Rubbing their hands in eager anticipation. Blood boiling with excitement.
Kai was incredibly eager to get back to work. He had initially assumed the grueling challenges of the 2018 season were thrilling enough. But he hadn't anticipated that the 2019 season possessed even more massive, seemingly insurmountable mountains to conquer—
After scaling one peak, he found an entire mountain range looming before him. The path to the absolute summit was fraught with continuous, brutal challenges. That thrill, that profound sense of purpose and happiness, simply couldn't be expressed with mere words. He couldn't suppress his soaring spirit, itching to throw himself into the next battle and fight with everything he had.
He genuinely, sincerely hoped that Mercedes-Benz would maintain their terrifying dominance. That would push this rivalry far beyond the limits of last season, guaranteeing a spectacular, historic collision. If he managed to defeat them easily and secure the championship without a fight, the monumental achievement of overthrowing the Mercedes-Benz dynasty would lose all its luster. The joy of racing would be cut in half.
Beside him, Leclerc was still slightly shell-shocked. He kept shooting covert, scrutinizing glances at Kai, entirely unable to decipher the bizarre, wild ideas constantly swirling inside his teammate's brain.
After hesitating for a moment, Leclerc repeated his concern. "Kai, are you absolutely sure... us not going back into the conference room isn't going to cause a massive problem?"
Kai patted Leclerc's knee gently. "Don't worry. Mattia looks like a harmless, nerdy Smurf, but believe me, he's absolutely not a helpless little rabbit."
"Charles, you wait out here. If the conference room goes completely quiet, you can just open the door and walk back in. Don't worry about interrupting the atmosphere in there..."
Leclerc frowned. "And what about you?"
Kai waved his hand dismissively. "Don't wait for me. I need to go find Silvia right now. I'll be back in three, maybe five minutes tops. If I come back and you're still sitting here, I'll go in with you."
Noticing the lingering hesitation in Leclerc's eyes, Kai paused and firmly patted him on the shoulder.
"Aura! Charles, Aura! What we need right now is a commanding aura!"
"Remember, we do not work for the engineers. We are the drivers. Our responsibility is to take their theoretical blueprints and transform them into top-tier competitiveness on the asphalt. But if their blueprints contain fundamental, structural errors, pointing out those errors is also our job. Do not let their arrogance or their sheer numbers intimidate you. Hit them right back."
"Charles, straighten your spine. You can handle this. Show them the commanding aura of the Prince of Ferrari!"
With that, Kai pumped his fist in a gesture of encouragement. Without waiting for a response, he stood up, turned around, and jogged off down the hallway.
Leclerc remained sitting on the floor. He looked up at the ceiling and let out a long, helpless groan.
Knock— Knock, knock—
Silvia Franchi-Penny was currently neck-deep in a crisis, frantically dealing with the media. She was running so ragged her feet practically hadn't touched the floor all day. The polite knocking on her office door sounded like a clap of thunder striking her heart. Is it more bad news?
"Come in!" Silvia called out loudly. But she was too anxious to stay seated. As she answered, she stood up and walked toward the door.
When she pulled it open, she was greeted by Kai's face poking through the crack.
Silvia's heart violently contracted. A heavy cloud of ominous premonition descended upon her. "What happened? Is there an emergency? Did someone actually throw a punch?"
The corners of Kai's mouth lifted into a light smile. "Silvia, don't let the fact that they deal with heavy machinery and grease all day fool you. Every single one of those guys has fists made of cotton. They have absolutely no strength. Even if a fight actually broke out, it wouldn't be any different from a kindergarten scuffle. There's nothing to worry about."
That casual, utterly unbothered demeanor nearly caused Silvia to hyperventilate. Her face instantly darkened into a severe scowl. "Don't you start with me. What the hell was that radio exchange between you and Pierre?! Did you do that on purpose just to provoke them?! Internal team issues are supposed to stay strictly internal..."
Silvia was prepared to continue her furious tirade, but she stopped. She saw Kai standing there, his hands clasped obediently in front of him, his head bowed. He looked exactly like a pitiful, scolded puppy passively accepting its punishment. All traces of the arrogant, storm-summoning titan from the racetrack were completely gone.
The swirling frustration and deep annoyance were still boiling in Silvia's chest, but looking at Kai acting like this, she couldn't bring herself to continue yelling. She was caught between laughing and crying, her face a mask of total exasperation.
"Don't try acting pitiful with me. I don't buy it," Silvia said sternly.
Kai maintained his picture-perfect 'good boy' expression.
Silvia: ... "Have you eaten dinner yet? I remember last year in Bahrain you struggled a bit with the local food. Are things better this year?"
"Mm, I'm full. I just played two games of chess with Charles to digest," Kai answered obediently.
