The air in the apartment suddenly turned perfectly still.
Kai and Nicolas looked at each other. Amidst the swirling strategic chaos in Kai's mind, a sudden inspiration sparked. A dormant memory abruptly awakened, and he needed immediate confirmation.
He shot Nicolas an inquiring look.
Nicolas gave a subtle shrug, his silence confirming Kai's unspoken question.
Kai couldn't hold it back. He burst out laughing.
"Actually," Kai said, his eyes brightening with genuine excitement, "that is a brilliant idea."
He wasn't joking. It was one hundred percent sincere.
The more Kai thought about it, the more convinced he became. The F1 paddock was a tiny ecosystem completely infested with old foxes. Tossing out a random, baseless smokescreen wouldn't fool anyone; if Nicolas could manufacture fake news, so could the opposing Team Principals. Navigating the constant barrage of half-truths and complete lies was just part of the job.
If they truly wanted to blindside their rivals and trigger absolute chaos, the rumor needed to be grounded in absolute, terrifying plausibility.
Clearly, Charles Leclerc was the perfect weapon.
Furthermore, Leclerc possessed every single qualification required to drive for the Scuderia. In Kai's eyes, Charles was infinitely more suited for the seat than Antonio Giovinazzi. Even if this wasn't just a smokescreen—even if Charles actually got the seat—Kai genuinely believed it would be the smartest decision Ferrari could make.
Nicolas had been watching Kai's reactions closely. As the scattered puzzle pieces clicked together in Nicolas's mind to form a flawless strategic offensive, he forced himself to remain grounded. What looked like a perfect power play from a manager's perspective could easily become a toxic nightmare for the driver.
Managing internal competition between two clients within the same agency was notoriously difficult in any sport. In a paddock with only twenty available seats, it was a geopolitical minefield. He needed Kai's absolute blessing to proceed; maintaining the internal harmony of his own camp was paramount.
Seeing the sharp smile forming on Kai's face, Nicolas clenched his fists in anticipation. "So, you agree? You think Charles is the right play here?"
"Of course," Kai answered without a fraction of hesitation. "Given the choice between Seb and Charles, I will choose Charles every single time."
Leclerc stood frozen by the doorway, utterly bewildered. He felt like a prime cut of Wagyu beef being haggled over at an auction. "What exactly did I do?"
Kai completely ignored him, keeping his focus locked on Nicolas. "Nicolas, I don't think I ever mentioned this to you, but Sergio once asked me the exact same question. He asked me what I thought of Charles."
Nicolas's eyes widened. "Are you saying—"
Kai gave a slight shrug. "It was when I visited him in the hospital."
"I didn't think much of it at the time. After all, Charles and I were both just rookies trying to survive. But looking back... Sergio never spoke without a purpose. I bet he started laying the groundwork for this move before the summer break even began."
Tragically, Marchionne had run out of time to execute it.
Nicolas forced his racing mind to slow down. He had known since the summer break that Marchionne had quietly anointed Leclerc as a future Ferrari driver. He had even relayed that information to both Kai and Charles. But Nicolas had completely misunderstood the tactical depth of the maneuver. He had assumed Marchionne was simply clearing out the old guard to smooth Kai's path to the number one driver status.
Compared to the massive political weight of Sebastian Vettel, pairing Kai with a compliant rookie like Leclerc seemed like standard operational procedure.
But now, Nicolas saw the grandmaster's board. Marchionne was playing a completely different game.
He was simultaneously securing the team's long-term competitive future while actively countering the aggressive "Italian Heritage" faction on the corporate board. He was playing four-dimensional chess with the company's internal factions.
How had Nicolas forgotten? Leclerc's "Ferrari Bloodline" was arguably purer than Giovinazzi's. Though Charles wasn't technically Italian, his godfather, Jules Bianchi, was deeply entwined with Maranello's modern tragedy. To this day, Bianchi remained an unhealed wound in the heart of the Tifosi. As the inheritor of Bianchi's legacy, Leclerc was the true, spiritual Crown Prince of the Scuderia.
