Emails came flooding in, one after another.
Calls kept ringing, back to back.
Some emails were sent directly to him, others were internal project team communications where he was copied, some were cross-departmental exchanges where every key stakeholder was included on the CC list, and still others pertained to his other ongoing projects. Step by step, the intricate branches of a single project took concrete shape before his eyes.
A relentless stream of trivial yet demanding tasks poured over Nicolas, instantly submerging him.
There was no time for joy or celebration; he couldn't even catch a second to drink water, spinning frantically like a top.
Nicolas remained frozen in the exact same position on the edge of the tub, completely losing track of time as he thought, verified, replied, and checked with the other party again—
Vogue had laid out the whole situation: the project was extremely urgent and came out of nowhere. They had to enter the studio before eight o'clock tonight and work through the night to complete the entire shoot.
At the same time, the magazine generously provided ample interview space, granting Kai a rare twelve-page spread to comprehensively explore his career so far and his personal perspective on fashion.
Roughly three hours later, the initial draft of the interview questions arrived in Nicolas's inbox. Containing eighty questions in total, it required Nicolas to thoroughly review and filter them, determining which questions could be addressed face-to-face in the studio and which ones should be answered via email.
Most importantly, Nicolas needed to quickly identify which questions required revision or removal, as well as which topics Kai's team wanted to highlight or explore further. He had to send a swift response to ensure the subsequent interview moved forward smoothly.
If it were just a standard inner-page photoshoot, the task would be straightforward: Kai would show up at the studio, pose for the camera, and that would be it. But with the magazine dedicating interview space, Kai was no longer just a model—he was becoming an integral part of an editorial feature, which multiplied the workload significantly.
Normally, a high-profile project of this scale would require three months of prior communication, planning, and preparation, or at the absolute absolute minimum, three weeks.
Yet here they were, facing a sudden development where everything was compressed into a tight ten-hour window, unfolding at ten or even twenty times the usual speed.
It was during moments like this that Vogue, standing at the absolute apex of the fashion pyramid, demonstrated its peerless operational efficiency under such extreme time constraints, truly opening Nicolas's eyes.
Nicolas didn't even know how he pulled it off. Immersed in the task with total concentration, he hit the ground running, without a single moment to catch his breath.
When he had first stepped into the bathroom, the morning sun was slowly climbing toward the zenith. By the time he walked back out, the sun was already dipping toward the horizon.
It felt as though he had stepped into a black hole—an entire day had simply vanished into thin air, gone with the quick snap of a finger, leaving him slightly dazed.
Lorenzo looked at Nicolas, whose cheeks were flushed red and eyes looked dazed, and couldn't help making a joke. "One busy outside, the other busy inside, and an entire day slips away just like that. Makes me look like an absolute slacker hanging around doing nothing."
"Ah, life—" he drew out the tail end of his voice, suddenly changing his tone. "Turns out, working really is overrated."
Nicolas's focus finally snapped back, but he had no time to joke around with Lorenzo. Lowering his head to glance at his watch, he saw it was already pushing seven o'clock.
Damn it, time was running out, and LA's evening rush-hour traffic was bound to be a total nightmare.
Scanning the room, Nicolas couldn't spot the figure he was looking for. "Lorenzo, where's Kai?"
Lorenzo tilted his chin toward the bedroom. "Just finished up his work. He was finally able to lie down for a bit."
Before the words could fully settle, Nicolas turned and took a stride forward. Spotting the shift in Nicolas's expression immediately, Lorenzo quickly stood up and rushed over to stop him. "Nick... Nick! He barely just closed his eyes, let him sleep for a little while. Even if there's work, it can wait an hour or two, right?"
Nicolas didn't stop his stride. "I know, of course I know, Lorenzo. I'm worried about Kai too, remember? That's what I was telling you earlier."
"This morning! That was all the way back this morning," Lorenzo pointed out mercilessly. "Since you know that, you shouldn't wake him up right now. He only went in half an hour ago—"
Nicolas slammed on the brakes, spun around to face Lorenzo, and took a deep breath. "Lorenzo, just trust me on this for now, alright? Time is extremely tight. Let's get in the car first, and I'll explain everything in detail once we're driving."