The knot of tension suffocating Silvia's chest finally loosened, escaping in a long, exhausted sigh. Despite her best efforts, the corners of her mouth twitched upward slightly. However, she deliberately maintained a stern expression. "Alright, spit it out. Why did you run over here? Mattia came by just a minute ago claiming he was going to be late for the technical debrief. If he hadn't used that excuse, the media would still be hounding him."
Kai seized the opening. "I came over here specifically to talk about that."
"Silvia, I believe we need to deliberately leak rumors that the team is suffering from severe internal strife. We need to make it seem like the situation is incredibly, catastrophically bad right now."
Silvia's immediate, instinctual reaction was absolute rejection. "No! Absolutely not! Internal team matters must remain strictly inside the team. Do you not realize that our competitors are circling us like bloodthirsty sharks right now, just waiting for the slightest opening to take a massive bite out of us?"
"Yes, exactly," Kai nodded. "Even if we desperately try to cover things up, the rumors are never going to stop. The paddock is tiny. The gossip and whispering are eternal; they will never fade away completely."
"Since that's the reality, why don't we turn the tables and take the initiative? We proactively deploy a massive smokescreen. We actively encourage everyone else to believe our internal structure is collapsing, thereby forcing them to make inaccurate judgments regarding our true position and capabilities."
The underlying logic was simple.
This specific tactic was incredibly common in the paddock. Often, seemingly negative news stories were actively, deliberately leaked by the teams themselves to muddy the waters, scramble the narrative, and paralyze their opponents.
But the critical problem was—
"These aren't fake rumors. These are real problems. It's not a smokescreen," Silvia pointed out, instantly grasping the core issue.
"Exactly," Kai said. "Truth and lies, completely intertwined and indistinguishable from one another. That's what makes it so incredibly convincing. We desperately need to buy time and space to organize our strategic layout for the season. We need our opponents to be utterly incapable of accurately diagnosing our current state."
"Silvia, regarding the internal team issues, Mattia is currently handling them. And we are actively assisting him..."
Silvia glared at Kai. Assisting him? Is the absolute disaster you caused today in Bahrain what you call 'assisting'?
This time, Kai didn't bother pretending to be innocent. "If I told you I am working with everything I have to drag this team back onto the correct path... do you believe me?"
Silvia froze. After an entire year of working closely with him in 2018, she had long since realized that Kai was fundamentally different from Vettel, or any other driver on the grid for that matter.
She considered his words carefully for a moment, ultimately choosing not to speak. Even though she didn't offer a verbal response, her silence spoke volumes. It was an incredibly clear answer.
She trusted Kai. However, given her specific role and responsibilities as Head of PR, she had to maintain a healthy degree of skepticism and professional vigilance. Therefore, she couldn't explicitly voice her agreement.
For Kai, that silent acknowledgment was more than enough. "The entire paddock is analyzing our every move under a microscope. You cannot hide what happens out on the asphalt. Even if we stand in front of the cameras and insist that everything is fine, that we are united, that we are on the right path, that the SF90 is flawless, and that we have absolutely zero problems."
"Will anyone actually believe us?"
"More importantly: Will Mercedes-Benz or Red Bull believe us?"
Silvia: ...
Deep down, she knew Kai was absolutely right. The sterile, corporate PR statements they fed to the media wouldn't even fool the casual fans on the internet, let alone the cunning, paranoid old foxes running the rival teams.
However, the execution wasn't that simple.
"But if we proactively leak rumors claiming the team is in a state of absolute, chaotic collapse... Toto and Christian aren't going to believe that either," Silvia countered.
So-called 'insider information' and 'exclusive scoops' flooded social media every single day. But that was just noise for the netizens to get riled up about. The true, seasoned professionals in the paddock wouldn't buy it so easily. They all possessed their own highly classified, deeply embedded intelligence networks. Espionage and counter-espionage were open secrets in the F1 paddock; it was a game everyone played.
Just as the words left her mouth, Silvia noticed a distinct gleam flash through Kai's eyes. Cunning, excited, and wildly uninhibited.
Instinctively, Silvia's heart violently contracted. It felt exactly like she had just taken a blind step into a carefully laid trap.
Yet, miraculously, after the brief moment of shock passed, Silvia actually felt a strange sense of relaxation wash over her. She had a highly peculiar, distinctly accurate premonition: Someone is about to suffer terribly.
...
The night deepened. The world grew quiet, slowly drifting into sleep. The only sound was the wind, carrying the faint, lingering echoes of the roaring engines from today's race. A sky blanketed with brilliant stars stood as the silent witness to yet another year of apex competition.
Will Buxton had just finished recording his segments for the Netflix documentary Drive to Survive. He headed to the restroom to take care of his physiological needs. Just as he was preparing to leave his stall, a massive, explosive sound ripped through the room, terrifying him—
BANG!
A brutal, violent impact. It sounded like someone was trying to smash completely through the stall door. The deafening sound echoed continuously within the tiled bathroom, rumbling like thunder.
