The storm raged, the world spun, and the world of competitive sports bared its fangs, eager to show the young and inexperienced Kai just how cruel reality could be.
In the paddock, no one shows mercy to a "rookie" or "baby driver." Quite the opposite. Reality is often brutal and bloody. This is an adult's game of life and death, a primitive jungle where only the fittest survive. Rookies are always the first to be culled.
Especially now. Kai was sitting at the top of the Drivers' Championship standings. That made him a natural target, drawing fire from all directions.
After back-to-back retirements in Azerbaijan and Spain, Lewis Hamilton had seized the moment. The Briton had finally reached the turning point of his season, winning consecutive races. He became the first driver to win two Grands Prix in 2018 and capitalized on his rival's vulnerability to overtake him in the standings.
The table had flipped. Hamilton now sat on top with 92 points, well clear of Kai's 61. Sebastian Vettel had also taken advantage, moving up to second with 71 points. After the early-season chaos, order had been restored. The familiar hierarchy of F1 was back.
Fans cheered, "F1 is finally back!", "This is the way it should be!", "Season back on track!" Heaven and hell had swapped places. The masses delighted in trampling Kai while celebrating the return of the Kings, Hamilton and Vettel.
It was a zero-sum game. One man's victory required another's defeat, and right now, the zombies were feasting on Kai's fall.
The opportunity they had been waiting for had finally arrived.
Amidst the carnival of criticism, the authoritative Italian media outlet La Gazzetta dello Sport did not stay silent. As one of the oldest and most respected sports newspapers in Europe, it was the voice of record for Ferrari.
They had followed Kai closely, their voice unwavering through the smoke of battle.
In their view, Kai's talent was undeniable. His clean sweep of GP3 Feature Races was a historic feat, and his Sprint Race performances proved he possessed both defensive skill and offensive flair. He was calm, wise beyond his years—a once-in-a-decade prospect.
His F1 debut had only reinforced this. His performances in Melbourne, Bahrain, and Shanghai were not flukes. Regardless of his final career achievements, the potential he showed was comparable to the greats.
To deny all that because of two unfortunate races was irrational. Swinging from one extreme to another was foolish.
However, facts were facts, and objective analysis was required.
Potential is one thing; lack of experience is another.
In Baku, could Kai have judged the track better? Could he have anticipated his opponent's move or chosen a different line? Could the collision have been avoided?
The answer was yes. especially against a volatile driver like Verstappen. Based on his GP3 form, Kai could have handled it better.
In Barcelona, the power unit failure seemed out of his hands. But was it purely mechanical? Or was it a result of Kai pushing the car beyond its limits, stressing the engine in a way that triggered a latent defect? This was a key question for the Ferrari technical team.
Even with road cars, driving style affects longevity. In F1, where margins are razor-thin, these details are magnified.
Take Verstappen. No one denies his talent. But the cruel question remains: How long until he converts that raw speed into consistent, balanced performance? Will he ever fulfill his potential?
These were valid questions.
The world of sports is full of geniuses. Phenoms appear every other day. But the path from "prospect" to "legend" is long and treacherous. Only one in a thousand survives.
La Gazzetta dello Sport believed Kai had incredible talent—perhaps even more than Verstappen—with the potential to reach Senna or Schumacher levels. But he needed time. Marchionne's impatience might be destroying a future superstar by rushing his growth.
Senna entered F1 at twenty-four. Schumacher and Hamilton were twenty-two.
Verstappen's ongoing chaos stemmed from entering the sport at seventeen. But even Max had spent a year learning at Toro Rosso. Kai, barely eighteen, had been thrown directly into the pressure cooker of Ferrari.
It was too fast. Even in the age of social media, where everything is instantaneous, this was reckless.
Perhaps a season in F2 would have been the better choice. It would have allowed him to gain experience and prepare properly for the pinnacle of motorsport.
Now, Kai remained in the paddock under immense pressure. His margin for error, already thin, had vanished. Any small mistake would trigger a storm. One wrong step, and he could fall into a downward spiral.
La Gazzetta expressed deep concern:
"We are torturing a child, and in doing so, we are destroying a genius."
Though not explicitly stated, the implication was clear: they feared Kai would sink under the weight of expectation and never recover.
Because the next race after Spain was...
Monaco.
The most difficult, unforgiving circuit on the calendar. If Baku was narrow, Monaco was claustrophobic.
The Tifosi were wailing.
Some worried that rushing Kai would ruin Ferrari's future leader. Others condemned the team for mismanagement.
