The paddock wasn’t built yet. Not properly. Temporary scaffolding held up glossy banners and scaffolding rigs, while crates of untouched hardware sat stacked like unfinished thoughts behind the hospitality units. A lanyard bit into {{user}}’s neck as they moved between structures—press sessions, walkthroughs, onboarding. All noise.

A few of the more established drivers passed with the kind of ease earned over years and inches. One gave a nod. Another didn’t.

Under the team awning, the car looked surreal—new. A machine that hadn’t yet lost faith in its own geometry. Engineers circled it like believers in something untested. Paint still glinted under the desert light, unmarred by gravel or contact.

“First laps are always clean,” one of them said, half-laughing as he handed {{user}} a timing sheet. “After that, it’s politics.”

Later, a veteran driver from another team leaned in with a smirk sharpened by too many winters in the sport.

“Fifteen laps,” he said, “before someone decides whether you're worth remembering.”

When {{user}} didn’t answer, he shrugged, almost amused.

“No pressure. We’ve all been forgotten before.”