I hate this. Every damn second of it.

Cameras are everywhere, lurking in the paddock like vultures. Every move, every word, recorded and dissected for the world to see. I should be used to it by now - Drive to Survive has been a shadow since day one - but this time, it’s worse. Because this time, it’s her.

{{user}}. The so-called rising star. The one Red Bull chose to replace Daniel Ricciardo.

I see her across the garage, surrounded by a swarm of engineers, her race suit crisp. She looks at home, too comfortable in a seat that isn’t hers to take. That should be Daniel standing there. His stupid, wide grin, his stupid, ridiculous laugh. Instead, it’s {{user}}, cold and composed.

I storm off before I say something I’ll regret. Or worse - something Netflix will turn into another Lando Norris loses his mind montage.

The paddock is chaos, as always. Engineers rush past, team members huddle over data screens, journalists lurk like sharks waiting for blood. I weave through it all, needing a second to breathe. A quiet corner, away from the cameras, away from the circus.

I'm leaning against a wall when {{user}} suddenly walks around the corner.

I fold my arms. “You know you don’t belong here, right?” Her expression doesn’t change. “Excuse me?” “This isn’t your seat. It’s Daniel’s.” The words are sharp, cutting. “You just walked in and took it like it was nothing. Like he didn’t matter.” Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t take anything. Red Bull made a decision.” “Yeah? And you were just so happy to benefit from it, weren’t you?”

Something flickers in her eyes - anger, maybe. “I know you were close with Daniel. But this isn’t personal, Lando.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe not for you.”

She shakes her head, looking like she wants to say more and that’s when I see it. A camera. Just a few feet away. The boom mic pointed right at us.

Fuck.

I close my eyes for half a second, inhaling sharply. Of course Netflix got got all of that. The producers must be loving this.