Buxton instantly aborted his movement. He instinctively pulled the stall door tightly shut again. However, unable to suppress his burning curiosity, he peeked cautiously through the narrow crack near the hinges.
A staff member wearing an official Ferrari uniform was pacing back and forth, back and forth, across the bathroom floor. He looked exactly like an ant trapped on a hot skillet.
He clenched his fists tightly, opened his mouth impossibly wide, and screamed a silent, agonizing roar into the void: AH!
He was using every ounce of strength in his body. You could clearly see the thick veins bulging violently against his neck. Yet, absolutely no sound emerged. Every drop of fury and rage was forcefully choked off and swallowed back down his throat.
Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds.
After seemingly venting all his explosive, suffocating emotion, he took a deep, shuddering breath. He stood in front of the sinks, stared into the mirror, meticulously rearranged his expression into a mask of stoic calm, turned on the faucet to wash his hands, and without lingering for another second, turned and quietly left.
The entire sequence had lasted less than thirty seconds. He never even realized Buxton was there.
However, Buxton's sharp journalistic instincts immediately smelled blood—
The entire paddock knew that the Bahrain Grand Prix had been a deeply unsatisfactory, highly frustrating race for Ferrari. They had locked out the front row in Qualifying, only to finish third and fifth.
It was an agonizingly familiar scenario. It had played out at Abu Dhabi at the end of last season. Kai, driving the SF71H, had sprinted like a madman, continuously setting fastest laps, hunting down Hamilton, and successfully executing a miraculous, come-from-behind victory to secure the championship. Yet, facing nearly identical circumstances in Melbourne and Bahrain this year, the results were drastically different.
In Albert Park, Kai had somehow managed to scrounge up a miraculous second-place finish, forcibly suppressing Hamilton. But in Bahrain, they couldn't replicate the feat.
The glaring flaws and severe limitations of the SF90 over long-run race distances were completely, nakedly exposed. Without comparison, there is no pain.
Ferrari had arrived at the season opener brimming with towering ambition and absolute determination. They intended to use the first race to deliver a terrifying manifesto, demonstrating their power to completely overthrow Mercedes-Benz. Yet, the suffocating, frustrating reality of their actual performance had turned all those grand ambitions to ash in their mouths. This was undeniably, absolutely not the start Ferrari had envisioned. They had already surrendered a massive, critical advantage in the battle for the World Championship.
It was entirely predictable that the internal atmosphere at Ferrari was saturated with a profound, bitter sense of defeat.
However, whenever they stood in front of the media, the entire team—from top to bottom—projected an aura of absolute, unbreakable unity. The season was only two races old; they claimed they remained brimming with absolute confidence.
Anyone with half a brain could see right through it. These were strict, explicit directives handed down by team management. Both Silvia Franchi-Penny and Mattia Binotto were textbook "Ferrari Men," dedicating every ounce of their energy to fiercely protecting Ferrari's public relations image.
While filming Drive to Survive, Buxton had been constantly fanning the flames and trying to stir up drama. He knew exactly what the internet wanted to see; he understood the raw currency of traffic. He was absolutely burning with curiosity to know the true, unvarnished reality currently unfolding behind Ferrari's closed doors. Witnessing that explosive, silent scream in the restroom had only amplified his itch to unbearable levels.
A trap?
Impossible!
Did you not just see the details of that encounter? That Ferrari staff member didn't even dare to audibly vent his rage! Even his furious roar had to be violently swallowed back down his throat. He vented his frustration for a few brief, panicked seconds before scurrying away, clearly terrified of being noticed by absolutely anyone. He had zero idea Buxton was even in the room.
Furthermore, Buxton was no rookie. He would exercise extreme caution.
Carefully sneaking out of the restroom, Buxton made his way into the pit lane corridor. From a distance, he could see that the Ferrari garage area remained brightly lit.
Buxton carefully concealed his presence in the shadows. Peering from a distance, he spotted several engineers holding bottles of beer, taking swigs in a hallway adjacent to the Ferrari break room. In the surrounding areas, the mechanics who were supposed to be working were still busy working. On the surface, everything looked perfectly normal. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
However, as an elite, top-tier journalist, his greatest skill was detecting the microscopic details that ordinary people completely overlooked—
Every single one of those engineers was utterly, completely silent. Not a single person was speaking.
Clearly, this was highly abnormal.
Generally speaking, when corporate employees gather secretly in the break room, far away from their workstations, it's explicitly to hide and gossip about their bosses or complain about their jobs. It's a chance to slack off while simultaneously venting the deep-seated resentment and frustration burning in their chests.
The paddock was absolutely no exception.
But look at them now.
They were just drinking in oppressive, heavy silence. Some stared blankly at the floor or off into the distance, lost in thought. Some nervously scanned their surroundings, hyper-alert. Others paced back and forth in a state of visible agitation.