Lorenzo's eyebrows knitted together as he immediately caught the key point. "Get in the car? Where are we going?" He lowered his voice as much as possible to avoid waking Kai. "Over the past twenty-four hours, Kai has had less than three hours of sleep. What are you planning to do now?"
Just as Nicolas opened his mouth to reply, a figure sat bolt upright from the large bed in the room behind them. "What? What happened?"
"Did Charles's test results come back?"
Kai could barely open his eyes, sitting there half-asleep and half-awake with a slightly raspy voice. Dazedly looking around like a meerkats sensing danger, his instinctive first reaction was to reach for the phone on the nightstand.
Even in his sleep, he maintained a combat-ready state, ready to jump straight into work at a moment's notice.
Lorenzo was left speechless, throwing a fierce glare at Nicolas before turning back. "Kai, it's nothing. Charles and the others should be resting too; no news from them yet. Go back to sleep."
Nicolas understood what Lorenzo was trying to do, but he still let out a breath. "Kai, it's not about Charles or Simone. It's about Vogue."
Cutting straight to the point, he summarized the situation in a few concise sentences. "They called today to collaborate on a feature—a twelve-page inner spread combined with an exclusive interview. We have to reach the studio before eight o'clock."
There was no immediate response. A brief silence fell over the room, so quiet that one could almost hear the air softly circulating, as a surge of rapid pulse gradually broke the tranquility.
Lorenzo looked over in complete shock. "That Vogue?"
Nicolas nodded. "The one and only Vogue. I've been busy with this all day, confirming the shoot theme and the interview contents."
Kai still hadn't fully snapped out of his grogginess, feeling top-heavy. "But... why?"
The single question caught both Nicolas and Lorenzo off guard. As they processed it, they exchanged a glance, suddenly feeling a absurd sense of comedy—
Not just Lorenzo, but even Nicolas hadn't thought to ask for the underlying reason. Was an unexpected gift dropping from the sky really a pure blessing?
Kai looked over with sleep-heavy eyes. "Did Frédérique say something?"
Nicolas swallowed hard. If LVMH was behind this, the favor would be massive, and he would need to look into it thoroughly. "From what I've gathered so far, it was because of that Dior suit at the premiere."
Lorenzo didn't hide his surprise. "Just for that? I really don't understand the fashion world."
Nicolas took a deep breath. "They said that Dior outfit was unconventional and groundbreaking, showing a unique quality they couldn't find in anyone else."
Lorenzo wore a face that practically read "What kind of nonsense are you talking about?", completely unable to comprehend it.
Kai made a self-deprecating joke in his raspy voice, "Well, look at that. I've finally reached the point where I can rely on my face to make a living. I can plan my retirement early now—don't be too jealous, guys."
The heavy atmosphere lightened up slightly.
But only slightly.
In that brief moment, Kai was already standing up. Seeing this, Lorenzo had no time for further jokes; he instinctively stepped forward, a wave of concern rising again to tightly grip his chest.
"Kai, are you sure about this? Is it really okay? You've barely gotten any proper rest over the last few days."
"We've already caused enough of a stir. The news in Hollywood is more than enough to keep the media busy for a while and completely throw Mercedes off."
"We can just decline the magazine shoot."
The real underlying issue was that the technical workload at Ferrari wasn't over either, meaning he would likely have to keep burning the candle at both ends.
Lorenzo understood all the strategic reasons, but the young driver right in front of him was burning through his vital energy. The summer break might seem long, but there was still a grueling half-season ahead.
Kai paused, squinting his eyes groggily at Lorenzo before curling his lips into a faint smile. "Don't worry, Lorenzo. I won't push myself past the limit."
"I just took a quick nap, and I feel much clearer now. I'm fine."
"Besides, I can close my eyes and rest in the car on the way to the set. We have to be at the studio by eight, right? Then we need to hurry up. LA's evening rush hour is no joke. It would be extremely rude if Vogue extended an invitation and we showed up late."
