(hobi)dyll

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

 “Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred. “What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake. You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those rabbit teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced them into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

They entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Liked by lando and others

yourusername Lando wins the Australian Grand Prix !!! He's now leading the championship. Mark my words, it's coming home this year 🧡✴️

1 hour ago

user1 23min FUCK YESSSS

user2 1h a great day to be a papaya stan 🥭🧡✴️ ♥︎ liked by author

user3 47min OMG GIRL HE LIKED

user4 19min he notices Y/N like three times a week yourusername 10min and yet it never gets old user4 8min tell me about it girl omg i wish i knew how it feels yourusername 3min manifesting this for you girlie 🧎🤲🏼

user5 37min if we don't win this year i'll kms

yourusername 17min noooo don't kill yourself your so sexy aha (same.)

user6 1h the way you posted before McLaren... DEDICATION.

user7 1h McLaren's CM works hard but Y/N works harder ♥︎ liked by author

user8 3min Meanwhile Oscar is still mowing the Australian grass as we speak

Liked by lando and others

yourusername Still can't believe this happened. Thank you McLaren for the invitation and congratulations to Lando for P2 !!! We're leading the championship, baby !!! 🧡✴️

2 hours ago

user1 2h CONGRAAAAAATS YOU DESERVE IT SO MUCH 😭 (i've never been so jealous in my entire life)

user2 2h omgggg is that lando in the last pic??? girl you're living the life

yourusername 2h my hands were shaking so bad

user3 1h beauty privilege is wild frr

user4 49min pls let's not erase the fact that she is the biggest Lando update account on this platform. it was bound to happen either way.

mclaren 34min It was a pleasure to show you around the paddock, Y/N! ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername 31min Thank you so much guys!! You made my dreams come true 🧡

user5 1h you already got the wag look down

user5 1h GUYS LANDO LIKED MY COMMENT?????!!!! OMMGGGGG

lando 2h Too bad we couldn't talk more ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername 2h Perhaps next time!! lando 2h I'll hold you to that ♥︎ liked by author user6 2h look at her being all composed and shit but we all know she's dying inside user7 1h he commented so fast omgggggg chill lando frr the post is not going anywhere user8 1h why are they flirting??? chat am i the only one seeing this? user9 42min no no you're not @/user8 i feel like i'm intruding

user10 21min How does it feel to live my dreams?

user11 17min guys smile we are witnessing history

Conversation 218 Comments

Sort by Best ↓

Marylin 27 March, 2025

For fuck's sake. Let people live in peace. They don't need you to comment every aspect of their life.

Johann 27 March, 2025 You do that OP. Meanwhile, the rest of us will enjoy life and bask together in this drama straight out of a fanfic.

Paul 27 March, 2025

It's so hard seeing other people live my dream.

Liked by lando and others

yourusername Getting the news directly from the source now !! 🧡✴️

1 hour ago

user1 1h just woke up and oomf is dating my fav driver might just go back to sleep and pray to never wake up

user2 1h the hardest launch that ever launched

yourusername 1h what's a soft launch? never heard of her.

lando 1h Love you 🧡✴️ ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername 1h Love you too 🧡 user3 1h omg he used her emoji combos 🥹🥹 user4 47min god we're so chronically online it's embarrassing user3 38min y/n was chronically online and looks where that got her. so excuse me but i'll continue. ♥︎ liked by author

user5 21min Y/N doing god's work and giving every fangirl hope they can date their fav

user6 1h What in the fanfic is this???

mclaren 10min Cannot wait to see you back in our garage! ♥︎ liked by author

user7 19min imagine if she hadnt posted her face reveal??? the way her life would be so different rn

user8 1h she better not distract him from winning the season

user9 1h Y/N would literally breakup with Lando if it meant securing his and McLaren's wins ♥︎ liked by author

user10 5min They better adapt this story into a romcom. The material is right there.

NOT UNLIKE POKER, Formula One is a game where one learns to keep their hand hidden until the start of the season. As teams begin to reveal their cards one by one before the pre-season testing at the Bahrain International Circuit, Williams has gone all-in with an unexpected line-up.

