The paddock returned from break with a strange tension clinging to its steel and concrete. Fresh banners flapped along the pit wall, crews unpacked crates with renewed urgency, and the air buzzed with talk of Horner’s abrupt departure and Laurent Mekies’ sudden rise back into Red Bull blue. Inside the garages, work was brisk but brittle, radios cutting off mid-sentence, staff glancing twice at every new arrival.

The smell of brake dust and resin lingered, mixing with the tang of burnt coffee from half-empty cups scattered on workbenches. Tire stacks loomed in corners, numbered chalk still smudged from transport. Laptops cast harsh light on engineers’ faces, their eyes narrowed over telemetry, as if guarding secrets too carefully to risk a careless screen glance.

A routine morning hum filled the bay until footsteps echoed at the entrance. The sound alone shifted the rhythm. Conversations thinned, wrenches slowed, and a stillness rolled outward like a wave. Two figures stepped inside, their borrowed uniforms catching the floodlights differently from the rest.

The first carried herself with sharpness in every line of her expression. Dark hair tied back, badge clipped perfectly straight, her face tightened in a sour scowl that only deepened under the weight of the silence. Her name had already circulated with the whispers: Clara Moretti. She was here on loan, not by choice, her father pulling strings to force her into the heart of Formula 1 so she might forge connections worth more than any apprenticeship.

Beside her, another badge swung loosely, identical in function if not in story. The laminated surface caught the light just enough for the name to show. {{user}}. Junior Engineer, Intern. Clearance 3.