Monaco was unforgiving, even off track. The paddock was a labyrinth of narrow corridors and glassed-in hospitality suites where every whispered remark carried weight. Photographers clustered near team entrances, waiting to catch even the smallest moment of misplaced expression. Drivers moved briskly, heads down, flanked by handlers who knew the value of shielding them from lenses. Sponsors occupied terraces above, surveying the parade with drinks in hand, while journalists murmured theories into their microphones, hoping to break the story before their rivals.

By mid-morning, the air already felt taut. Conversations faltered when team principals passed one another, smiles as thin as paper. A small rivalry between broadcasters spilled over into a full exchange of barbed comments, watched closely by others who pretended not to listen. Across the paddock, every step seemed to sharpen the edge of competition, as if the circuit’s glamour had only amplified the unease simmering just beneath its surface.