One glance was all it took to know: the team had undeniably issued a draconian gag order to prevent any leaks. The entire Ferrari organization was on maximum lockdown, actively refusing to expose any vulnerabilities.
However, they were still ultimately just ordinary people. The guy who had been silently screaming in the restroom couldn't hold it in any longer. He let out a bitter complaint. "So what are we supposed to do now? Are we all just supposed to tape our mouths shut?"
"Shhh! If you can't keep it together right now, you'll be sent home permanently tomorrow. Then you can sit in your living room and complain as loudly as you want until the end of time. Is that what you want?"
The harsh reprimand hung in the air, receiving no response. The hallway sank back into silence. A heavy, suffocating silence that made it practically impossible to breathe.
Nearby, a door cracked open. A figure poked their head out, instinctively scanning the hallway. They didn't say a word; they merely shot a significant look at the group of engineers. Instantly, they all filed inside, and the world plunged into absolute silence once more.
Buxton's heart was hammering violently. He was practically 100% certain: the oppressive, suffocating pressure building inside Ferrari had finally reached critical mass and was teetering on the absolute edge of a violent eruption—
Of course, this wasn't exactly a secret. Everyone in the paddock was already speculating about it. But now? Now he possessed actual, tangible evidence.
Taking a deep breath, Buxton tiptoed forward, moving lightly and silently, keeping his back pressed tightly against the wall. He used the cover of darkness to hide his movements. Simultaneously, he didn't forget to pull out his phone and activate the voice recorder app.
Regardless of whether he managed to capture any actual audio, it was always better to be prepared.
Finally, he arrived just outside the conference room. Buxton pressed his ear firmly against the wall, desperately trying to catch any sound from within.
Buzz— Buzz—
The chaotic noise and sounds of violent collision vibrated through the air. He could clearly feel the physical tremors vibrating through the wall itself.
Unfortunately, he couldn't make out any distinct words. It was just scattered, fragmented syllables. Piecing them together into any coherent meaning was completely impossible.
What should he do? Should he just give up and walk away?
Buxton was virtually 100% positive that the volcano inside Ferrari, having endured endless suppression, had finally erupted entirely out of control. They had tolerated the intolerable until they simply couldn't tolerate it any longer.
If he missed this golden opportunity right now, Ferrari would quickly finalize their internal adjustments. The internal purges would conclude, and they would once again present a united, polished front of "Hello, how are you, we are all fantastic, wishing for world peace." They would re-establish their impenetrable defenses and completely block out all prying eyes.
That was the exact kind of PR manipulation the 'Big Three' excelled at.
Opportunity knocks but once. If you miss it, it's gone forever.
In the span of a lightning flash, Buxton made his decision. He spun around and grabbed the handle of the door he had just watched them enter—
Unlocked!
Buxton's heart instantly rocketed into his throat, practically threatening to jump straight out of his mouth. Gathering his emotions, he stopped hunching his shoulders.
Just like in The Bourne Identity, an elite spy doesn't skulk around suspiciously trying to hide in the shadows; that's exactly how you blow your cover. A true spy walks openly and confidently, blending seamlessly into the crowd, marching straight into the heart of the enemy camp. That was the correct methodology.
Buxton stashed his press credentials, his paddock pass, and his phone securely away. He didn't immediately rush into the conference room. Instead, he searched the immediate area. Sure enough, he quickly located a staff locker room. Inside, he found an official Ferrari windbreaker. He immediately threw it on, completing his disguise, and topped it off with a Ferrari cap, pulling the brim low.
When he reappeared, Buxton had flawlessly transformed into an entirely ordinary, unremarkable mechanic working in the Ferrari garage. He strode forward openly and confidently.
Thump, thump. His heart was hammering wildly out of control. Buxton's heart had never beaten this violently in his entire life. He clenched his hands, his palms completely slick with cold sweat. But the rush of adrenaline and pure exhilaration was impossible to suppress. He genuinely felt exactly like Matt Damon in The Bourne Identity, infiltrating a highly secure enemy stronghold completely solo.
Thrilling!
...
Calm down— Calm down!
Buxton tried to force himself to remain calm and organize his thoughts. If he just shamelessly paced back and forth outside the conference room door, it was going to look incredibly suspicious.
Therefore, he needed an excuse. A cover story. Something that would allow him to blatantly and openly eavesdrop.
While he was hesitating, he caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. At the very end of the hallway, in the pantry, someone was frantically busy. It was a young man, looking to be in his early twenties. He appeared highly nervous and incredibly green. His uniform looked slightly ill-fitting. One glance was all it took to know he was an intern. He was currently fumbling around, desperately trying to prepare coffee and tea, his movements clumsy and panicked.
A brilliant spark of inspiration flashed in Buxton's mind.