More importantly, Leclerc possessed significantly more raw pace than Giovinazzi.
Even the staunch Italian nationalists on the board would struggle to reject Leclerc outright.
It was a masterstroke. Elevating Leclerc perfectly bridged the gap between the "Italian Heritage" loyalists and the "World Championship" purists. Replacing Vettel with Leclerc wasn't just logical; it was an incredibly persuasive, emotionally resonant narrative.
And Marchionne had formulated this plan back in June, when Leclerc only had a single standout drive in Baku on his resume. The late President's foresight was terrifying.
Now, the timing was perfect. Leclerc had spent the entire second half of the season proving his worth at Sauber, giving Nicolas massive political capital to work with.
True, Leclerc's youth was a liability. The board was already hyper-ventilating over Kai's explosive, uncontrollable rookie campaign. Pitching a lineup of two rookies—completely abandoning Ferrari's historical reliance on veteran champions—would cause an absolute meltdown in Maranello. Under normal circumstances, it would be impossible.
But in the current environment of absolute corporate chaos? Nicolas was highly confident he could force it through.
While Nicolas's brain operated at light speed, Leclerc was still standing by the door, completely lost. "Wait... what did you say?"
Kai looked at the stunned Monégasque but refused to give a straight answer. "Close the door. We are in Monaco. Nico Rosberg might be walking past."
Despite the fact that Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg currently despised each other, refusing to even speak or acknowledge the other's existence in interviews, they were still literal neighbors in the same Monaco apartment building. Neither man had moved.
Under normal circumstances, Charles would have fired back a witty retort.
But his mind was short-circuiting. The joke fell completely flat. Charles mechanically pushed the door shut, his eyes never leaving Kai.
Kai dropped the cryptic act. "Remember what we talked about during the summer break? Us driving together for the Scuderia. It is actually a real possibility now."
Leclerc stood rooted to the spot, his massive eyes unblinking. He was completely mute, looking as stiff as a wooden board. It was as if he had just been subjected to the Dementor's Kiss.
Kai finally had to snap his fingers. "Charles?"
Leclerc jolted back to reality. He clenched his fists, his face flushing crimson. "Yes! Yes! YES!"
He couldn't contain it. He literally started jumping up and down in place. He didn't need to speak; the sheer, unadulterated euphoria radiating from him filled the room. He was completely lost in his own world, his lingering rationality entirely hijacked by joy.
Then, remembering he wasn't alone, Leclerc forced himself to stop. He cleared his throat, desperately trying to project an aura of cool professionalism, as if he hadn't just been bouncing like a toddler. "So... what is the next step?"
The attempt at composure was ruined by the violent tremor in his voice.
Nicolas shot Kai a final look, confirming the unwavering resolve in his client's eyes, before turning to Leclerc. "I am going to put this plan in motion. I will make it a reality."
"But Charles, you need to understand what this means. Are you prepared to go head-to-head against Kai?"
"Absolutely!" Leclerc fired back instantly.
The exhaustion from his travel vanished completely, replaced by a fierce, resonant confidence. He locked eyes with Kai, his gaze burning with competitive fire.
"I can't wait. And what happened at Interlagos? That won't happen twice."
Kai gave a dismissive shrug, entirely unimpressed. "That is a nice dream. But reality is a lot less forgiving."
"Screw you," Leclerc shot back, refusing to back down. "Just don't cry when you lose."
Nicolas chuckled, holding up his hands. "Alright, calm down, both of you. The ink isn't even on the paper yet. There is no need to start a civil war over a seat that doesn't officially exist."
Let alone Charles; it wasn't even guaranteed that Kai was staying at Ferrari.
The paddock was a labyrinth of shifting alliances and broken promises. Everything could change in a matter of hours, both on and off the track. The worst possible trait right now was arrogance. They needed to remain absolutely frosty.