While the Russell-Latifi duo remains unchanged, the team’s “third wheel” has caused quite a stir. Isadora Senna, the only daughter of the three-time world champion, has been chosen as the British team’s reserve driver.

For the first time in 45 years and Lella Lombardi, a woman will enter the F1 World Championship. With this move, will Williams take the pot or bust? 

While several female figures across all sports—amongst which Susie Wolff—have hailed the decision and spoken of a “historic event” for women's rights, a wave of hostility from the most fervent motorsport fans is washing over Isadora Senna. Many are already questioning her ability to compete in the F1 championship, as well as the role nepotism played in this decision.

It is undeniable that Isadora is her father’s daughter, but the resemblance lies less in the iconic name than in her talent on the track. On many occasions, Senna’s only child has proved herself to be talented behind the wheel, with a track record not unlike that of a Max Verstappen.

━━ SEE ALSO ON PADDOCK PRESS.

"I never had anything handed to me" Isadora Senna denies nepotism allegations

Will Lewis Hamilton break the record and become an eight-time world champion in 2021?

Susie Wolff speaks out against misogyny in motorsports

Becoming the 2009 Karting World Champion at only 15 years old, Isadora Senna went on to win the 2015 GP2 Championship at 21 during her first year in the competition—after having faced numerous entry rejections based on her gender. 

Thus, it would not be surprising to see the prodigy succeed in the big league, just as her father did from 1984 to 1994. But will the opportunity arise ? For—as a reserve driver—Isadora Senna may not race this season. 

Already, several women are sceptical about this position, pointing out an only-partial progress. According to renowned feminist journalist Glenna R. Colburn, “it is a way for the FIA to pussyfoot around resolving the burning issue of gender inequality within the motorsports industry.”

“They're going to milk everything revolving around her appointment and what it means for women, without ever putting her on the track and risking disturbing the established patriarchal order,” she asserts.

So, should we view Senna’s new status as a real step forward in the world of motorsport or just a woke concession that will ensure both Williams and the FIA positive media attention?

Sort by Most Relevant ↓

Anonymous 2 hours ago

They only put her in because of her father’s name. That’s a great play for Williams' part but let’s see how long it takes for them to realize she’s just not cut out for it.

Anonymous 5 hours ago

F1 is slowly turning into a joke. Wokeness is destroying everything.

Anonymous 1 hour ago

Great, now they’ll probably start giving her handouts just because she’s Daddy’s girl. Just wait until she’s up against real competition. She won't stand a chance.

Anonymous 4 hour ago

I’d rather see a fresh face in the sport than someone riding off their father’s coattails. 

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✷ Subscribe to the Paddock Press's newsletter to keep up with the latest F1 gossips !

user1 both lips smiled 

user2 Let's go!! The GOAT 🐐

yourusername Looking good Lew!!! ♥ by author

⤷ lewishamilton ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

user3 may i ask for your hand kind sir??🧎

user4 i wish i had the same relationship with my ex as lewis and y/n do

⤷ user5 I'm pretty sure theyre still fucking U cant be just friends with someone u were with for 4 years

⤷ user6 How about we let them exist in peace? Hmm? ♥ by author

user7 I NEED THAT JACKET RN

⤷ COMMENTS

Anonymous The rumors are definitely true. Anyone who is slightly invested in their story knows how big this is because even though they remained friends, she never went back to a Grand Prix in three years.

user1 43 minutes ago The interviewer had one job and he did not disappoint

user2 2 hours ago lewis this, lewis that... can we please appreciate about how beautiful y/n looks instead???

user3 3 hours ago In English we don't say "I got back with my ex", instead we say "I'm here to support someone really dear to my heart" and I think that's beautiful

user4 8 hours ago she looked good in mercedes colors but i must say the red suits her 100x better

user1 WTF DID I WAKE UP TO???

user2 I can now die in peace

user3 congrats everyone, we have officially survived the drought !! 🫡

lewishamilton I love you ❤️

⤷ user4 OK THIS IS NOT A DRILL EVERYBODY STAY CALM

user5 pls never put us through this again and get married asap ♥ by author

⤷ user6 AYOOOOO WHY ARE YOU LIKING THIS Y/N? WHAT AREN'T YOU TELLING US???

user7 omggggggg my parents are back together

user8 It's 6 in the morning over here, Y/N. I was not prepared.

arianagrande so happy for you both!! 🫧☀️ ♥ by author

⤷ user9 the way theyre everyone's fav couple. iconic shit if you ask me.