He immediately straightened his spine, pulled the brim of his cap down slightly lower, and walked purposefully toward the pantry. Lowering his voice, he asked, "Do you need a hand?"
The young intern was so overwhelmed with panic that he didn't even look up to examine Buxton's face. He replied frantically, "No, no, it's fine. I can handle it."
Buxton thought for a second. "Are these for the conference room? Mattia and the others are waiting. You need to speed it up."
The intern didn't answer, but his hands moved even more frantically, making him even clumsier. He looked like he was on the verge of tears. His shoulders were trembling slightly, completely beyond his control.
Buxton immediately stepped forward. "Let me do it. If we keep making them wait, the meeting is going to be over before they get anything."
Using his shoulder, Buxton decisively nudged the young man aside. With practiced efficiency, he rapidly prepared the tea and coffee. He didn't care about getting the exact quantity right; he just needed to fill the serving tray.
"You finish up the rest. Hurry up and follow me."
Dropping the instruction, Buxton had already grabbed the heavy tray, turned around, and walked away. He had already pinpointed the exact location of the conference room. He marched straight toward it.
However, Buxton didn't push the door open and walk inside.
Even though Buxton desperately wanted front-row seats to the carnage, he was terrified someone inside would recognize him. After all, following the explosive success of the first season of Drive to Survive, his face had essentially become the globally recognized face of F1 journalism. Everyone knew exactly who he was.
Therefore, he stood directly outside the door.
If someone walked by, he could confidently, righteously claim that the atmosphere inside sounded incredibly hostile, so he was waiting outside, unsure if it was safe to interrupt—
He absolutely, definitely wasn't eavesdropping!
Buxton quietly pressed his ear flat against the heavy wooden door. He could distinctly hear the vicious, explosive screaming match raging inside. At this point, they weren't even debating technical engineering issues anymore. It had devolved entirely into brutal, highly personal attacks. This meant the contradictions had become completely irreconcilable. They had completely derailed from the agenda and were simply attacking each other with reckless abandon.
Italian, English, French, and German were all violently tangled together. Wait, was that... Spanish? Or was it Kai speaking Chinese?
Buxton couldn't be entirely sure he hadn't misheard. He felt a sudden, profound pang of regret that he hadn't spent more time studying Mandarin.
Even though he wasn't capturing highly classified technical secrets, or learning the exact nature of the SF90's mechanical flaws to use as bargaining chips to trade for insider intel with other teams... Buxton wasn't disappointed in the slightest. He genuinely didn't care about the technical secrets. The massive, undeniable headline was that Ferrari's desperate attempt to paint a picture of perfect internal harmony had completely, catastrophically failed.
Last year, the rapidly escalating tension between Kai and Vettel ultimately failed to ignite into a full-blown inferno. Ferrari managed to quietly, silently smother it before it exploded. For the journalists, it was an absolutely massive disappointment. Knowing full well that Ferrari possessed a literal goldmine of explosive headlines, they were forced to watch helplessly, entirely unable to access the treasure.
But now, none of that mattered anymore.
The massive bombshell currently unfolding before him was infinitely more thrilling than a simple driver rivalry. Because this was a brutal, all-out war between the star driver and the core technical team. It represented total, catastrophic internal collapse across the entire organization. The entire world believed Ferrari had finally stabilized and returned to the correct path. Yet, the brutal reality currently screaming in his ear proved that the Ferrari hurricane was very much an ongoing, active disaster.
Just imagining the absolute, earth-shattering tsunami this exclusive scoop would trigger across the entire social media landscape was enough to make Buxton tremble with uncontrollable excitement.
Total concentration. Blood boiling with adrenaline. Every single hair on Buxton's body was standing on end. He was so completely, utterly absorbed in his eavesdropping that he completely failed to notice the young intern standing directly behind him—
Who was currently struggling violently to hold back his laughter.
He had genuinely almost broken character a second ago. He honestly believed this entire elaborate charade wasn't going to work. Buxton was a highly experienced, sharp-eyed journalist. How could he possibly fail to see through such a cheap, obvious theatrical setup? Furthermore, they weren't professional actors. Their clumsy, amateurish performance was riddled with glaring flaws. Deceiving a seasoned journalist was not an easy task.
And yet... this ridiculous stunt was actually succeeding?
What was that Chinese proverb Kai had mentioned earlier? Something about fishing? 'The willing victim takes the bait?'
The young man had to use every ounce of willpower in his body to suppress his laughter and avoid ruining the scene.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, the young man regained his composure. It was his turn to act. If they dragged this out much longer, Buxton might actually start to notice the massive holes in the plot.
While Buxton was eagerly listening, thoroughly enjoying the drama, a voice suddenly rang out from directly behind him. In an instant, all the blood in his body violently rushed to his heart. "Kai!"
FUCK!
Buxton felt like all the blood had been instantly drained from his veins. Kai! That absolute demon!