Lorenzo and Nicolas exchanged another glance. Worry was one thing, but Kai had indeed demonstrated his unshakeable will—
Out of everything Nicolas had said, he had only mentioned "eight o'clock" once, yet Kai had remembered it even while half-asleep. It was clear his brain remained hyper-vigilant, maintaining exceptional focus without fully letting its guard down even during a brief rest.
Nicolas signaled with his eyes, So, what now?
Lorenzo found himself caught in a dilemma as well.
In that brief pause, Kai grabbed a baseball cap, pulled it straight onto his head, and walked right between Nicolas and Lorenzo, heading straight for the exit.
"Move, move. We don't have time to linger."
"Kai, but..."
"No buts. This is Vogue. Remember what brought us to LA in the first place? Now that Vogue is extending an olive branch, we have zero reason to pass it up."
"Kai, we've already achieved our initial objective. Do we really still need a fashion magazine to divert their attention?"
"Of course. Never underestimate old foxes like Toto Wolff and Christian Horner. A single moment of dropped guard could cost us the whole game."
Delivered in a light, casual tone, the lazy, raspy voice nevertheless carried a cold, razor-sharp edge.
Taking a deep breath, Kai's cluttered brain locked onto a key strategic detail as he halted his steps and turned back.
"Lorenzo, think about it. If word gets out that we turned down an opportunity like Vogue, what would Mercedes think?"
"We came all the way to Los Angeles specifically for this kind of exposure. If we push away a once-in-a-lifetime chance, we risk exposing our true motives."
As expected, he was still Kai.
Lorenzo choked on his words, realizing he had overlooked that critical angle. He stared blankly at Nicolas, only to find that Nicolas was equally speechless.
In that moment of stunned silence, Kai waved his hand. "If you want to rest, we can take all the time we need after losing the championship, or take an endless break after retirement. I'm only twenty right now—there's no need to constantly think about resting every single day."
Speaking as he moved, Kai took the lead toward the front door. Seeing that the other two hadn't immediately followed, he rested his right hand on the doorknob and turned back to add one last remark.
"Hey, guys!"
"If we move fast now, even factoring in the rush-hour traffic, I can still get an hour and a half of sleep in the car. Do you know how precious those ninety minutes are? Please don't mess with my beauty sleep, alright? I'm preparing to answer the world's demands with my looks."
Leaving them with that cheeky tease, Kai opened the door and walked straight out.
Nicolas took a deep breath, patted Lorenzo on the shoulder, and caught up in quick strides.
Lorenzo looked up at the ceiling in utter disbelief at everything that was transpiring. Letting out a groan, "Ah!", he ultimately gave up resisting and jogged to keep up.
Everything was unexpected, everything was chaotic. It wasn't just Nicolas and Lorenzo; Vogue's resources were fully mobilized from top to bottom, coordinating remotely from New York to Los Angeles in a full-scale operation. Their swift moves quickly caught attention, spreading through the fashion industry in the blink of an eye.
GQ was no exception.
Will Welch stood in front of his desk, staring intently at sixteen layout boards neatly lined up across the surface. His brow was furrowed as he tried to pick a cover for the September issue; yet after scanning them once and examining them closely a second time, he still failed to find an option that satisfied him.
Over the past two years, print media worldwide had suffered a general decline, with newspapers and magazines constantly downsizing, and GQ was no exception. Not only were sales worrisome, but its reputation and traffic on social media were plummeting, accompanied by a slump in industry prestige that left the publication under a persistent dark cloud.
Stuck in a rut, things were going from bad to worse.
The parent company realized they had to make drastic adjustments; otherwise, the magazine was destined to be discarded by the era, and no one would be spared.
It was under these critical circumstances that Welch had been appointed. Having previously served as creative director, he took over as editor-in-chief in January, charged with the ultimate mandate to turn the tide, work magic, and draw fresh attention to the struggling publication.
Welch consistently championed a youth-centric philosophy. The generation born around the turn of the millennium had reached adulthood and was becoming the driving force of cultural trends and consumer spending. Catering to their preferences was tantamount to unlocking the traffic code; GQ needed to step off its high horse, becoming younger and sharper.
Unquestionably, Marvel movies played a vital role in current popular culture—
Chris Hemsworth?
Red-hot and at the peak of his fame, the handsome Australian actor was rapidly becoming a sex symbol for the new generation, commanding unimaginable popularity among younger audiences.
