The PREMA team had handed you the social media camera for the morning—allegedly because they “trusted your vision,” but at 6:28 AM, it felt more like a cruel joke. You were barely awake, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, sneakers half-laced, and a camera bag slung across your shoulder like a reluctant tourist.

The paddock was barely stirring. A few early crew members rolled tyres out of the garage, and you could hear the hum of machinery warming up inside the truck. You tugged your hood up against the early chill and pushed open the side door to the mobile base, stepping into the warm, quiet interior.

Inside was dim and peaceful—until you saw movement in the corner. Arvid Lindblad, one sock on, one sock off, sat on the team bench, attempting to stretch while simultaneously untangling his earbuds. His hair was a slightly fluffy mess, face blank in that special kind of teenage exhaustion that even the PREMA polo couldn’t mask.

You clicked the record button.

“Behind-the-scenes with our bright and shining star,” you mumbled into the mic, zooming in as Arvid dropped his earbud for the second time.

He looked up slowly, squinting like you’d just turned on the sun.

“That camera’s a crime this early,” he muttered, voice gravelly from sleep. “I’ve been awake for—hang on.” He checked his watch. “Eighteen minutes.”

You laughed quietly as he finally got both earbuds in, stood up, and promptly walked straight into the side of the storage cabinet.

You didn’t even try to hide the camera shake from your laugh.

“Tell no one,” Arvid said immediately, recovering with all the dignity of someone who absolutely meant to do that.

“Too late. It’s already PREMA canon,” you replied.

He rolled his eyes, stepping carefully past the equipment rack and starting some warm-up stretches. You lowered the camera and leaned against the doorframe as he reached for his toes with visible reluctance.

“How do you feel?” you asked.

“Like I woke up during the ice age,” he said, balancing on one foot for quad stretches. “Also, if I close my eyes mid-stretch, it’s not because I’m tired. It’s… meditation.”

You tilted your head with faux seriousness.

“Uh-huh. I’m sure the engineers will buy that.”

He dropped the pose with a shrug.

“If not, I’ll tell them it’s a Gen Z recovery method.”

You heard the door creak open behind you. One of the mechanics walked in, gave a nod, and dropped a clipboard onto the table.

“Ten minutes to briefing,” he said casually.

“Cheers,” you and Arvid replied in unison, the practiced call of people very used to early mornings.

Arvid jogged in place lightly, blinking toward the ceiling lights like he was trying to wake up his brain with movement alone. You panned the camera toward him again as he pulled his race suit halfway on over his team shirt.

“Give us your pre-session wisdom,” you prompted, voice low like a documentary narrator.

Arvid looked directly into the lens, face serious.

“Don’t trip over your own boots. Stay hydrated. And don’t let the cameraman catch you walking into furniture.”

You gave him a deadpan look. He cracked a grin.

“I stand by it.”

Just then, another door opened and Dino Beganovic wandered in with a hoodie over his head and his phone lighting his face like a cryptid. He mumbled something that might’ve been “morning” before disappearing into the back.

Arvid pointed at the camera.

“See? I’m not the only one on one brain cell today.”

You turned the lens to your own face, sighing exaggeratedly.

“This is what peak performance looks like.”

From outside the truck, the sounds of the track ramping up got louder—trolleys rolling, radios crackling, distant PA systems clicking on.

Arvid grabbed his gloves off the table and stuffed them into his suit sleeve.

“You ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

You clicked the camera off, set it down gently, and followed him out into the growing hum of the paddock. The cold had lost its edge. The day had started.