On the evening of the 23rd, the F1 paddock had its exclusive party, and without exception, the F2 grid had one too.
Zhou Guanyu specifically called Dominik, asking him to attend the end-of-season dinner that night. There was no reason to refuse. Drivers fought to the limit on track, aggressively defending every inch of asphalt, but once the helmets came off, they were just a group of twenty-somethings looking to blow off steam.
Dominik returned to the Yas Marina hotel where the Carlin team was staying. As he walked through the lobby, he spotted a familiar figure near the elevators.
It was George Russell.
The Brit was dressed in white casual trousers and a khaki jacket, giving off a distinctly "old-money" European vibe. He looked every bit the polished, media-ready future star of Mercedes, radiating an effortless confidence.
"Hey, you're Corvinus, right? I recognize the helmet," Russell said, his British accent crisp and natural. He offered a polite nod. "Your driving style is sharp. I watched the Feature Race—good defense. I don't think F1 is very far off for you."
Dominik smiled lightly, shaking the offered hand. "Thanks, George. That means a lot coming from you."
Russell laughed, clearly in a good mood. He had the relaxed air of a man who believed his own path was set in stone. He didn't see Dominik as a threat yet; he saw him as a promising junior to pat on the head.
After learning that Russell was also heading to the drivers' gathering (albeit the F1 section upstairs), Dominik said goodbye and returned to his room to change. He swapped his team kit for a simple white T-shirt and sweatpants, tidied up his hair, and glanced at himself in the mirror.
He looked fine. Not the kind of face that stunned people at first glance like a movie star, but the sort that became sharper and more distinct the longer you looked—a face built for focus.
Dominik took out his phone and made a video call home. The screen connected almost instantly.
"So," a familiar, commanding voice said, "Dominikó. Still alive after the season?"
Dominik smiled. No matter how far he went, the voice of The Empress (Katalin) always grounded him.
"I'm alive, Mom. The car is in one piece, too."
"Good. Gábor is already planning the Christmas menu. Don't be late coming home, or you'll be peeling potatoes."
After briefly updating his family and confirming his flight back to Budapest, he ended the call and headed out.
As the elevator doors were about to slide shut, someone shouted, "Wait!"
Dominik hit the open button. Oscar Piastri stepped inside, adjusting his collar.
"Heading to the dinner?" Piastri asked, looking as calm as ever.
"Yeah. I'll drive," Dominik replied. He wasn't planning to drink tonight. Driving was the easiest excuse to avoid the inevitable shots of tequila that would circulate later.
Piastri nodded. "Fair."
As the elevator descended, Piastri added casually, as if talking about the weather, "By the way, next year I'll be a reserve driver at Alpine."
Dominik froze for half a second, his finger hovering over his car keys. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. Mark [Webber] is handling it. It's a good step."
Dominik exhaled slowly. Mark Webber was pulling the strings. One more familiar face was moving up the ladder, securing a foothold in the F1 paddock.
"That's good," Dominik said, forcing genuine warmth into his voice. "Win when you get the chance. We'll meet again on the big grid."
Piastri smiled, completely unaware of the complex mix of envy and determination passing through Dominik's mind.
They took a black rental Mercedes GLS to the restaurant.
The venue was officially closed to the public for the night. The layout was a stark reminder of the hierarchy: The first floor was reserved for F2 and a few top F3 drivers. The second floor, separated by glass partitions and security, belonged to the F1 drivers and team principals.
Downstairs, laughter came easily. Upstairs, decisions were being made. Careers were being traded over wine.
At the long table, Zhou Guanyu and Piastri sat near the center. Robert Shwartzman was beside Piastri. Dominik sat near Zhou, directly opposite Shwartzman—the same driver he had battled wheel-to-wheel just twenty-four hours earlier at Yas Marina.
The seating arrangement spoke quietly of the season's battles, but Dominik didn't dwell on it.
He ate slowly, listening to the noise around him. Zhou was laughing at a joke from Drugovich; Pourchaire was complaining about his tires. On track, they were enemies who would run each other into the gravel. Off track, they were just boys chasing the same impossible dream.
At one point, Dominik showed Zhou something on his phone—a meme about the stewards' decisions. Zhou frowned slightly, trying to maintain his composure, then cracked a smile and handed it back. Piastri glanced once, chuckled dryly, and looked away.
Time passed. The gap between the "upstairs" world and the "downstairs" world felt vast, yet agonizingly close.
After the group photo, the season was officially over. The camaraderie would dissolve into the off-season silence. They wouldn't see each other again for months—unless winter testing brought them back together.
Dominik dropped Piastri and Zhou at their respective hotels. Zhou headed straight toward the Alfa Romeo motorhome area rather than the main hotel entrance, waving once before disappearing inside. Dominik watched him go, sensing that Zhou already knew his destination for next year.
Dominik returned to his room alone.
He showered, washing away the desert dust and the fatigue of the season. The adrenaline of the final race was finally fading, leaving a hollow exhaustion in his bones. Just as he was about to lie down, his phone rang.
He smiled when he saw the name.
"Good season," his agent, O'Connor, said. His voice was calm, lacking the frantic energy of a race weekend. "You handled it well. The data looks good. The teams are watching."
"Thanks," Dominik replied, staring at the ceiling. "When do I need to be back in the UK?"
"Not for a while. Go home first. Rest. Eat your mother's cooking."
"I plan to."
The call ended.
Dominik lay back on the bed, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. The roar of the engines was gone. The crowds were gone.
The season was over.
It was time to go home to Hungary.