However, things were a bit tricky.
Popularity? Undeniable!
Fashion authority? That required a massive question mark.
Looking handsome and representing high fashion were two entirely different things. People buying a magazine because of Hemsworth didn't mean they recognized GQ as a high-fashion publication again, just as driving short-term sales was a far cry from rebuilding long-term brand prestige.
Welch had a headache. They needed to systematically rebuild GQ's brand identity while securing baseline sales, but judging from the current options—
Hemsworth was not a wise editorial choice.
Inevitably, Kai's figure crossed Welch's mind once again.
People instinctively assumed motorsport had nothing to do with high fashion. But upon closer reflection, racing could indeed form an integral part of fashion, discovering forward-looking textures within mechanical curves and bold colorways. As a leading representative of the new generation of drivers, Kai possessed underlying qualities that were genuinely worth tapping into.
That was precisely why Welch had agreed to such a last-minute, rushed proposal in the first place—he wanted to take a calculated risk.
And yet—
Knock, knock.
A knock at the door broke his train of thought. Welch looked up. "Come in."
The moment the words left his mouth, the door opened, and another editor poked her head in. "Will, news just came in. Vogue has launched an emergency studio shoot in Los Angeles. The model is Kai."
Just two short sentences, yet packed with massive implications.
Welch froze. "What?"
The editor continued, "Right now. At this very moment. It's happening."
Welch let out a sharp gasp—
The door to the editor-in-chief's office closed a beat too late, failing to completely muffle a furious barrage of profanity from inside. Although the door shut to cut off the sound, the entire editorial floor froze in place, staring blankly at the chief's office as the frosted glass pane seemed to tremble softly.
Even without hearing the exact words, everyone could feel the earth-shattering intensity of a Godzilla versus King Kong showdown, as if the world had begun to shake violently.
That overwhelming rage instantly suppressed the entire floor.
Welch vented his anger all at once, yet he still couldn't control his surging emotions. After forcing himself to calm down for a second, he blurted out another expletive.
Fuck!
If he could, he wanted nothing more than to fling open the window and roar at the entirety of New York.
But he couldn't.
As editor-in-chief, he had to remain composed and devise an effective counterstrategy.
GQ canceling the shoot at the eleventh hour, swiftly locking in a replacement, and decisively rolling out a brand-new cover concept was their firm stance—a clear signal broadcast to the entire industry:
GQ was no soft target for any random nobody to push around. Even if they were facing a crisis, they remained an industry titan. If Kai stepped out of line, he had to pay the price. He was someone GQ intended to blacklist, and the entire fashion circle had better keep that firmly in mind.
Anyone who dared to welcome Kai at this juncture was openly defying GQ, and they shouldn't blame GQ for retaliating fiercely afterward.
It was a classic move to make an example of someone and re-establish their editorial authority.
Yet now, the first person to take the bait had appeared—and it was Vogue? The undisputed titan of the entire industry?
Where did that leave GQ?
A joke!
A complete, absolute laughingstock!
Welch exerted every ounce of willpower to control himself, but his chest continued to boil like an active volcano.
Barely grabbing hold of a sliver of composure, Welch lifted his head, his voice completely flat. "Where is Cruz?"
Lawrence Cruz, the editor directly involved in the incident, had responded with heavy-handed measures precisely because Kai had ignored him at the premiere, seeking to punish the driver's perceived arrogance.
So what if he had a personal connection with LVMH?
Kai and Arnault were merely acquaintances without any formal partnership or financial entanglement, which meant there was no real leverage. Arnault would never blow up a business alliance over a personal acquaintance, so GQ had zero reason to worry about Arnault acting impulsively.
GQ needed to regain its footing, and Kai had foolishly walked right into their trap—
Perfect!
A mere race car driver was no different from an ant in this glittering arena of power and fame, regardless of whether anyone truly cared about his world championship title.
Yet nobody expected Kai to make waves in the film industry, let alone Vogue stepping in to join the frenzy.
Pressure mounted in overwhelming waves, layer upon layer.