💬 From... LN04✪ !

💬 From... CL16✪ !

💬 From... MV33✪ !

💬 From... LH44✪ !

One knows but prefers to keep it quiet. Perhaps this would give too much importance to what one thinks is true; perhaps the mere fact of formulating it would make the information real. In silence, it remains a mirage, a blur that needs to be elucidated—or not.

It is in the silence that rumours are born in Ketterdam, and it is also there that they die.

For several hours, the narrow streets of the Barrel, shiny with dirt and rainwater, had been silent, but the eyes were full of life and fear—the mirrors of the soul never sparkle as much as when fear tints them with black and tears. You never feel more alive than when you are terrified. You cling to what moves you in the hope that it will protect you.

The whole neighbourhood came alive alongside this poisonous breath of life.

Silence had even infiltrated the establishments. The card games, alcoholic drinks and sounds of kruge being dropped on the tables were abandoned when the rumour circulated from glance to glance, from frown to frown, without ever being pronounced—not even when all the lips mutely formed those two cursed syllables.

A name on every mouth, on every tongue. A name that had been hanging in a protective silence for several hours, which Jesper Fahey broke into a thousand pieces when he returned to the Crow Club after his shift.

"Rumour has it that The Blade is back in Ketterdam.”

He must have spoken loudly for all the customers turned as one towards him, towards the one who had just broken the sacred mutism, and with it, made this rumour real. It was as if, by pronouncing the forbidden name, he was invoking it here. Some hiccupped. Others left without a word, abandoning behind the promise of money, so weak in the face of the horror and fear this particular name provoked in them.

Ignoring the chaos he had just shamelessly wreaked, the sharpshooter joined the table, hidden in the shadows of the most isolated corner. He dropped into the chair next to Wylan, whose frightened look would have been laughable if it didn't reflect that of Inej. There were only two Crows around the table. The others must have been busy with other things: Matthias and Nina, snogging; Kaz, counting his kruge.

“Impossible,” Inej finally protested after she had recovered from the initial shock of the news. “She was sent to Hellgate years ago.”

“Well it looks like she found a way out," Jesper shrugged as he said this, far too busy pouring himself a glass of whiskey to worry about the Suli girl's reactions. “Besides, does it really seem far-fetched to you? It's The Blade, after all.”

“Stop saying her name!” Wylan pleaded, while Inej prayed to the Saints quietly.

For a while, none of the three said a word.

“They say that some people have seen the reflection of her dagger in the harbour,” Jesper finally said, this time in a whisper. Even if he was not as superstitious as the other two, it would be wrong to say that the prospect of one of the greatest criminals once again roaming around Ketterdam did not send shivers down his spine. 

The Blade had been a legend in Ketterdam, like all those who were privileged enough to have an alias. Few people had dealt with her directly. Those who had faced her dagger and sword were no longer around to tell the tale. She acted in the shadows and was only ever betrayed by the silver glint of her blade. All, however, knew her name and her actions. Protean and ubiquitous—both a reaper and a saviour, a criminal and a vigilante—she was an intangible omnipresence that not even the Wraith could capture.

Everywhere in Ketterdam you could still feel her presence, even after she had been sent to Hellgate. She had scented the cobblestones with the metallic smell of blood for so many years that some of them were still stained with crimson: a sordid reminder of the horror that this city could harbour. 

“I don't know if it's true, but why wouldn't it be?” Jesper continued. “It's been years since we've heard anything about her, and suddenly she's back. If people wanted to play a bad joke, they would have done it long before.”

