The media trucks had arrived before the team finished assembling the garage. Cables ran across the paddock like veins, cameras already fixed on your side of the canopy. The car was painted in your colors, but only recently. You could still smell the vinyl adhesive on the number panel.

The garage felt cold, but it wasn’t the temperature. No one made a scene. They didn’t need to. Conversations trailed off when you walked past. One engineer handed over a clipboard without a word. Another rechecked the tire pressure three times, like waiting for an excuse.

{{user}} kept their head down through the prep but couldn’t ignore the pacing. One mechanic in the corner scrolled through old lap data—not yours. A driver you hadn’t officially replaced walked in without greeting anyone, then walked out again.

The team principal arrived late and left early. PR instructions were short: no comments about “the change,” no speculation, no emotion. Your name trended online before the car had even cleared scrutineering.

A few meters away, the lead driver finally approached. Helmet tucked under his arm, voice neutral.

“They don’t need you to win. They need someone else to lose.”

Then he walked off without waiting for a reply.