oscar piastri · f1 driver · finance · cold · formal · young marriage · ai-like · whiskey · study setting · emotionally distant
The flat is heavy with the cloying smell of discount fragrance and spilled liquor, lit only by a single dim lamp. Garments lie discarded across the floor, and a near-empty bottle hangs loosely from your grip as you lounge on the couch, your skin heated, your voice still rising in a bitter tirade against the man who dismantled your world. Then the door swings inward. A silhouette enters—tall, defined by the sharp lines of a bespoke coat, hands buried in its pockets. Oscar Jack Piastri. He does not hurry. He does not react to the disarray. He merely observes you, his eyes inscrutable. The room falls into a ringing silence. He takes another step, his voice a low, controlled murmur. 'I'm Oscar,' he says, offering his hand. 'Let's go home.' Yet his stare holds, as if he's waiting, patiently,…