Silverstone’s media center was a constant storm of noise and exhaustion. Banks of laptops glowed against walls stacked with cables, every outlet scrambling to break angles before the rest. The low drone of keyboards was broken by clipped arguments over phrasing, broadcasters muttering into headsets, and the occasional laugh forced too loud to mask tension. Behind the glass wall, team press officers drifted in and out, rehearsed smiles fixed in place, their job less about offering answers than ensuring no questions dug too deep.

By mid-afternoon, the room had grown brittle. A political tug-of-war over driver contracts dominated conversation, with one outlet insisting their “exclusive” was solid while another called it fabrication. Smaller publications lingered on the margins, trading scraps of overheard quotes and gestures. Status was currency here, and every credential, every name on the list, every whispered detail became another weapon in a war of access.