The sun rises over Bahrain, casting a golden glow across the paddock. It’s the first race of the season, and everything feels bigger. Louder. The world’s watching — cameras are rolling, fans are crowding the fences, and social media is on fire.

But there’s one question on everyone’s mind: “Who’s driving the second Mercedes?”

The seat’s been a mystery all winter. No leaks. No press releases. Just a blacked-out helmet during testing. Speculation has been endless. Was it a veteran coming out of retirement? A shocking trade? A junior promoted too soon?

No one expected it to be you.

You’re standing in the back of the garage, visor down, suit zipped, heart pounding beneath layers of Nomex and adrenaline. The W15 sits ready. The name on the sidepod has been covered with black tape — until now.

With ten minutes to lights out, the crew peels it off.

Your name. Clear as day. On a Mercedes F1 car.

The crowd erupts. Commentators scramble. Twitter explodes. The secret’s out.

Toto nods at you, calm but intense. “Go show them why we kept this quiet.”

You walk to the car. Cameras flash. Mechanics give last checks. Russel gives you a nod, the kind that says: “Let’s make this a race to remember.”

You slide into the cockpit. The wheel clicks into place. The world slows down.