And then there were those who jumped to the harshest conclusion: Kai was not fit for Ferrari right now. Regardless of the reasons, his double DNF had cost Ferrari the lead in the Constructors' Championship. Mercedes had overtaken them.
"Is the baby driver really trustworthy? Must Ferrari's dream of a championship be delayed another year?"
The most radical factions lost control.
"Bring back Kimi! Baby out!"
When La Gazzetta, the most pro-Ferrari voice, expressed doubt, it signaled a total collapse of public support.
The Tifosi were in agony.
Even the optimists were drowning in anxiety. The joy of Kai's early season rise had been replaced by the panic of hitting a wall. Fear swallowed reason.
Every sign pointed to Kai failing to carry the weight of Ferrari's championship hopes.
But to them, the fault lay not with the young driver, who was trying his best, but with Ferrari management. Marchionne and Arrivabene had to take the blame.
Ferrari finally had a competitive car, one that could challenge Mercedes. The Tifosi, traumatized by last season's collapse, were desperate to avoid another year of "so close, yet so far."
Nipping the "disaster" in the bud seemed like the only option.
Option one: Save Kai. La Gazzetta suggested F2. The season hadn't started yet; he could still join late, gain experience, and return to Ferrari later.
Option two: Save the season. They needed a reliable second driver to secure the Constructors' title.
In a social media poll with over 100,000 votes, 70% of Tifosi voted to replace Kai. Whether to protect him or the team, the consensus was the same: they didn't believe he was the missing piece for a 2018 title. Vettel needed a mature teammate.
Ferrari had to act now. If they hesitated, things would only get worse.
The remaining 30% were split.
Some held onto hope, trusting the potential Kai had shown in the first three races. They believed he could extract 120% from the car and fight the top drivers.
Others were just angry. Furious at Arrivabene. From dropping Raikkonen to the disastrous strategy in Shanghai (which Kai had salvaged on his own), the team principal's decisions were baffling.
"If it were still Kimi, this wouldn't be happening."
"Seb deserves a better partner. Why this guy?"
"What about Giovinazzi? Why not our Italian hope?"
"Why a baby who cracks under pressure? We need experience, not just raw talent. Look at Red Bull's mess with Verstappen—why are we copying their mistakes?"
Arrivabene was suffering in silence. He watched the backlash spread, turning into a fire that threatened to consume him, yet he couldn't speak a word in his defense.
He blinked desperately at the cameras, hoping someone would read the Morse code of his helplessness.
No one cared.
Over three thousand Tifosi surrounded the Ferrari base in Maranello, losing their minds in anger and anxiety.
"We want victory, not a nursery!"
"Stop the fantasy! Reality check! Vettel needs a man, not a baby."
"Fire Kai before everything collapses!"
"Bring back Kimi!"
"Kai is not the future!"
"No! No! No! Say no to the 'Second Gen Baby'!"
"Explain how he got the seat!"
"We aren't babysitters! Tifosi refuse to raise a billionaire's kid!"
It was spiraling out of control. The gates of Maranello hadn't seen such a siege in years.
It made sense. Kai was the first Ferrari driver in decades without a championship pedigree or a proven track record. He was a pure Academy product with only one GP3 season. The Tifosi hadn't had time to bond with him before the storm hit.
And then, it got ugly.
A group of radical fans located Kai's apartment in Maranello. They pelted the windows with eggs, tomatoes, and rotting vegetables.
Kai had already moved to Monaco, but he kept the apartment. It was now a trash heap, the stench affecting the neighboring Academy drivers. It was a battlefield of misplaced passion.
The more they loved the team, the more they hated the perceived threat to its success.
The incident made headlines instantly. The entire paddock watched the drama unfold. Ferrari fans prided themselves on their passion, but now that passion was cannibalizing its own.
Everyone loves a train wreck.
Not just the paddock, but the general public gathered to watch Ferrari's backyard burn. The Tifosi were tearing themselves apart without any outside help.
Rosanna Sepleton watched it all with a heavy heart.
She wasn't a racing fan, certainly not a Tifosi. She was just a memorabilia dealer who had met Kai once at Silverstone the previous year.
When Kai was winning, she was happy for him. But seeing him under siege, she felt a pull to pay closer attention. Her heart sank.
"Supporting someone at their peak is easy; standing by them in the valley is what gives sports its true power."
She couldn't stay silent.
She remembered Silverstone. Kai, surrounded by doubt and provocation, smiling calmly at the storm. He had answered his critics on the track, his confidence radiating like sunlight.
As a Brit, Rosanna knew football best. She had seen Manchester United fall from grace, attacked by rivals and media alike, but most viciously by their own fans. She knew the cruelty of sports.
