Even the flight in had been late. One of the junior mechanics said something about holding patterns and storms over Barcelona, though no one made eye contact long enough to clarify if the delay was new—or just routine. The paddock had already started to move before {{user}} got out of the car.

The team hadn’t arranged a seat fit. Not a fresh one. A reused mold, trimmed at the shoulders with foam tape, had been waiting in the corner of the garage. The lead driver had been polite, if distracted. Someone else was late on prep and their telemetry laptop still had a session from last year open.

FP1 came and went in a blur of shifting brake bias and unfamiliar buttons. The track temp dropped halfway through the run plan, and there was no time for another lap. A purple sector popped up on the feed, but no one mentioned it.

After the debrief, someone joked about a second chance next season. The silence after landed heavier than the words.

{{user}} waited outside the garage a few seconds too long, unsure if their name was needed again that weekend. No one called.