The silence did not deceive, nor did the looks. The sharpshooter had seen them. A simple rumour would have faded quickly as it passed from ear to ear and would have taken as many forms as misunderstandings allowed. Here, people stubbornly cloaked it in the secrecy that the absence of words guaranteed. More than anything, its content did not change. The person concerned was still The Blade. The place was still the harbour. The subject, still that damned silver reflection.

“If that's true, we'll have to be ready,” Inej said, to which Jesper nodded. What this return implied seemed to suddenly dawn on them and on their shoulders. Their postures stooped under the weight of a certain, gloomy future. The tension in the room could have been cut off, so tangible was it.

Wylan asked what she meant by that. Although he knew who The Blade was, he, like many others, did not know what had really happened that night, years before.

The Zemini poured himself another whiskey, a grimace contorting his face. Inej took it upon herself to answer the chemist.

“Don't you know? It was Kaz who turned her in to the Stadwatch."

“And if I were her,” Jesper continued. “The first thing I'd do after I ran away from Hellgate is get revenge on the guy who sent me there.”

━━━━━━━━━━ ✦

Years before, far from the current violence of the Barrel, in a city still tinged with vice, an event occurred that all who lived through it still remembered.

It was an evening lulled by the usual Ketterdam melody, the dissonant harmony of a blood-stained score. The fat laughter of drunken patrons, whose pockets full of kruge were just waiting to be emptied in the gambling games, echoed and shook the ribcages. In the dark alleys and filthy dead ends, nameless criminals indulged in their favourite pastime: violence, the cracking of whose bones acted like the percussion of a piece that the occasional gunshot would complete.

One false note, however, tarnished this melodious ensemble. The city was more agitated than usual. The Barrel district, too, had become infected by the strange atmosphere. The curious eyes of the inhabitants perched behind their windows were riveted on the main street, or rather on the bridge at the junction between West and East Stave, where numerous Stadwatch had positioned themselves and were waiting, weighted batons in hand. Passers-by, even with alcohol clouding their senses, frowned at the sight of them: motionless, defensive, ready to pounce on their prey. Others roamed the streets, blind to the usual heckling.

They had colonised Ketterdam and every corner of it.

Many were surprised at the look of determination on their faces. Stadwatch were normally simple-minded soldiers, easily led astray if promised the right amount of kruge. No one had ever seen them walk with such confidence. It was as if, before the astonished eyes of the crowd, they had metamorphosed into an invincible army.

They moved like men on a mission. No one, however, knew what this very mission entailed. Everyone, that is, except one person, whose irregular footsteps indicated his presence to the other souls on the street, curious to know what was going on. The crowd split in two, leaving a clear path for the one they called Dirtyhands.

At the same time, three Stadwatch emerged from an alleyway dragging a figure whose damp hair—no one was quite sure if it was blood or sweat—stained a face that Kaz Brekker, much younger then, knew to be distorted with rage.

There were murmurs. Some wondered who it was, others seemed to know but could not bring themselves to believe it. The silver dagger in the hand of the guard on the left, still soaked in blood, spoke for itself, however. There was no doubt about who this new prisoner was.

The Blade had been captured. 

In Ketterdam, there were no 'Wanted' posters, for no one would read them, glued on the sticky walls of bars. The city was teeming with people with vices, which would only worsen from one soul to another, all of whom more or less deserved to rot in a cell. One would not see the bricks anymore if everyone who deserved to be arrested were to have a poster bearing their effigy.  

Every criminal was wanted, but the most dangerous of them had a bounty on their head—a way for the Stadwatch to delegate their work to someone braver than them.

No one usually held it against them, though. Who would try to capture a Dirtyhands or a Blade? No one was foolish enough to even entertain the thought. In the Barrel, that ocean of unlaws and sins, the strongest ruled and remained untouchable, thus taking the shape of holy sinners.

At least until today.

“Move.”

The figure, who was much less impressive without her reputed weapon, was hit twice in the stomach. In pain, she bent over and didn't have time to get up before she was violently pushed by one of the soldiers. Never before had the Blade offered such a pathetic sight to see, there, slumped on the ground, her face in the mud. The one who was thought to be untouchable was no longer so. Kaz gloated, happy to see a rival without a dagger, the only silver touch on her being the rusty handcuffs.