But that cruelty was also what made the beauty of resilience so profound.
Sports, like life, has peaks and valleys. The bitter taste of failure makes the eventual victory sweet. Walking alone through the darkness is hard, but having someone walk with you, searching for the dawn, creates an unbreakable bond.
Fair-weather fans are common. Those who bring coal in the snow are rare.
Kai wasn't even truly on the cliff edge yet, was he? But the clowns were already dancing on his grave.
Rosanna felt a deep sadness. The attacks had come too soon. Three great races, two bad ones, and the vultures were already circling.
F1 media was faster than the cars themselves.
But she kept thinking of that first meeting. The bright, starry eyes of a young man unafraid of the world.
She began to look forward to his counterattack. She didn't know how long it would take—F1 was far tougher than GP3—but she was willing to walk this thorny path with him.
She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and posted on her social media account:
"You swarmed him when he stood at the peak; you stabbed him in the back when he stumbled. True, you will always be on the winning side. But that means you will never understand the true meaning of hope and dreams, nor the real beauty of sports.
Setbacks, ups and downs—these are normal. What does not kill him will only make him stronger. You will become the fuel for his fire.
Only when you realize whether you love the taste of victory or the spirit of a driver who fights through both peaks and valleys will you understand the beauty of the first light at the end of the tunnel.
#StandWithKai"
It wasn't her style to get involved in internet wars. This was a first.
But she felt a resilience in Kai, a quiet strength taking root. She was ready to stand with him and laugh at the storm.
One by one, the hashtag #StandWithKai began to spread. It wasn't viral—Kai's fan base was still too small—but small voices began to gather, forming a tiny but resolute shield behind him.
Hardship can destroy a person, or it can forge them. The same is true for fans.
However, the negativity still dominated. Even the supportive Tifosi lacked confidence.
The reason was simple: Monaco.
Like Baku, it was a street circuit. But if Baku was narrow, Monaco was a claustrophobic nightmare.
Almost the entire track was lined with barriers. Overtaking was nearly impossible. The corners were blind, complex, and unforgiving. Like the terrifying Eau Rouge at Spa, many corners here required commitment without visibility. One mistake meant the wall.
Between 2008 and 2014, thirty cars had DNF'd due to accidents in Monaco—the highest of any track. The Safety Car had been deployed thirteen times in seven seasons. It was the most disrupted race on the calendar.
In 1999, rain meant only six cars finished.
Up until last year, the Safety Car had appeared for eleven consecutive years. It was a hellish challenge with zero margin for error.
Conquering Monaco was the ultimate goal for any driver.
Kai had never raced on a street circuit in GP3. In F1, they were the ultimate test. Despite his background in street racing, driving an F1 car between the barriers was a different beast.
Baku had been a disaster. The crowded track had left him with nowhere to go.
Now facing Monaco, the ultimate street fight, people had every reason to believe the nightmare would continue. This was why the Tifosi were begging Ferrari to swap him out. If he DNF'd again, Mercedes would disappear into the distance.
How could a crippled Ferrari fight for the Constructors'? How could Vettel fight Hamilton without a wingman?
Even Rosanna had to admit the timing was terrible. Monaco arriving right after a slump was brutal. A quick recovery seemed impossible. Would he have to wait until Canada or France?
The days ahead looked bleak.
The pressure was crushing, blotting out the sun.
So, what about the young man in the eye of the storm? Was he pacing his room, sleepless and haggard?
The nights in Monaco are never quiet.
Neon lights danced on the harbor water. Parties raged on yacht decks. Supercars and supermodels crowded the casino entrance. The lingering scent of exhaust mixed with laughter, wind, and sea salt in the humid air.
But the streets themselves were relatively empty, save for the occasional roar of a passing sports car.
Through the night, a rhythmic sound echoed. Tap, tap, tap.
Footsteps. Light, even, controlled.
A figure was jogging.
The media, the internet, the outside world—they were screaming, spinning, whipping up a frenzy to destroy Kai.
But the subject of their rage was simply running. His phone was left on the sofa in his apartment, notifications silenced. He didn't care. He felt no impact. He was simply following his routine.
Kai knew the cruelty of sports. He couldn't make everyone like him, and he didn't need to worry about keyboard warriors. In this cutthroat world, the only response was victory. Nothing solved problems like winning.
If one win wasn't enough, he'd get two. Or three. Until they shut up.
Focusing on anything other than the track was a waste of energy.
Right now, Monaco was the only thing that mattered.
The storm was coming, but Kai had found a strange peace in the center of it.
