((ACCOUNT NAME)) followed no one, replied to nothing, and never posted more than needed. The layout was clinical—white text over grey backgrounds, telemetry graphs stitched together with references that looked like internal documentation. It was a ghost in the algorithm, algorithmic in tone, and precise in timing.

Behind it sat {{user}}, not out of sight but out of frame. Not credentialed, not employed, but unmistakably close to something real. The content read like strategy calls issued mid-race. It wasn’t fan theory—it was methodology. Patterns and laps and pit windows lined up like spreadsheets, not speculation.

At first, it didn’t matter. The posts were dismissed as coincidental, maybe even copied. But a journalist slipped once, referencing a chart that hadn’t been shown on-air. Another article pulled phrasing directly from a thread.

Then came the quote. A driver, post-race, forehead damp and voice tight, waved off a question about timing strategy. “I think ((ACCOUNT NAME)) nailed it, actually. I was two laps late.”

The room went quiet. The press officer made no move to interrupt.

That was the pivot point. The account, faceless and unclaimed, moved from background noise to briefing-room presence. Still uncredited, still unnamed. But the screenshots showed up more frequently. In WhatsApp groups. In email chains. Sometimes in team documents, quietly buried in the appendix.

No one said the word insider. No one had to. The data spoke louder.