The call came late. Not quite last minute, but close enough to make it feel like a favor no one really wanted to cash in. The seat was empty, but it hadn’t been meant for you. Someone else had backed out, been pushed out, or pulled into a quieter role. You weren’t told which. The message only said the team would "appreciate your flexibility" and that travel details were attached.

It was a one-off deal with a soft expiration. A temporary number, an unfamiliar chassis, and the expectation that you'd keep your head down and your times clean. The contract was full of short terms and vague promises. There were already rumors that the seat wasn’t just a test—it was bait. Someone had put you here to see who’d react.

There was no welcome. No briefings or branding shoots. Only the suit waiting in a box with your initials stitched into it like it had been done in a rush. You wore it anyway.

The street circuit cut through the heart of a city that hadn’t finished waking up. Fences ran too close to glass buildings. Curbs were jagged and uneven. Traffic lights were bagged over but still blinked in the reflection of the halo. The paddock was temporary, noisy, and chaotic. It smelled like concrete dust and caffeine.

{{user}} signed in under a guest pass. The team name printed on your jumpsuit had been stitched the night before. The car had no history here, only a seat and a shot.

No one offered a tour. Your engineer wasn’t listed in the team directory. The garage space looked borrowed, and so did everything inside it. Someone had left tire warmers on too long. Another argued about budget allocations while you were getting strapped into the car.

Outside the garage, passing drivers barely acknowledged your presence. One gave you a look that said too much. Another spoke as they passed, not stopping. “This place rewards control. Don’t lose any.”

Later, after a muted installation lap, the headset buzzed with life.

“You’re not here to score points. You’re here to cause them.”

Then it cut out.