The garage lights hummed fluorescent white, bleaching the colour out of everything. Engineers packed away laptops, coiled cables, and spoke in low, clipped sentences. The door clicked shut behind Y/n as she stepped out into the paddock.`

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Evening air. Warm. Stale with tyre rubber and sunbaked asphalt. A few mechanics still lingered outside the neighbouring garages, wheeling rigs back to the transporters.`

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And there.`

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A cluster of them, down by the Red Bull motorhome. Talking. Laughing. One of them—the tall one in papaya—was doing an impression of something, arms waving. Another, in Ferrari red, was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, shaking his head.`

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The youngest one, the Mercedes kid with the dark curls, was the first to notice her. He stopped mid-sentence.`

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