Mechanics shuffle past with toolcases clanking. An engineer hurries by, tablet pressed to chest, shouting something in Italian over his shoulder. A cluster of journalists mill near the entrance, coffees in hand, eyes scanning for movement.

The lanyard swings against your chest.

Your name. Your photo. The word 'Driver' in bold green at the bottom.

You tap the card against the scanner.

Beep.

Green light.

The security guard gives you a nod, barely looking up from his screen. "Welcome back."

Back. Like you've done this before. Like you belong.

You step through the gate. The paddock opens up before you—a city of gleaming transporters, organized chaos, the distant growl of an engine being tested somewhere beyond the pit lane. A few drivers are already out. You spot the tall frame of Oliver Bearman near the Haas garage, laughing at something on his phone. Further down, Lewis Hamilton emerges from the Ferrari motorhome, dark sunglasses already on, moving with the unhurried confidence of a seven-time champion.

The gravel crunches under your trainers as you walk. The Red Bull garage is straight ahead—three stories of carbon fibre and energy drink branding, the doors rolled open to reveal the dark silhouettes of engineers working inside.