This narrow, winding street, described by day as a "hellish maze," was now as calm as a placid sea under the night sky.
He slowed his pace, feeling every inch of the tarmac beneath his soles. The camber of the road, the texture of the asphalt, the exact turn-in points, the hidden bumps.
He had moved to Monaco a while ago, but he was still learning the city. Imagining his neighborhood as a race track... it was a surreal feeling.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.
Footsteps approached quickly from behind. Kai moved aside to let the runner pass, but the figure slowed down, matching his pace.
It was Charles Leclerc.
"You come out for a night run and don't even call me?" Leclerc complained.
Kai cracked a joke. "I thought you didn't need to learn the track. You've had an eighteen-year head start."
Leclerc didn't mind. "Oh, wait. Are you scared? Chicken?"
Kai kept a straight face. "Terrified. Shaking in my boots. My knees are knocking together. You know, everyone is watching you. Every move you make. Hoping for a miracle. That kind of pressure... man, I couldn't handle it."
Leclerc chuckled at first, but then his smile faded. Was Kai mocking the pressure of his home race?
"Come on, Kai, don't pile on," Leclerc groaned.
Kai grinned. "I heard the entire Royal Family is coming to watch on Sunday."
Leclerc threw his head back. "Ah... AHH!" The groan turned into a shout of frustration.
Kai had his pressure, but Leclerc's was no less intense. He wanted to perform here more than anywhere else. Last year, his father had been critically ill during this race. Charles had taken pole in F2 but DNF'd in both races due to suspension failure and a collision. It was a haunting memory.
In truth, Leclerc was struggling more than Kai. Kai's pressure was external; Leclerc's was internal.
Kai picked up the pace, moving ahead and turning to run backwards, facing Leclerc. "Hey, Charles. 'Sharl.' I'm chasing you now. I really, really need to beat you. You aren't planning on handing me this race on a silver platter, are you?"
Leclerc blinked, then a grin spread across his face. "Ha. Ha. Keep dreaming."
No more words were needed. Leclerc took a deep breath, opened his stride, and sprinted past Kai. "Race you to the harbor!"
Without setting stakes, he just ran.
Kai didn't argue. He turned and sprinted after him. Two rookies, facing the crushing reality of F1, running through the Monaco night, burning off the nervous energy in their veins.
The streetlights couldn't dull the shine in their eyes. They were as bright as the stars reflected in the sea.
Vroom. Vroom-vroom. VROOM.
The noise came from everywhere. The early summer Mediterranean sun cast golden scales on the water. Champagne and music collided in waves of heat. The air buzzed with excitement.
The 2018 Monaco Grand Prix weekend had begun. It was the place to be. Celebrities, royalty, magnates.
The Jewel in the Crown.
Frédéric Arnault arrived early in the VIP paddock club, scanning the crowd.
Sure enough, he spotted Lucien Lebach from Richard Mille.
With Kai in the storm, the attitude of key sponsors like Richard Mille was crucial. Arnault was curious.
Of course, he was also curious about Kai's performance under pressure.
When things are going well, performing is easy. How you handle the fire defines who you are.
Arnault and Lebach weren't the only ones watching the "Baby Driver from the East."
The noise was deafening. The world felt like it was spinning faster.
Meanwhile, in the eye of the storm, Kai sat in his cockpit... drinking water. He was calm, chatting with Greenwood over the radio, preparing for Q2.
"Verstappen is out of Qualifying," Greenwood delivered the first bombshell of the weekend. "Crashed in FP3, couldn't fix the gearbox. He didn't run in Q1. That means he failed the 107% rule."
To ensure safety and competitiveness, the FIA mandates that cars must lap within 107% of the fastest Q1 time to qualify for the race.
If the benchmark is 1:30.000, you must be faster than 1:36.300. Otherwise, you're out.
Exceptions are made for mechanical failures or proven speed in practice, so Verstappen would likely race. But the headline was massive:
Verstappen, out in Q1. No time set.
For Red Bull, desperate to bounce back after the Baku double-DNF, this was a catastrophe. Horner's headache was getting worse.
The rest of the paddock smelled blood.
Buzz, buzz, buzz. The whisper network went into overdrive.
Kai didn't care.
His focus wasn't on his rivals, but on himself. Qualifying required strategy, especially here. His brain was already calculating.
"What's the Q1 cutoff? What's the gap to me?"
Greenwood snapped back to business. "Ocon was the cutoff. 1:13.028. He was the only one not to break into the 12s. The gap to you is less than 0.6 seconds."
"Kai, what are you thinking?"