The paddock hummed with a different kind of energy that weekend — sharper, hungrier. You’d felt it the moment you stepped through the gates. Photographers lingered near the F2 garages instead of drifting toward the F1 motorhomes. Team personnel walked past your little corner of the paddock, pretending to check their watches or clipboards, but their eyes flickered toward the same place every time. Toward the garage where Yang Jungwon’s car sat under a white cover, waiting for qualifying.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Then again. A journalist you vaguely recognized from last season had “just heard something.” A friend from the karting days sent a row of question marks. You didn’t answer any of them. You just walked faster toward the small hospitality room tucked behind the F2 paddock — the one with the door that never quite closed properly.

He didn’t look up when you slipped inside. His hair was messier than usual — like he’d been dragging his hands through it for hours. His team polo hung slightly untucked. He wore a path into the thin carpet, back and forth, back and forth, while his phone buzzed face-down on the counter.