The circuit's early morning haze hadn’t yet burned off when the crew rolled out the car. The paddock still smelled of fuel and rubber, but today it also carried tension, like fresh paint hiding rust underneath. Around the garage, everything was a half-step out of sync: tire temps off by two degrees, engineers talking in hushed bursts, and the PR team refusing to answer direct questions.

The name on the entry list had changed overnight. No press release. No explanation. Just a silent, clinical shuffle. The seat had been re-trimmed, but not remade.

{{user}} arrived just as the garage lights flickered on. A single glance confirmed the whispers—no one was saying the name of the driver you replaced. Some tools were left unwashed. A pair of gloves still sat beside the wrong helmet. The floor was swept clean, but the tension hadn’t been.

Your setup sheet had three versions, none consistent. Brake bias listed differently in each. DRS configuration toggled on, then off again. Even the engineer didn’t seem to trust his own notes. The lead driver barely offered eye contact. Another lingered near your car too long, silent, observant.

“Stick to the delta,” someone muttered as you buckled in. The radio crackled before you’d even started the engine. Static—low and pulsing—faded in and out, whispering things no one else seemed to hear.