Wait, so Kai wasn't inside the conference room? Those words he had heard earlier weren't Chinese? Did this mean Kai actually wasn't involved in this massive internal team war?
In a fraction of a second, a million thoughts raced through Buxton's mind. But disaster was literally staring him in the face. He didn't have time to analyze the narrative implications. After a brief moment of intense regret, his primary focus violently shifted to his own immediate, life-or-death survival crisis. This was a matter of life and death!
"Is the tea still not ready? The meeting is practically over!" Kai's voice echoed loudly down the hall.
The young intern sounded increasingly frantic, his voice trembling noticeably. "Right now! Bringing it in right now!"
The young man stepped forward with the tray. "Could you please help me open the door?"
Buxton's mind was completely consumed by the absolute terror of being cornered. What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?!
Acting purely on blind, desperate instinct, Buxton shoved the heavy conference room doors open. He ducked his head as low as humanly possible, carried the tray inside, and practically slammed it down onto the nearest table. Out of the corner of his eye, he managed a single, frantic, sweeping glance. He saw a room full of furious, red-faced individuals screaming at each other, but he had absolutely zero time to identify who anyone actually was. Before anyone could react, he spun around and sprinted for the exit.
He collided directly with the young intern entering the room. Buxton patted the intern roughly on the shoulder, and without waiting for him to fully enter, forcefully shoved his way past him, squeezing back out into the hallway.
Buxton purposefully used the intern's body as a physical shield to block Kai's line of sight. He rapidly turned away, completely altering his trajectory, and began power-walking in the opposite direction.
Kai's voice called out from behind him. "What happened? Did you burn yourself?"
Buxton panicked. Did I shove the intern too hard?
"Hey! You! Why didn't you apologize?!"
Buxton reacted entirely on autopilot. "Sorry, I... uh... I need to deliver this document immediately..."
Kai's voice echoed behind him again, sounding aggressive and menacing, like a predator locking onto its prey. Buxton started running faster, and faster. He violently yanked open the exit door, bursting outside. He didn't even bother taking the stairs; he leaped directly off the meter-high landing. He ripped off the Ferrari jacket and hat, tossing them behind him without a single backward glance, and sprinted forward with absolutely everything he had.
Carried on the wind, he could hear Kai's furious, enraged shouts demanding he stop. But Buxton didn't care. Only one single thought remained echoing in his brain:
RUN!
As long as he wasn't physically caught, the exclusive scoop of the year was his. The phone sitting in his pocket felt like it was radiating intense, burning heat, causing his heart to hammer wildly in rhythm. The dopamine flood was absolutely massive. He couldn't control the massive, triumphant grin spreading across his face. He felt like his lungs were literally on fire.
Behind him, Kai seemed to still be entirely disoriented, utterly failing to comprehend what had just happened. He was just shouting randomly: Don't run! Stop right there!
The young intern was technically 'chasing' Buxton. If Buxton had bothered to glance over his shoulder even once, he would have instantly realized that Kai wasn't making any actual effort to pursue him.
Kai just went through the motions, jogging for a few seconds, pretending to be utterly bewildered by the bizarre turn of events. He quickly stopped, simply standing there and admiring the sight of Buxton sprinting for his life.
One look was all it took to know that the esteemed journalist did absolutely zero cardio in his daily life. The frantic, exaggerated swinging of his arms and torso looked incredibly dramatic—exactly like an elite, world-class 100-meter sprinter. But compared to the massive physical exertion, his actual forward momentum was pathetically embarrassing. The intern, even jogging casually, was genuinely in danger of accidentally catching him.
It got to the point where Kai was actually starting to sweat nervously for Buxton. He couldn't help but quietly cheer him on.
"Run! Will, RUN!"
...
March concluded.
It felt like only yesterday that the curtain had slowly risen on the brand new 2019 F1 season. Yet, in the blink of an eye, two Grand Prix weekends were already in the history books. There had been stunning upsets and massive surprises. However, looking strictly at the final results, everything seemed almost frustratingly predictable. It was the exact same 'standard ending' as always, leaving everyone caught between laughing and crying.
In Melbourne: Bottas, Kai, Hamilton, Verstappen, Leclerc. The top five.
In Bahrain: Hamilton, Bottas, Kai, Verstappen, Leclerc. The top five.
The exact same names. Just a slightly different order.
In fact, the finishing order was incredibly similar. The only driver who shattered the deadlock was Hamilton. Leaping from third to claim the victory, he violently overturned the top-five hierarchy, aggressively declaring his absolute determination to reclaim the crown. Whether it was Kai or Bottas, they were nothing more than stepping stones on Hamilton's path back to the throne.
Adding a slightly bizarre, ironic twist to the narrative: Bottas had emerged from nowhere, essentially picking up Kai's script from 2018, and was currently leading the Drivers' World Championship standings.