Leclerc suddenly realized how much of his internal desperation he had just exposed. Just the thought of sitting in the red car made his blood boil with adrenaline.
He took a deep breath, and then another, trying to ground himself. But he was still practically floating on his toes. When he looked back at Kai, his smile was blinding. "So... are we going to be the next Hamilton and Rosberg?"
Kai's mouth twitched. "No. Impossible. You will never be fast enough to catch me, so there is nothing to worry about."
Leclerc rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. The sheer, undisguised contempt in his expression was a far better response than words.
"Haha." Kai finally broke, laughing out loud. "Don't worry, Charles. I won't bully you too badly."
The night slowly retreated, and the rising sun finally broke free from the horizon. The pale, golden-orange light of dawn spilled across the calm Mediterranean, shattering into a million brilliant reflections.
It was quiet, yet magnificent.
A new day. A new beginning.
Kai was up before dawn. Still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he didn't even pause to stretch before opening his bedroom door, ready to start the day with his morning run.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
The living room curtains were wide open, bathed in the misty blue light of the early morning. Curled into a tight ball on the sofa was a figure that severely startled Kai. It took his brain a full second to process what he was seeing.
"...Charles?"
Charles Leclerc was strictly a nocturnal creature. Not only was he a night owl, but he was also a chronic hypersomniac. He required a massive amount of sleep to recharge his battery.
His absolute record was sleeping for eighteen straight hours.
Kai had been terrified, frantically calling Charles's older brother, Lorenzo. Lorenzo had simply sighed and told Kai not to worry—just ask Charles if he wanted food, and if he mumbled no, leave him alone. He would wake up when he was hungry.
That wasn't an isolated incident. Charles routinely slept for ten to twelve hours a day.
Back in the Ferrari Driver Academy, Charles was forced to wake up early to adhere to the strict group training schedule. But since graduating to F1, he had completely restructured his regimen to fit his natural rhythm. He hadn't stopped training; he just did his high-intensity workouts in the afternoon, matching the sheer brutal volume of any rival on the grid.
Consequently, Kai hadn't seen Charles awake before 9:00 AM in months.
Seeing Charles looking pale, exhausted, and huddled on the sofa, Kai's immediate thought was a crisis. "Did something happen with your family?"
It took a moment for Leclerc's sluggish brain to process the question. He blinked slowly, offering a tired, weak smile, and waved his hand. "No. No, everything is fine."
Kai was even more confused. "Wait. Did you have insomnia? You? Really?"
Charles finally sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching his stiff limbs. "Honestly... I was just too excited to sleep."
Kai paused, putting the pieces together. "Ferrari?"
Charles nodded slowly. "Kai, you have no idea what driving for Ferrari means to me. It has been my dream since I was a little kid. It was my father's dream. It was Jules's dream. It is Lorenzo and Arthur's dream. I love the red. I fight for the red. I just really..."
He had wanted it for so long.
He didn't need to finish the sentence. The heavy, trembling breath he exhaled communicated everything Kai needed to know.
The deeper the desire, the greater the fear of losing it. The closer the dream appeared, the more terrifyingly fragile it felt. It was right there, agonizingly close, yet he couldn't grasp the physical reality of it.
The anxiety had kept Charles awake all night.
Kai looked at him. "Then fight for it."
Charles looked up.
Kai met his gaze, his expression intensely sincere. "Just like you did in Monaco last year."
"You lied to your father to give him peace, and even though you projected absolute confidence, we both know nothing is guaranteed. We control so very little in this paddock."
"But you still made it happen. You took the pressure and the dream, and you forged it into momentum. You took control of your own destiny on the track."
"This is the exact same situation. You have one race left in Abu Dhabi to prove your worth. Go out there and prove that you deserve that Ferrari seat more than anyone else on the planet."
Kai's voice was calm and steady, devoid of theatrics. It barely disturbed the quiet Monaco morning.
