Thank you for the coffee. Yes, the administration is cutting everything they possibly can. In fact, I was just reviewing the report on your community outreach project. I'm so sorry about the transportation funding for the supplies... I tried to get the director to reverse the decision, but they wouldn't budge."

Lewis let out a long sigh, walking toward the window with a theatrically melancholy expression, his gaze lost over the campus horizon. He held the cup with both hands, adding a perfectly executed dramatic pause.

"Don't worry about that, George. Fortunately... there are people on this campus with an extraordinary sense of community. The project was saved this morning."

George looked up, surprised.

"Really? But how? A last-minute private sponsor?"

Lewis slowly turned around, looking at George with deep, almost touching seriousness.

"No.

It was Max Verstappen."

George froze in his chair.

The coffee cup stopped mere inches from his mouth.

"The... Max? Verstappen from Alpha Bulls?"

"The very one," Lewis confirmed, nodding admiringly. "That boy... he has a heart of gold, George. The moment he heard about the funding cut to my project, he immediately mobilized the entire campus to help. He mobilized fleets, coordinated volunteers, managed the entire logistics operation before the sun even came up. He really is incredibly selfless."

George placed the cup on the desk with slightly trembling hands.

The three-story mansion Max had rented inside his head had just gained three more floors and a rooftop helipad.

"Max Verstappen... doing community service? Without... without breaking anything?"

"Everything arrived perfectly intact," Lewis continued, moving closer to the desk and leaning forward slightly, adopting a confidential, deeply emotional tone. "And you know what touched me most, George? I even offered to compensate him somehow, pay for the fuel, or give him academic credits... but all he said to me was, 'For the children, every effort is worth it. Knowing the books arrived intact is more than enough of a reward.'"

George blinked, completely stunned.

Lewis's words echoed through his academic mind like thunder.

"For the children, every effort is worth it..." This was the pinnacle of selflessness. Coming from the guy George had thought only cared about flat-brimmed caps and beer-fueled ping-pong championships.

"He... he said that?" George asked, his voice faltering as a strange warmth crept up his neck.

"Word for word," Lewis assured him, expertly holding back his laughter with the dramatic mastery of an award-winning actor as he watched George's cognitive collapse unfold. "Verstappen demonstrates a maturity and nobility of character that few people at this university understand, George. He's a man focused on the greater good. Well... I need to get to my thesis advisor. Think about it."

Lewis gave him a subtle wink, turned around, and walked out of the office.

As soon as the student council door closed behind him, the PhD student let out a muffled, victorious laugh in the hallway and quickly typed into his phone: [Deal fulfilled, Verstappen. The wedding suit is on you.]

Inside the office, George Russell collapsed against the back of his chair. He covered his face with both hands. There was no denying it anymore. His best friends, the engineering freshmen, the analytical ex-fling, and now the most respected intellectual in graduate school were all pointing toward the same reality:

Max Verstappen was a mature, focused, selfless man with a heart of gold.

"My God..." George whispered to the empty walls of the student council office, the vein in his forehead completely numb from shock. "Have I been wrong about him this whole time?"

The time bomb had exploded.

The stage was more than ready for Thursday night.

George had spent the entire afternoon with that sentence reverberating through his academic mind like an irritating mantra: "For the children, every effort is worth it." Overwhelmed by monumental guilt for having been so skeptical and prejudiced toward the Dutchman, he made an unprecedented decision.

He broke his own protocols, descended into the noisy stronghold of the West Wing, and crossed the courtyard with a single objective: personally deliver an official thank-you letter from the Student Council to Max, while taking the opportunity to extend a truce and apologize.

When he pushed open the iron door to the Alpha Bulls basement, the muffled sound of laughter and the pop of aluminum cans indicated that the famous Thursday party was just getting started.

George descended the concrete steps with measured strides, intending to make a subtle and polite approach.

However, what he found just behind the drinks freezer was the central committee of the entire scheme in full operation.

Max was standing there, chest puffed out beneath his hoodie, gesticulating furiously with his phone in hand, surrounded by Albon, Lando, and Daniel, who appeared to be watching a man on the verge of complete insanity.

“I’m a tactical genius, Albon! Write down what I’m telling you!” Max celebrated, his voice echoing off the exposed brick walls, dripping with triumphant arrogance. “The plan worked perfectly, guys! Hamilton delivered the script flawlessly. George is definitely going to realize that I’m a great catch, with a heart full of good intentions but a razor-sharp analytical mind, and I’ll finally be able to put all the wedding plans I’ve made for us into practice! I’ve already saved the table arrangements on Pinterest!”

Lando clapped his hands, letting out an obnoxious laugh. “And I’ve already bought the minimalist bedding set for my dorm room for when Oscar moves in here permanently!”

George Russell froze on the last step of the stairs. The letterhead paper of the thank-you letter was instantly crushed inside his clenched fist, turning into a worthless ball of paper. His blue eyes narrowed into two icy slits, and the vein on his forehead, which had been dormant all afternoon, began throbbing again with the force of an electrical generator short-circuiting.

“Wedding plans for us, Verstappen?”