Tasked with the heavy responsibility of reviving the magazine, Welch felt an unprecedented sense of crisis that left him almost unable to breathe. His mind buzzed as a murderous look flashed in his eyes, an unbidden scent of blood filling the air.
The editor standing before him pulled her neck back defensively. "Lawrence is currently communicating with Chris's team. They're demanding a final say on the cover selection."
Welch paused, then burst into laughter.
Driven to extreme anger, his laughter sent a chilling shudder through the room. "They want a say? Why don't they take a look at the trash they shot!"
"All brawn and no brains!"
"Nothing but a giant frame with a head full of straw."
"Everyone calls him handsome, so he completely lost his head, letting his tail wag in the sky without taking a hard look in the mirror to see what he's actually worth."
"Marvel has been hesitating to confirm him as the lead for the next phase. Rumors say Marvel prefers a younger, sunnier Spider-Man, and now it seems completely true. Marvel would rather deal with Sony Columbia Pictures over Spider-Man rights and be held by the throat than promote Thor. Are those signals not clear enough?"
"Does he seriously think he can become the next Tom Cruise?"
His outburst spun completely out of control.
A call came from the side, "Will!"
Only then did Welch snap back to reality, realizing he had lost his composure. He slammed on the brakes and closed his mouth to avoid further slip-ups, slowly pulling his straying composure back inch by inch as he regulated his breathing. "Calm down. We need to stay calm. We are the ones in control here."
The editor standing in front of him relaxed her shoulders slightly. "So, what should we do now—" She paused, tentatively looking up at Welch. "Would it be too late if we extended an invitation to Kai now?"
Welch hadn't fully calmed down, the fire in his chest still simmering, but his logic had returned and his brain was working at high speed.
"Of course it's too late."
"Setting aside whether they would even agree, we would be slapping our own faces and turning ourselves into a laughingstock for everyone to watch. Plus, we'd alienate Chris Hemsworth and the potential team behind Spider-Man 2."
"If the driver turned us down on top of that, we'd become the joke of the entire industry."
"You know how filthy and ugly fashion gossip can get. We're already circulating in endless rumors as it is—"
The painstaking effort Welch had poured into steering the magazine back on track over the past six months was on the verge of going up in smoke.
No, there was no turning back.
A look of firm resolve flared in Welch's eyes.
"We stick to the current plan. Tell Cruz to grant Chris Hemsworth's demands. Not only that, but we'll also cooperate to expand their interview feature. I know he's fighting for a central spot in the next phase of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, so we'll fully back them with a PR push."
"The price? He must agree to shoot two extra sets of photos as bonus content, and one set must feature his physique—make him strip."
"Furthermore, the interview must include behind-the-scenes Marvel anecdotes—Robert Downey Jr., Scarlett Johansson, Tom Holland, I don't care, the more names the better. I don't care if he makes it up; I need intriguing teasers we can continuously feed to the press."
"We need him, he needs us. Both sides should execute a genuine collaboration to achieve a win-win outcome."
With his strategy fully crystalized, Welch finally recovered his usual sharp composure.
Looking over, Welch caught the hesitation in the editor's eyes. Though she didn't speak, her thoughts were transparent. He offered a cold smile. "What, do you think this is a terrible idea?"
The editor shook her head. "No, quite the opposite. I know it's a solid strategy. But the issue is that the brand image we've built over the last six months might hit a major setback."
Welch took a deep breath. "I know. If we do this, we're no longer a high-fashion publication—we're just a magazine feeding off sensationalism. Just like every other publication, chasing clout wherever it goes, clinging like parasites to trending celebrities without self-definition or image. Without celebrity traffic, we'd be nothing."
"It's a dead end. Trust me, I get it."
"But this is just a one-time exception, a special measure to navigate the current crisis. We will win, and we will beat Vogue. We will package Chris Hemsworth into a fashion icon, drive his fanbase wild, and send our sales skyrocketing like a volcano."
"Then, come October, we can return to building the brand according to our original vision."
Pausing briefly, his mind cleared completely, and his eyes burned with renewed determination.
Kai was just a single F1 driver. Did he really think he could challenge a Marvel superhero?
Pure delusion!
