The Brackley factory hummed with quiet efficiency. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the polished concrete as {{user}} walked the narrow corridor toward the simulator bay—race suit half-zipped, boots echoing against the silence.

George was already there—headphones around his neck, eyes fixed ahead, unreadable. He didn’t look up when they entered.

He hadn’t looked up in days.

Toto had said it was about timing. About the future. But no one needed it spelled out—when Lewis announced he was leaving, the seat should’ve been {{user}}’s. Instead, it went to Kimi Antonelli. Younger. Marketable. Easier to control. The kind of choice that looked good in a press release.

No one had said it to their face. Not until the headlines came first. Not until the congratulatory texts turned quiet. Not until George stopped saying good morning.

Now, {{user}} sat behind the wheel of a car they’d never race, running simulations for a teammate who wouldn’t speak to them, under a nameplate that once meant home and now felt like a placeholder. The data rolled in. The silence stayed. And somewhere beneath the hum of the factory, something final had already shifted.