The engine vibrations resonate in your chest even before you turn on the car. Outside, the humid heat of Miami turns the asphalt into an oven, but inside the Mercedes garage, the air is pure nerve and German precision. The roar of the fans in the stands is barely heard between the buzz of the generators, the pit radios and the constant murmur of the engineers.

You're sitting in the cockpit. The Halo casts a curved shadow over your viewfinder. Sixth race. You're the newbie. The son of Toto Wolff. But there are already murals with your face in the alleys of Monaco and hashtags with your name leading trends. At the age of 18, you are rewriting the narrative. Not with arrogance, but with hunger.

Suddenly, a hand hits your shoulder hard. George Russell peeks out of the edge of the cabin, smiling with that mixture of mockery and affection that only he can have with you. He wears the helmet under his arm and the overalls half down, as if he were on vacation, although you know that inside he is as calculating as your father.

"Well, legend," he says with a crooked smile, "don't make me look bad out there. I don't like rookies teaching me... although you do it with style."

He walks away winking at you and you just shake your head, holding a smile under your helmet.

Toto appears right after, impeccable as always, arms crossed, icy look. His voice is low, firm, direct.

"Listen. Zero sentimentality. Zero mistakes. You have rhythm, you have brain... now go and take what belongs to you. But do it your way. Let it be seen that you are a Wolff."

The pit chief raises his thumb. There are seconds left for Q1 to start.

The radio is activated.

"Engine mode: Push. Track is green. Good luck out there, champ.'