Welch knew Wintour's standing in the industry, but Wintour was human—she made mistakes too. Choosing Kai this time and risking friction with GQ was a blunder. They would use concrete results to defend their honor, and if they could make Vogue swallow a defeat, it would become a crowning achievement of his career.
Welch was already itching for New York Fashion Week to arrive, where he could hold his head high and flaunt his success right in front of Wintour.
"This strategy will work."
"Our sales can beat Vogue—800,000 copies, no, 1,000,000 copies! Let's aim for a million and send a shockwave through the entire fashion world!"
Knock, knock.
His grand ambition was interrupted once again by a knock at the door, but this time Welch didn't lose his temper, calling out loudly:
"Come in!"
The person who pushed the door open was none other than Cruz.
The moment Welch saw that face, he didn't even wait for Cruz to speak. Reaching out, he grabbed whatever was on his desk and hurled it violently without even looking.
Clatter—Thud, thud—
Muffled impact sounds exploded through the room. The editorial staff turned their heads in unison, watching as Cruz shut the door behind him before a furious torrent of curses erupted, setting the room shaking all over again.
No further words were needed; anyone could see that Welch's anger was far from extinguished. It was easy to imagine that the turbulence would continue for some time.
The shaky state of GQ grew even more worrying. How much longer could this magazine hold on? Did they need to prepare for sudden unemployment at any moment?
It wasn't just GQ, and it wasn't just North America; the entire global fashion industry felt the shockwaves, and the exact same reaction crossed almost everyone's mind—
Has Anna Wintour lost her mind?
...
Even standing at the very top of the pyramid, even as a living legend who had personally dictated global trends for thirty years,
doubts and controversies surrounding Wintour persisted—
When would she retire? Had her fashion taste fallen behind the times? Was she ready to groom a successor? Did she genuinely care about fashion, or was she simply clinging to power and refusing to yield? Did her judgment still carry the same absolute authority? Did she truly retain her iconic fashion instinct?
Questions upon questions.
While other fashion magazines continually adapted, frequently replacing their editors-in-chief, Vogue remained as steady as a mountain. Wintour had held the position for over three decades with zero retirement plans, making it inevitable that the skepticism surrounding her would only intensify with time.
And now, this—
Kai? Seriously?
Furthermore, breaking industry consensus over a single driver to position herself against GQ—not that Vogue had to fear GQ, but... was it really necessary? He was just a race car driver; did Wintour genuinely believe she had discovered the next David Beckham?
Confusion, shock, criticism, and naturally, mockery, banter, and cynicism.
The chatter was relentless.
Even Hamilton was no exception.
When the news reached him, Hamilton froze momentarily, briefly unsure how to react. Wintour was doing this on purpose, wasn't she?
Wintour knew full well his ambition and determination to break into the fashion world, having spent years pouring effort into laying the groundwork and searching for a breakthrough opportunity. Yet after knocking on the door for so long, he was still left pacing outside like a fool, tirelessly trying to gain entry.
Through it all, Wintour had remained a passive bystander, refusing to offer a helping hand. Given Vogue's status, inviting Hamilton for a single inner-page shoot would have granted him entry, allowing him to establish a true footprint in high fashion. Yet Wintour had consistently refused to break protocol.
And now—
That rookie had beaten him to the punch on Vogue?
Heh.
Because it was so absurd and ridiculous, Hamilton's initial reaction wasn't anger, but an uncontrollable burst of laughter.
First the Drivers' World Championship, then F1's full backing and resources, and now stepping outside the paddock to lead the charge into high fashion and even Hollywood?
So what was next? Suppressing Hamilton's seat and forcing him into retirement, just like Alonso?
Hamilton was only thirty-four this year, in his absolute prime and peak form. Yet F1 was already eager to replace him, pushing a wet-behind-the-ears kid to the forefront as the new face of racing. Could their greed look any uglier?
Ha!
Even though Hamilton had retreated into nature to isolate himself from the noise, the news leaked through every crack.
From inside the paddock to the outside world, aggressive moves from that young driver were forming a tight enclosure, leaving no room to breathe.
Hamilton—expressionless and silent—refused to lose control. Losing control would mean Kai had won. He silently put on his headphones, stepped out of the holiday cabin, and ran straight toward the forest, putting distance between himself and the internet, the media, and the noise.
