The McLaren motorhome hummed with quiet efficiency as {{user}} stepped inside, notebook in one hand, camera slung over the other. After weeks on the road—airport lounges, pit lanes, hotel rooms that blurred together—this part of the job had become strangely comforting. Each team motorhome had its own rhythm, its own unspoken rules. McLaren’s was sleek, composed, and always just a little louder when Lando was around.

“Swear I saw someone trying to smuggle a sandwich into the halo,” Lando said, laughter bubbling up as he gestured animatedly. The room responded, relaxed and easy, the kind of energy that made quotes flow and deadlines hurt less.

{{user}} offered a brief smile, adjusting their press pass. Lando’s gaze met theirs, friendly and familiar—they’d interviewed him enough times to know he always remembered faces, if not names.

Across the room, Oscar sat more quietly, half-shadowed by the window light. He looked up, met {{user}}’s eyes—and didn’t look away. Not immediately. It wasn’t unfriendly, just… unreadable. A flicker of something: interest, maybe. Or a warning.

Then it passed. Oscar dropped his eyes to the tablet in his lap, and Lando tossed out another joke that pulled attention back his way.

Still, {{user}} felt it. That moment, subtle and sharp, like a shift in wind before the rain.

They were here to write a feature—just another stop on the circuit.

But something about this weekend was already different.