So, did this mean Mercedes-Benz had already successfully resolved all their internal conflicts? Had Hamilton and Bottas reached a consensus, maintaining a temporary, fragile equilibrium? Were they actively joining forces to block the aggressive assaults from Ferrari and Red Bull? Had Wolff successfully managed to twist the entire Mercedes-Benz organization, from top to bottom, back into a single, unbreakable rope?
For their competitors, this was absolutely terrible news.
The 'Big Three,' the 'Big Three'... the entire paddock was desperately expecting the 'Big Three' to maintain their elite status. But actually watching the 'Big Three' exert absolute, total control over two consecutive races, aggressively pulling away from the rest of the pack and establishing a stark, impenetrable wall—even a massive chasm—between themselves and the midfield... it was inevitably disappointing.
So, was the thrilling 'Hundred Schools of Thought Contending,' the massive, unpredictable suspense of the 2018 season, merely a fleeting flash in the pan? Was the 2019 season doomed to revert to the same old, boring, highly predictable standard ending?
Clearly, the reality was significantly more complex than that.
In Bahrain, there was more than just one compelling storyline.
McLaren's Lando Norris finished sixth, cementing himself as the highest-placed driver outside of the 'Big Three.' Red Bull's Alexander Albon finished eighth, finally breaking into the points and successfully out-pacing Toro Rosso's Gasly. Racing Point's Sebastian Vettel finished tenth, securing a single point and once again demonstrating Racing Point's underlying competitiveness.
On one hand, the young rookies were rising rapidly across the board. Both Norris and Albon had successfully made their mark. Conversely, last season's F2 Champion, George Russell, remained agonizingly trapped in the disastrous Williams.
On the other hand, Alfa Romeo, McLaren, Racing Point, Toro Rosso, Renault, and Haas were locked in an absolute, blood-soaked dogfight. Setting aside the completely uncompetitive Williams, who were languishing entirely alone at the very bottom, every other team could legitimately be classified as the 'Midfield.' The sheer ferocity and intensity of their competition far exceeded anything seen last season.
Looking at the data from the first two races, it was glaringly obvious: The 'Big Three' were running faster and faster, rapidly expanding the gap to the rest of the field. Simultaneously, the performance gap between the midfield teams was shrinking dramatically. It was a massive, chaotic brawl. The circumstances of every single race could be entirely different. The desperate, cutthroat battle for points was escalating to a white-hot intensity, becoming more spectacular by the minute.
Viewed from a different perspective: Although the midfield teams weren't making massive, individual leaps forward, they were all making steady, measurable progress, essentially arriving at a highly similar, highly competitive baseline.
Analyzing this trend one step further revealed the brutal truth: The 'Big Three' hadn't all undergone a comprehensive, simultaneous evolution. It was Mercedes-Benz that had achieved a terrifying qualitative leap, establishing a crushing, multi-tier advantage. Even though Ferrari and Red Bull were also making progress, their forward momentum clearly couldn't keep pace with Mercedes-Benz. The intensity of the competition among the 'Big Three' couldn't even begin to compare to the chaotic, bloody warfare currently raging in the midfield.
While everyone was busy praising Mercedes-Benz, the immense, crushing pressure resting squarely on the shoulders of Ferrari and Red Bull was becoming completely unmanageable.
Bearing the absolute brunt of that pressure was the supremely confident, championship-hunting Ferrari. They were the very first to mentally crack under the strain. It was glaringly obvious that they were entirely unable to accept their current position in the hierarchy.
The viral, highly publicized radio banter between Kai and his engineer during the Bahrain Grand Prix was merely the tiny tip of the iceberg. Anyone with a functioning brain could sense the massive, violent undercurrents churning just beneath the surface at Ferrari. A relentless barrage of explosive rumors dominated the news cycle, shoving Ferrari violently back into the absolute center of the media storm.
Rumor: Ferrari management is absolutely furious with the start of the season. Binotto threw a massive, screaming tantrum during a technical debrief.
Rumor: Massive, violent conflict has erupted within Ferrari. A physical altercation occurred between the engineers and Kai.
Rumor: John Elkann personally phoned Kai to deliver a severe reprimand. He is reportedly furious regarding Kai's sarcastic, mocking radio transmissions, claiming they publicly aired the team's internal dirty laundry.
Rumor: Kai is deeply unhappy that Leclerc appears to be siding with the technical team. The two close friends are currently locked in a bitter 'Cold War.'
Rumor: Silvia Franchi-Penny convened three emergency PR crisis meetings in a single day. However, Kai openly refused to cooperate and blatantly boycotted the meetings.
Rumor: The Maranello technical team is incredibly, intensely furious about Kai constantly overstepping his boundaries and interfering with their work. It has triggered a massive, organizational uproar.
And on, and on. A dazzling, dizzying array of explosive rumors filled the air.