Fierce eyes met his, as if over the din she had managed to hear his thoughts. It had only taken her a second to find him, in that shapeless crowd of black figures.

“You'll pay for this, Brekker.”

She knew.

The Stadwatch pushed her again.

“Shut up and move. You won't be so smart in Hellgate.”

There were hiccups. The whispering started again. Some even protested: no one, not even criminals, deserved to end up there.

Hellgate. Hell on Kerch. Hell on Earth.

Impassive to his sentence, the woman did not take her eyes off Kaz's, who intentionally let a slight smirk decorate his face. This had the desired reaction. She seemed to become enraged, enough to try to escape the guards' grip. One of them was sent to the ground and she crushed his hand, the dreadful cracking of which, even more than his cry of pain, triggered many shivers of fear in the spectators.

She managed to take several steps towards him, splitting the crowd in two, but was soon caught. The punch in her face destroyed any hope to escape. Spitting blood in the direction of her rival—a last satisfaction—, the woman finally let herself be dragged out of the barrel, towards the harbour, where a boat was awaiting to take her to Terrenjel. 

“You are a dead man, Kaz Brekker! Do you hear me?! Dead!”

These were the last words of the Blade before she disappeared for years, rotting in a cell in the Old Prison tower and only coming out of it for Pekka Rollins’ weekly fights.

That night, five million kruge were placed on Kaz Brekker’s desk.

━━━━━━━━━━ ✦

“But why did he do that?” Wylan asked after Inej had told what had happened that famous evening. "Five million kruge is nothing to him, even back then.”

“We don't know,” Jesper shrugged. He sipped on his third drink. “He never wanted to tell us anything. This came as a surprise because, even though they were rivals, they tolerated each other.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They even worked together several times. She was useful to him. He was useful to her. For him to turn her in to the Stadwatch and reveal her identity… There was more than just kruge at stake.”

To this day, the questions bubbled up in their minds but stopped at the tip of their lips, never getting past that fleshy barrier for fear of reprisals. The few times Jesper or Inej had tried to broach the subject, Kaz had cut the conversation short, chasing them out of his office or leaving the room himself, always muttering insults.

The questions were doomed to go unanswered; the reason, killed and sealed forever in a small corner of the businessman's head—the place where hope for the truth died out.

“So, get some bombs ready," Jesper finished. “Because we're in deep shit too.”

“I—"

The cane that came crashing down on the table startled the three and sent a tidal wave through Jesper's whiskey glass. The crow’s head, momentarily blinded by a leather glove, flickered for a second under the chandelier, reminding the sharpshooter of the silver glow everyone was talking about in town.

Oh, how ironic life could be. 

“Can any of you tell me why I can't hear kruge being spent? Why are the tables empty?”

“Hey boss! What do you mean emp-? Oh yes, indeed. That's funny,” Jesper laughed nervously, glancing around.

The Crow Club was never empty. Whether it was windy or rainy, the patrons would always crowd the entrance and drown in alcohol and gambling. The call of greed was a siren song that even the most cunning sailors could not resist.

“Don't play with me, Jesper. Explanations, now,” he snapped.

Wylan ran his index finger over one of the flaws in the table while Inej seemed to find the painting on the wall—one of their many finds from a heist—fascinating. If they saw the Zemini's look of distress and reproach, they did not show it, finding in these trivial details a refuge that would keep them away from the growing fury of their boss.  

Traitors, Jesper thought.

He looked back at Kaz, whose furrowed brow made him gulped. If there was one thing that particularly annoyed their boss, it was seeing his business disrupted. Like any good businessman, Brekker became an excellent mathematician when there was money involved, especially losses. It was almost as if he and the kruge were one, as if he could sense their presence—or absence, in this case—whenever he walked into a room.

Every lost kruge was bad news, but an empty Crow Club? An absolute disaster.

What would be the truth, the very truth that had drained the room and with it, their pockets? A cataclysm, no doubt. Powerful, destructive: one of those natural disasters from which one never recovers.

