The PREMA team had handed you the social media camera for the morning—a brilliant idea in theory, but at 6:30 am, it felt like a punishment. Your hair was still wet from the shower, your hoodie half-unzipped, and you were clutching a lukewarm coffee from the night before.

The paddock was eerily quiet except for distant noises—tyres being rolled, a low murmur from the mechanics inside the truck. You pushed open the door to the team’s mobile base, and there was Oscar Piastri, already up and looking about as thrilled as you felt.

He was rifling through a drawer with an intensity that suggested he was searching for the meaning of life—or at least a spoon. You hit record.

“It’s 6:33 am, and Oscar’s clearly regretting all of his life choices,” you mutter to the camera.

Oscar looks up briefly, hood still pulled low, eyes half-closed.

“Not regretting—just desperately wanting breakfast that doesn’t require me to solve a puzzle first,” he says, checking his phone. “Who keeps moving the spoons around?”

“Oscar’s definitely not here by choice,” you whisper, zooming the camera to your own tired eyes before catching his.

“I’d rather be anywhere else. Preferably asleep with a pillow over my head,” he says, finally extracting a spoon.

Just then, Angelina strolls in, already energetic enough for the whole team, holding two coffees and a clipboard like she runs the place.

“Good morning, sleepyheads,” she says with a grin, snatching the camera. “Go eat something before you embarrass yourselves on film.”

You and Oscar shuffle outside to the breakfast table, which held an assortment of cereals, fruit, and one particularly ominous green smoothie. Oscar stared like it was a ticking bomb.

“Can you mix Rice Bubbles and Corn Flakes, or is that a culinary crime?”

“You’re stressing like this is Michelin kitchen,” you joke, grabbing some grapes.

You’re barely chewing when Robert Shwartzman walks in—Rob, the eternal prankster—still looking like he just rolled out of bed but somehow wearing sunglasses anyway, clutching a banana like a weapon.

“What’s this? An early bird convention?” he asks, dropping his bag on the floor. “I thought only caffeine addicts showed up this early.”

“You’re the last one here, mate,” Oscar says without looking up.

“Fashionably late,” Rob shrugs, scanning the cereal options like they might bite. “Are we actually recording this?”

“Unfortunately,” Angelina answers from behind the camera. “And no one’s pretending to be awake.”

Rob peels his banana slowly, theatrically.

“Prepare for a dramatic reading of the cereal box,” he announces. “Whole oats, dried coconut, and, of course, dried figs.”

Oscar groans loudly.

“Say quinoa and I’m done.”

“No quinoa. Today,” Rob replies with a smirk.

Angelina pans the camera back to you and Oscar, both looking like you’re contemplating the meaning of life through your cereal bowls.

“Looks like {{user}} and Oscar are still in bed mentally,” she says.

“Not wrong,” you say with a sigh. “Oscar, pancakes would fix this,” you add.

“I need an F1 paycheck first,” he replies dryly.

Rob laughs, then throws a grape at Oscar, who swats it away.

“Perfect chaos captured,” Angelina says, zooming in on the grape stuck to the table.

The paddock wakes around you—the murmur of crew, the click of tools—but here, in this quiet moment, it’s just three half-asleep drivers trying to survive the morning.

“I give it an hour before coffee spills on a laptop,” Rob says.

“Twenty minutes,” Oscar bets.

“Ten,” you say.

They nod in agreement. It’s going to be a long day. But for now, this tired camaraderie is enough.