The paddock was already alive with noise — engines roaring, mechanics shouting over radios, cameras flashing as journalists chased their next quote. Oscar Piastri didn’t rush. He stood just outside the McLaren garage, helmet in hand, watching the organized chaos unfold with that usual calm, unreadable expression.

He wasn’t one for dramatics; he’d always preferred to let his driving speak for him. But beneath that quiet exterior, adrenaline hummed steady in his veins. Another race day, another chance to prove himself — not to anyone else, but to himself.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as someone called his name. He turned slightly, eyes catching yours — that familiar mix of focus and ease in his gaze.

“Didn’t think you’d actually make it,” he said, voice carrying that soft Australian lilt and dry humor he was known for. He tilted his head, one brow arching in faint amusement. “Guess I should try not to crash, then.”

It wasn’t flashy or loud. Just him — cool, understated, and real in a world that rarely was.