Unwillingly, Jesper had become an oracle à la Delphi—the bearer of an evil omen. The words he spoke would only bring chaos and divine wrath.

"The Blade is back."

Kaz Brekker wavered.

Wherever he went, this name continued to haunt him and was added to many other, much more painful, ghosts. In the midst of a pile of frozen, inert bodies, that of a living person would stand like a threatening tower, its blood-stained shadow hovering over his closed eyelids. The personification of Treason infiltrated his nightmares and, in its ubiquity, continued to plague his life, even when she was locked up in a cell all the way in Hellgate.

It was at night that this bloody spirit tormented him the most, although the daytime was not enough to chase it away completely either. It was that look—which had been full of rage that night—which pierced and tore at the fabric of his dreams.

Powerless, the Crows could only listen to this late-night spectacle, their ears pressed to the wall, as their boss insulted the Saints for sending him the Blade as punishment for his sins.

“Impossible,” he finally spat. “No one runs away from Hellgate.” His emphatic tone did not dispel the doubts of his Crows.

“What about Mattias?" Wylan interrupted, putting aside his wood-esque observations.

“The Blade acts alone. Without help, no one can get out of there. Impossible,” he mumbled again under his breath.

The word suddenly seemed meaningless, as if it had turned into a mere alignment of letters, placed end to end in an artificial order, whose syllables sounded stranger and stranger as they were pronounced. Kaz seemed to realise this because he abruptly stopped speaking, his lips pursed, holding back the 'po' that had wanted to escape.

Nothing was impossible. Especially not the escape of one of Ketterdam's greatest criminals. A criminal whose thirst for revenge had undoubtedly become the driving life-force behind her actions.

When you have neither money nor love, only rage can save the lonely soul in its relentless search for a goal.

The face of Pekka Rollins suddenly appeared to him, like a mirror held up to his own equally bloody motivations. He saw himself, able to cross all tides to see the one who had deceived him and Jordie suffer.

Only a small sea separated him from the Blade.

Kaz swallowed back a curse.

“Help! Please, help! Somebody! Hurry!”

Screams rose in the street, penetrated the walls, and made the four hearts in the room miss a beat—fearful harmony. The Crows stood up quickly, now alert.

A woman stormed into the club. Blood dripped from the end of her dress, staining the floor with a repetitive and macabre plop. Kaz stared bleakly at the growing red ink stain that made the floor a painting of death. Her hands were bloody too, and the two crimson furrows on her cheeks were evidence of a futile attempt to wash away the cardiac rain that had fallen on them.

In her terrible redness, she had become an allegory of Ketterdam's cruelty.

“They killed my husband!” she cried.

Kaz recognised her. Behind the tears and blood was the face of the wife of one of his Kregs: one of the club's bouncers, often positioned at the entrance to prevent any outbursts. That evening, however, he was not on duty.

“He was stabbed... I– It all happened so fast! I–I don’t–”

She was in shock. Her eyes were bulging; her voice, trembling. Wylan sat her down and handed her a glass of water, which she did not even touch, far too busy telling what had just happened.

A masked figure had appeared in front of the couple as they passed the Crow Club to meet friends in another bar. The woman had had no time to react before her husband was on the ground, a gaping hole in his chest, his white shirt soaked with blood. She only had time to catch a glimpse of a silvery glint before the figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind destruction and death.

“It can’t be...” Jesper didn't finish his sentence, feeling Kaz's black look on him.

“Inej, Jesper, go see what's going on. Wylan, go get Nina and Mattias and some ammunition.”

Protests erupted but he silenced them with a wave of his hand.

“Do as I say. Now.”

Kaz tightened his grip on the crow’s head, as if to reassure himself, to remind himself of his authority, which the mere presence of—if the rumours turned out to be true—called into question. Fragile as a sandcastle, the illusion of power seemed to crumble before his eyes.

The pain in his leg suddenly seemed to intensify.

As the rest of the gang looked on in astoundment, he hurried up the stairs, his face inscrutable.

The door to his office slammed and a vase was thrown.

“We're so going to die,” Jesper sighed, his hand on his guns. 

✦ TAGLIST.