Yet, the words hit Charles like a physical blow, heavy and absolute.
Charles lifted his head, a genuine smile finally breaking across his youthful, boyish face.
"Charles, I am not going to slow down and wait for you."
With that, Kai turned and headed out the door. He had a run to finish.
As the door swung shut, Charles's voice, now vibrating with raw energy, chased him into the hall. "You better push harder! If it is too easy to overtake you, I'll get bored."
Kai pulled the door closed, a sharp smile touching his lips. He didn't linger, immediately dropping into a steady jogging pace through the winding streets of Monaco.
Despite the extreme population density and the absurd cost of every square inch of real estate, the city felt completely different at dawn. The sea breeze carried a crisp chill, yet the warmth of the winter sun promised a bright day. The sleeping city was incredibly peaceful. The sound of seagulls, crashing waves, and the distant hum of early risers blended seamlessly with the rhythmic strike of Kai's running shoes.
Just like yesterday in Maranello, his routine in Monaco was identical. Step by step, maintaining the strict aerobic base.
As he neared the end of his route, a slightly comical, rotund figure peeked out from the corner of the street.
The man was wearing a full athletic tracksuit and high-end running shoes, yet his short hair was immaculately slicked back with enough gel to survive a Category 5 hurricane. Combined with his prominent, protruding stomach, he looked entirely out of place in workout gear.
He was clearly nervous, pacing back and forth.
As soon as he spotted Kai, the man jogged in place, waiting for Kai to draw level before falling in silently beside him.
Kai... didn't object. He actually slowed his pace significantly to accommodate the heavier man's rhythm.
But a professional athlete's "slow" pace was still a brutal reality check. Within fifty meters, the man was wheezing like a broken bellows.
Kai glanced over. The man's face was beet red, completely drenched in sweat, and he was struggling so violently for oxygen he couldn't even formulate a plea to stop.
Kai chuckled, dropping his pace to a brisk walk, and guided them toward the harbor. They finally stopped in a secluded gap between two massive superyachts, looking out over the water.
It took the man a full minute to recover. He clutched his chest, gasping for air, looking utterly defeated as sweat poured down his face.
Yet, he stubbornly forced a smile, attempting to speak. Failing to produce a coherent sound, he simply offered a weak thumbs-up, trying to play off the near-death experience as an exhilarating workout.
Kai had intended to make a sarcastic remark, but seeing the man in such genuine physical distress, he felt a twinge of pity. "Are you absolutely certain I shouldn't call an ambulance?"
The man waved his hands frantically. "No, no, no. No ambulance. Haha. Kai, you are hilarious. Truly the king of paddock banter."
A sharp, amused glint appeared in Kai's eyes. "Are you sure, Mr. Brown? Are you worried the press will spot us, or are you just trying to protect your ego?"
Zak Brown instantly straightened his posture, which unfortunately thrust his stomach further forward. "Image. Absolutely my image. I may not be the athlete, but I have a professional standard to maintain. How could I ever look Lando in the eye if this got out?"
He paused, adding pointedly, "Especially after Fernando leaves."
Standing before Kai was Zak Brown, the CEO of McLaren Racing.
Even while suffocating in a tracksuit, Brown still managed to project an aura of corporate authority. He was meticulously groomed, fiercely protective of his brand, and currently tasked with steering a massively iconic, yet dangerously sinking, ship.
Brown's ambition and political ruthlessness were arguably on par with Sergio Marchionne's.
Most people in the paddock were obsessed with weekend lap times, severely underestimating the power of long-term brand equity. Brown understood that rebuilding a shattered legacy required years of foundational work. If you waited until the car was fast to start building the commercial infrastructure, you had already lost. Despite the relentless criticism and the agonizing lack of results, Brown had spent the darkest years of McLaren's history systematically ripping out its toxic corporate culture.
Like Marchionne, Brown knew that until the deep-rooted rot was removed, a renaissance was impossible.