George’s voice cut through the air of the basement. It was cold, measured, and frighteningly sharp, carrying all the authority of a British lord about to declare war.

The four boys froze in the exact same millisecond, as if time itself had stopped in the West Wing. Daniel Ricciardo choked on his beer, coughing loudly; Lando mechanically hid his phone behind his back, eyes wide; Alex Albon took one strategic, silent step backward, recalculating his chances of survival now that the entire deal had collapsed; and Max... Max felt the blood drain from his cheeks straight down to his feet. He slowly turned on his heels, looking like a broken wax figure standing before its judge.

“G-George!” Max stammered, his voice failing miserably as he struggled to find air. “You... how long have you been standing there?”

George took two firm steps forward, crossing his arms over his chest and adopting the intimidating posture he usually reserved for the toughest student council debates.

“Long enough to understand that Charles’s macroeconomics, Alex’s charm offensive, the engineering freshmen, and Lewis Hamilton himself were all hired actors in an absurdly ridiculous play!” George took another step forward, indignation taking control of his words. “Did you bribe half the campus, Max? Move fleets of pickup trucks and use PhD students just to create a smokescreen and make me believe you were a mature man?!”

Daniel Ricciardo gave Max two quick, sympathetic pats on the shoulder, unable to suppress a mocking grin. “Well... it was good while it lasted, mate. Good luck at the hearing.”

With the dexterity of seasoned fugitives, Daniel quietly slipped away, pulling Lando by the collar of his hoodie. Alex gave Max one last quick wink, a silent signal of it’s now or never, and retreated up the stairs, leaving the two of them alone in the center of HQ.

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the low hum of the drinks freezer. Max stared at the tips of his sneakers, feeling the crushing weight of the biggest college-level embarrassment of his life. All the forced bravado of a focused, structured, corporate businessman melted away within seconds. He huffed, ran a hand through his messy blond hair, then yanked his cap off his head and threw it onto the freezer with unnecessary force.

When he finally looked up at George, there was no Albon-approved script, no rehearsed talking points or crisis-management terminology. It was just Max. Completely disarmed, vulnerable, and desperate.

“Yeah, George! Fine! It was me! I planned all of this!” Max blurted out, taking a step forward and gesturing clumsily as the words tumbled over one another. “Because I’m an idiot who has absolutely no idea how to talk to you! Every time you walk past me with that perfect posture, wearing a suit, talking about campus regulations, my brain just short-circuits! I’ve mentally asked you out like a thousand times, but I knew that if I came up to you and said anything stupid in my usual way, you’d give me the classic, polite, bureaucratic rejection.”

George blinked, the force behind his reprimand wavering in the face of the Dutchman’s brutal, completely unfiltered honesty.

“So I panicked,” Max continued, his voice dropping to a softer, almost shy tone as his cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Albon said you liked mature, focused guys. And I... I really wanted you to see me that way. I wanted you to think I was good enough for you. Moving those boxes of books this morning was hell, my freshmen are all complaining about back pain, I used up my entire stock of imported energy drinks... and I’d do it all over again if it meant you’d spend five minutes actually talking to me. George, please... do you want to go out with me? Like... an actual date? No plans, no bribes, just me and you?”

George stared at Max for long, agonizing, silent seconds. He looked at the fraternity leader standing there without the brim of his cap to hide behind, admitting that he had mobilized an international logistics operation and shaken the very foundations of campus just to get a chance to impress him. George’s bureaucratic anger and wounded pride began to give way, making room for something entirely new and surprisingly warm.

A small, genuine smile began to form at the corner of his lips. George let out a nasal laugh, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and pure delight.

“I don’t think anyone has ever gone to this much trouble just to try to take me out,” George said, his voice taking on a much sweeter, softer tone as his blue eyes sparkled with shared amusement. He took a decisive step toward Max, closing the distance between them. “It was a little bizarre, considering you could’ve just talked to me directly... but it was still pretty sweet.”

Max blinked, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, hope exploding in his chest like a firework. “Seriously? You... you don’t think I’m a complete psychopath?”

“A little, maybe,” George teased, his eyes narrowing playfully while he failed to hide the smile taking over his face. “But an admirably dedicated psychopath. You can take me to some nice restaurant to make up for the psychological stress you caused me this week. And you’re wearing a button-up shirt.”

“I’ll wear the best shirt I have in my closet, George! I swear!” Max broke into the biggest, brightest smile of his life, his chest rising and falling with indescribable relief.

“Good,” George laughed, turning around to head back up the basement stairs, but stopping halfway up to glance over his shoulder with one last wink. “And Max? Delete that Pinterest folder of table arrangements for now. Let’s focus on the first date.”

George went upstairs, and the door at the top of the staircase closed with a soft click. The very next second, the hysterical cheers of Lando, Daniel, and Alex echoed from the hallway above, where the three of them had been crammed together, spying through the crack in the door.

Max threw himself onto his back on the old Alpha Bulls couch, laughing to himself as he stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding to the rhythm of victory. The plan had been the biggest, most chaotic disaster in Chicaneshire history, but Saturday night would be his. And deep down, he knew Albon would still be the godfather.