Running faster and faster, he left all the commotion far behind.
Slightly different from the fashion world's skepticism, the paddock... was in total ecstasy!
"Paddock X Fashion—A Match Made in Heaven!"
"The First Driver in History to Feature in Vogue: Kai Makes History!"
"Kai Continues Creating History, Knocking Open Fashion's Apex Door!"
"Where the Trend Leads: F1 Becomes Fashion's Next Hotbed."
"From Hamilton to Kai: Professional Racers Achieve a Major Breakthrough in High Fashion."
Cheering and celebrating, news outlets across competitive sports joined the frenzy with immense excitement.
In a haze, the scene vividly recalled the moment David Beckham first burst onto the global stage. Entertainment portals and sports journalists went wild, and tuning into the radio, TV, or newspapers revealed wall-to-wall coverage packing every corner of public attention.
It was no longer just about sports or fashion; it had evolved into a massive commercial spectacle.
It marked the second time since Michael Jordan that people realized competitive sports held such vast commercial potential.
And now, here it was again—was this the third wave, following Jordan and Beckham?
Starting with Spider-Man 2, from Netflix to Vogue, Kai had touched off huge waves in Los Angeles, delivering surprises with every single move.
And just like Beckham back in the day, the academic purists in the paddock could no longer sit still.
In any competitive sport, there existed a faction that understood the commercial aspect, yet firmly maintained that sports should ultimately be decided on the track. Too much commercialization would dazzle the eyes, causing professional athletes to lose their drive and focus, ultimately leading to poor track performance and swift elimination.
Competitive sports was a brutal world where no elite athlete reached the top overnight; they relied on relentless, daily grinding. Whatever sweat was shed on the training ground would eventually show up in race performance.
Hard work might not guarantee a championship, but every championship was undeniably forged through hard work.
The higher the level of the athlete, the truer this became.
Beckham had possessed the potential to become a true legend of his era, only to end up as a model, wasting his talent to rely on his looks.
Was Kai planning to follow in Beckham's footsteps now?
Kai's talent and ability required no further proof; his records from the 2018 season were etched into the history books as a legendary feat that might never be replicated. Right now, the paddock's expectations for Kai went far beyond short-term wins; they expected him to become a legend who could revitalize the entire sport.
To bring back the glorious era of Formula 1.
Brundle had stated more than once on live broadcasts that they shouldn't just praise Kai by comparing him to Schumacher or Senna; Kai was Kai, a genuine superstar with the potential to stand alongside legends, and the racing world held far higher expectations for this young man.
The result?
Hollywood? High fashion?
What kind of ridiculous choices were these? Had Kai lost his mind?
The conservative, academic faction in competitive sports could no longer hold back—
Some felt deep frustration over wasted potential, some grieved his choices with regret, some scolded him in righteous anger, some gloated with cynical contempt, some couldn't wait to kick him while he was down, and others earnestly called for him to return to the right path. Voices of every kind erupted in a massive surge.
Ferrari immediately found itself in the crosshairs, pushed right to the center of the storm.
Some called on Ferrari to step in and stop Kai, while others believed Ferrari was the mastermind behind it all—sacrificing Kai to the flames for financial gain, reasoning that Ferrari would never allow a driver to tarnish its brand image without explicit permission.
Others believed this was Kai's opening volley, breaking free from Ferrari's shackles to carve out an entirely new domain—a clear signal that Kai and Ferrari were heading for an inevitable split.
Assorted theories, opening like Pandora's box, unleashed an unstoppable flood of wild speculations.
Conspiracy theories took center stage.
The entire paddock spun wildly—proponents and opponents, supporters and critics, casual onlookers—all caught up in a high-speed whirlwind that swept through every corner without exception.
Yet none of it could stop this roaring thermal wave. Instead, the noise acted as fuel, allowing the storm to continuously grow. An invisible hand seemed to push from behind the scenes, making the clamor louder and louder, showing zero signs of stopping.
And people quickly picked up on the hidden drama driving this massive wave—
Vogue vs. GQ!
Kai vs. Hemsworth!