However, Brown's political standing at McLaren was far more precarious than Marchionne's had been at Ferrari. The McLaren board didn't fully trust him. His seat was constantly hot, meaning every single major executive decision required extreme, calculated precision.
And the biggest obstacle to that precision was Fernando Alonso.
It was an open secret: Brown was essentially forced to cater to Alonso's every whim. The two-time World Champion effectively held the entire team hostage with his sheer talent and political gravity. For two years, Brown had been dancing in shackles.
The 2018 season was supposed to be McLaren's grand resurgence with Renault power. Instead, it was another humiliating disaster.
But now, the window of opportunity was cracking open again. And this time, Brown refused to miss.
Kai immediately latched onto the crucial detail in Brown's statement. "So, is that the real reason Mr. Brown wanted a face-to-face meeting?"
Brown hadn't contacted Nicolas Todt; he had explicitly requested a private meeting with Kai.
Naturally, Kai had informed Nicolas. But Nicolas couldn't decipher Brown's angle and had offered to intercept the meeting and handle the rejection personally, protecting Kai from any political fallout.
But Kai had always respected Brown's hustle. He agreed to the meeting.
And now, operating like secret agents avoiding the paparazzi, they were standing in a secluded marina.
And Brown had immediately dropped a massive bomb.
Brown looked at Kai with profound satisfaction. The kid was razor-sharp. His intellect extended far beyond hitting apexes; his grasp of paddock politics was deeply impressive.
"Yes. The news hasn't leaked yet, but after the season finale, Fernando is retiring," Brown confirmed smoothly.
Alonso, the grid's living legend, had been the center of intense retirement speculation since the summer break. He had continually dodged the questions, fueling the chaos of the driver market. The uncertainty surrounding his seat was a major catalyst for the current grid volatility.
But the endgame had finally arrived.
In Abu Dhabi, alongside the championship decider, Alonso would officially announce his departure from Formula One. McLaren was preparing a massive, historic farewell.
What did this mean?
It meant McLaren suddenly had two open seats (Stoffel Vandoorne's season had been an unmitigated disaster). But more importantly, it meant Brown was finally stepping out from beneath Alonso's shadow. After two years of brutal groundwork, he was finally taking absolute, undisputed control of the team.
The era was shifting.
And his very first move was targeting Kai.
The news of Alonso's retirement was currently locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Only a handful of elite executives inside Woking knew the truth. It was completely understandable that Nicolas hadn't caught wind of it.
Kai was the very first person outside the team to know.
It was a staggering display of trust and intent from Brown.
Truthfully, Brown had been inches away from securing Kai last year. He had been ready to pull the trigger, only to be blocked by Alonso's internal politics. He was forced to watch as Marchionne swooped in, allowing Ferrari to reap the rewards of Kai's historic rookie season. It was a failure that still kept Brown awake at night.
He was not going to miss a second time.
Brown didn't know the exact details of Ferrari's internal civil war, but he knew they were vulnerable. He also knew his own absolute conviction.
He believed he could convince Kai.
Brown didn't insult Kai's intelligence by emphasizing the exclusivity of the news. He knew leverage required hard numbers. "So, our seat is now officially open. Are you willing to come drive for McLaren?"
He was direct and unapologetic. Despite still sweating through his tracksuit, the absolute certainty in Brown's eyes was striking in the morning sun.
Before Kai could formulate a polite rejection, Brown held up a hand. "Don't say no just yet. Let me pitch you the vision. And let me catch my breath."
Kai chuckled. "What makes you think I was going to say no?"
Brown spread his hands. "Because I am a realist. In Formula One, the car is everything. I would love to stand here and tell you we have a championship-winning package, but the reality is brutally clear. Ferrari is currently fighting for the World Title, and we are drowning in the midfield."
"So, logically, unless Ferrari is stupid enough to completely alienate a generational talent, you should absolutely stay in Maranello."
Kai's eyes crinkled in amusement. "But?"