Over the past few days, you couldn't open a social media app without a brand new 'exclusive scoop' popping up on your timeline every few hours. It was relentless, an endless, cascading avalanche of drama.
Large and small negative headlines erupted continuously, acting exactly like a thick, oppressive thundercloud permanently looming over Ferrari's head. It simply refused to dissipate. Even though the Tifosi united as one to launch a massive, coordinated counter-attack, they were utterly powerless to stop the millions of casual netizens from endlessly retweeting and sharing these sensational, unverifiable whispers and rumors.
The wind howls through the tower before the mountain storm arrives. This perfectly encapsulated Ferrari's current, disastrous reality.
—Will Buxton was indeed incredibly smart.
It had to be said, Buxton had chosen the absolute most brilliant, most highly effective method to exploit his scoop.
He didn't simply dump the raw audio recording online. The audio was only a tiny fragment of the whole story; it was merely a single, isolated snapshot of the internal conflict. Releasing the raw, unedited proof undeniably possessed massive shock value, but the actual, long-term damage it could inflict was highly limited. It would generate a brief, explosive burst of hype, and then people would move on and forget about it.
Instead, Buxton took the contents of the recording, shattered them into a million tiny, fragmented pieces, and strategically scattered them across the darkest corners of the paddock. A tiny leak here, a subtle whisper there. Blurring the lines between truth and fiction, half-concealed and half-revealed. He deliberately left massive, gaping voids for the public's imagination to run wild, granting everyone the freedom to fill in the blanks with their own wildest conspiracy theories. Then, he simply sat back and enjoyed the spectacular show.
Every single one of the rumors listed above was entirely unverified. Ferrari refused to comment, and no official paddock source confirmed them. However, on social media, they were spoken of with absolute, terrifying conviction. Netizens treated every single whisper as gospel truth, actively participating in the rapid dissemination of the chaos. It wasn't hard proof, but its destructive impact far exceeded hard proof. It successfully wove a massive, impenetrable web of dark, oppressive clouds.
To be fair, Ferrari's actual results in Melbourne and Bahrain weren't terrible. Furthermore, the season had literally just begun. A long, grueling, exhausting journey still lay ahead. There was absolutely no rational need to panic or overreact. Even the notoriously demanding Tifosi remained relatively calm and unbothered—they weren't anxious, they weren't panicked, they weren't angry. So why were the casual onlookers losing their minds?
The emperor isn't in a hurry, but the eunuchs are panicking to death.
However, Ferrari's stated objective was the Constructors' World Championship. Their goal was to challenge Mercedes-Benz and finally complete the unfinished business of the 2018 season. Measured against that standard, they simply could not afford to be satisfied with "not terrible." In fact, their start to the season could easily be categorized as profoundly disappointing.
After all, this is Ferrari. "Not terrible" is nowhere near enough.
Precisely because of this immense expectation gap, the endless rumors and gossip continued to boil and rage. Crushed beneath layer upon layer of suffocating pressure, Ferrari's most glaring, fatal vulnerability was brutally exposed—
Mattia Binotto.
It was glaringly obvious: Binotto, having only just officially assumed the role of Team Principal, had entirely failed to adapt to the massive demands of his new position. Initially, people had hoped he could serve as the crucial, unifying bridge between the technical team and the drivers, facilitating the development of a significantly superior race car. But based on the current evidence, Binotto's tenure was an unmitigated failure.
Even possessing a generational, genius driver pairing like Kai and Leclerc... without an elite, championship-caliber race car, Ferrari would never be able to reverse their fortunes.
Behind the massive, surging wave of social media traffic, you could clearly perceive the invisible hands actively pushing the narrative. And it wasn't just one pair of hands. It was exactly like a crowd gleefully pushing over a crumbling wall. Three, four, five, six different factions were simultaneously exerting force, violently dragging Ferrari deep into the center of a catastrophic pressure storm.
Ferrari, already riddled with deep internal contradictions and struggling to move forward, was now facing a nightmare scenario. Their dire situation had been exponentially compounded.
So, what about the protagonist standing dead center in the eye of this hurricane?
Kai hadn't opened a single social media app, yet he hadn't missed a single update. Because Norris and Gasly, acting like two hyperactive chatterboxes, ensured Kai absolutely never missed the latest trending topics and hottest gossip.
Buxton hadn't followed the script exactly. He deviated slightly from the planned trajectory. As expected, the human heart remains the ultimate, uncontrollable variable.
But everything was still operating entirely within Kai's acceptable parameters. It hadn't sunk like a stone. Driven by the primal, irresistible hunger for profit and the modern obsession with 'entertainment unto death,' Buxton simply couldn't resist the urge to pull the trigger.
And thus, this spectacular scene unfolded—
All the monsters, demons, ghosts, and goblins... every single hidden enemy was violently flushed out into the open all at once.
In Kai's eyes, this was absolutely fantastic news.