Redline | L.Norris

forty one

The press room was buzzing, overfilled and overheated, cameras jammed into every crevice of the backdrop. The Red Bull logo loomed large behind the table, its clean blue and red lines now stained with the shadow of a finish no one had expected.

Max sat in the center, the Drivers' Championship trophy untouched beside him. His face was unreadable. Calm, but coiled. Lando sat to his left, Charles on the other side, both silent as the moderators called for the final round of questions.

A journalist in the second row stood quickly.

"Max, congratulations on another title," he began. "But many are saying the win feels overshadowed by Isla's crash. What's your response to the way the race ended?"

Max leaned forward.

His eyes found the reporter's lens and every other one in the room before he spoke.

"I don't count this as a victory," he said bluntly. "Not in the way people expect me to."

A beat of silence spread across the room like wildfire.

He didn't flinch.

"You all saw what happened," Max continued. "There was debris in the middle of the final sector, it was left there for almost an entire lap. Race control knew. They chose not to throw a Virtual Safety Car or even a yellow flag."

He glanced down briefly, then back up. "She hit it. Not because of a mistake. Not because she cracked under pressure. But because no one cleared the track."

The moderator tried to move on, but Max cut in.

"Isla Räikkönen should've won this championship. And everyone in this paddock knows it."

Lando looked sideways at him, surprised, but not disagreeing.

Max exhaled slowly, then added, "She had the drive of a world champion all season. Today doesn't erase that. This result doesn't change what we all saw."

A different journalist spoke up hesitantly. "So you're saying the FIA—"

"I'm saying they failed her," Max said. "And I don't care if it's unpopular to say that. Because I'd rather win fair than win because someone couldn't be bothered to throw a flag when there was carbon fiber on the racing line."

Cameras snapped faster now. Fingers flew over keyboards.

Lando leaned forward. "I'll back that too," he added. "Isla didn't lose this. She was failed."

The room erupted with more questions, but Max stood, ignoring the calls.

He didn't take the trophy with him.

Just walked off the stage, jaw tight, eyes forward leaving behind a storm bigger than any podium celebration.

And somewhere, in her quiet driver room, Isla wouldn't hear it yet.

But the world had started fighting for her.

***

She hadn't realized how much time had passed.

The lights in the hallway outside her driver room had dimmed to their overnight setting. Most of the voices that had echoed through the Red Bull hospitality suite earlier had faded. Even the garage, once buzzing with frantic movement and media, had fallen mostly silent.

Isla sat on the floor of her driver room, still in her race suit, knees drawn tight to her chest, her head leaning back against the cool paneling. The radio had been tossed across the room. Her helmet lay facedown by the wall. She hadn't cried in at least fifteen minutes, but her chest still ached like her lungs hadn't been filled properly since the spin.