Brown nodded, a fierce grin appearing. "But, I am willing to offer you a blueprint. A vision that will convince you that McLaren is the future of this sport, and that you are the singular, indispensable keystone of that future."
Kai raised an eyebrow. "Not Lando?"
Brown didn't miss a beat. "Both of you. Neither of you can be replaced."
Kai laughed out loud. "Haha."
Brown hesitated for a fraction of a second, but opted for absolute transparency. He knew brutal honesty was his most potent weapon—and ironically, the exact weapon Ferrari currently lacked.
"We have already signed Lando. We just haven't announced it yet. He will be in one of the cars next season."
"But Lando is still young. He is raw. He needs time to develop and learn the realities of F1. We need an undisputed team leader. I want you to step into the exact void Fernando is leaving behind."
Secret after secret. From Alonso to Norris. Either of these leaks would have set the motorsport press on fire, yet Brown was casually trading them to build equity with Kai. It was an incredibly shrewd, highly calibrated power play.
At the very least, he had Kai's full attention.
Brown watched Kai carefully, relaxing slightly. He had successfully hooked his target; the opening phase of the pitch was complete.
Brown took a deep, steadying breath. "If you join McLaren, I am prepared to offer you a three-year contract. Year one base salary: Eighteen million dollars. With an automatic twenty percent increase built in for years two and three. I am inviting you to be the absolute anchor of McLaren's next decade."
He led with the artillery. Eighteen million dollars. It wasn't a random figure pulled from the sky.
First, it directly eclipsed Ricciardo's new massive deal with Renault, instantly making Kai the third highest-paid driver on the grid, sitting only behind Hamilton and Vettel.
Second, it directly referenced Red Bull's aggressive preemptive strike with Verstappen. Red Bull had ripped up Max's rookie contract and bumped him from five hundred thousand to ten million specifically to ward off Toto Wolff.
Brown took both of those massive market markers and escalated them, explicitly quantifying his belief in Kai's supremacy.
It was a masterstroke of ruthless financial maneuvering.
In terms of sheer audacity, Brown had just outplayed John Elkann.
Money wasn't the only factor in F1, but it was the universal language of respect. Every driver and Team Principal understood the precise political weight of that number.
Brown watched Kai like a hawk, desperate for a reaction. But he couldn't tell if he was succeeding or failing, because Kai's expression remained perfectly, terrifyingly blank.
In a way, Brown was thrilled. Kai was exactly as cold and calculating as advertised. Most nineteen-year-olds would have visibly short-circuited at a thirty-six-fold salary increase. Kai didn't even blink. He was analyzing the board.
No wonder the kid had rattled the Mercedes dynasty in his rookie year.
Brown didn't let the silence drag. "That is just the base salary, of course. We will iron out the performance bonuses with Nicolas later. I am highly confident we can reach an agreement."
The corner of Kai's mouth ticked upwards. "I don't doubt your financial capabilities for a second."
"But I do not believe McLaren is burning eighteen million dollars a year just to hire a driver."
Brown beamed, clasping his hands behind his back and pushing his chest out with genuine pride. "We aren't just signing a driver. We are assembling a championship dynasty."
"Kai, I fundamentally believe that building a dominant car requires absolute synergy. We have to respect the simulator data, yes. But we cannot worship it blindly. A car born entirely in a wind tunnel might be invincible in a computer simulation, but it will inevitably fracture when it hits the chaotic reality of the asphalt."
"We have to trust the driver. At the end of the day, a human being has to physically wrestle that machine around the track. A driver's sensory feedback is irreplaceable. And every driver extracts lap time differently."
"We must integrate the driver directly into the engineering loop. The driver's feedback must dictate the design philosophy."
That was the kill shot.
The McLaren Technology Centre was located right next to Silverstone, sitting at the absolute epicenter of global motorsport engineering. They were drowning in an ocean of data. If they couldn't weaponize that data, they were fools. Brown firmly believed the next major evolutionary leap in F1 car design wasn't purely aerodynamic; it was physiological.
The philosophy had evolved from trusting pure driver instinct in the 80s, to absolute reliance on computational data in the 2010s. The next era belonged to the team that could perfectly calibrate the supercomputer to the specific biomechanics of their star driver.
McLaren suffered from the exact same disease as Ferrari: an insular, arrogant engineering department that viewed drivers as an inconvenience. It was why they had been languishing in the midfield for years. Brown was ready to take a sledgehammer to that culture.
And Kai was his weapon of choice.
Brown hadn't chosen Kai blindly. Over the last two years, his intelligence network had confirmed that Kai possessed a rare, elite-level technical vocabulary. He communicated with engineers flawlessly, mirroring the technical prowess of Senna, Schumacher, and Lauda. Kai didn't just drive; he actively directed development.
He had done it for Ferrari in GP3, and he had practically lived in Maranello after the summer break to force the recent Ferrari upgrades through.
Brown gambled that this guarantee of absolute technical authority would be far more intoxicating to Kai than the eighteen million dollars.
And seeing the slight shift in Kai's posture, Brown knew he had calculated correctly.
Kai was the key to McLaren's resurrection.
Brown had delivered a flawless, passionate pitch. Yet, Kai remained silent, letting the words hang in the air before slicing straight to the brutal reality.
"And when the wind tunnel data contradicts my feedback? When the technical team demands one direction and I demand another... the final decision rests with the CEO. When that happens, Zak, who do you side with?"
Brown sucked in a sharp breath. He couldn't help the wry smile that broke across his face. "You really don't miss a thing, do you?"
Kai shrugged. "That is exactly why you are trying to hire me."
Brown threw his hands up in surrender. "Fair point." He let out a genuine, booming laugh. "Honestly? I cannot give you a definitive answer. I would have to evaluate the specific data in the moment. Standing here right now, I can't blindly promise to take your side."
Honesty.
It was a brilliant counter-move.
Brown could have easily lied. He could have sworn blind loyalty to Kai, just like the Team Principal at Renault likely would have. It was just a preliminary meeting; words were cheap.
But Brown refused to play that game.
"You would need to have that conversation with our Technical Director," Brown said sincerely. "I am a businessman, not an aerodynamicist. It would be reckless of me to overrule my engineers on a subject I don't fully understand."
"But I promise you this: I fundamentally believe the driver's voice has been marginalized for too long. The modern engineering mindset worships the algorithm and forgets that a human heart is pumping the brakes."
"I need your technical aggression to make our car competitive."
"Because right now, we aren't even dreaming of podiums; we are throwing a party when we score a single point. Our correlation is fundamentally broken. We desperately need a generational talent to guide the development."
It was an incredibly powerful argument. By actively acknowledging McLaren's catastrophic failures before Kai could weaponize them, Brown stripped Kai of his easiest counter-arguments.
Brown had come to play.
Yet, Kai's mind was fixated on a completely different variable: Lando Norris.
It wasn't jealousy. It was a cold, objective assessment of the political landscape. Brown had mentored Lando since he was a kid in karts. He had guided him, protected him, and built his entire career. That kind of emotional loyalty could not be severed by a corporate contract. Even if Brown tried to remain objective, his bias was hardwired.
Kai had seen it with his own eyes in the Spa paddock the previous year.
"Zak," Kai said, his tone entirely casual. "Let's assume I sign the contract. Lando and I are teammates. Who is the undisputed number one driver? And when we inevitably clash on track, how do you handle it?"
Brown smiled. "I don't plan on 'handling' it."
Kai was genuinely surprised. He tilted his head, studying Brown intently. "Explain that. You delegate the technical disputes to the engineers, but driver management is your direct responsibility. If you stop being honest with me now, I will assume you are lying about everything else."
As Kai spoke, a warm, teasing smile spread across his face, instantly defusing the tension. The interrogation felt more like a chess match between old friends.