An experienced driver knows exactly when to strike. Charles Leclerc was one of those drivers.
He had keenly noticed the change in Dominik's car behavior. The Williams FW44, stripped of downforce to chase straight-line glory, was beginning to suffer. The rear tires were overheating, the slide in the traction zones becoming more pronounced with every lap.
On Lap 12, approaching Turn 1, Leclerc made his move.
He dove down the inside, braking impossibly late. The difference in tire life was stark. The Ferrari F1-75 bit into the asphalt, rotating sharply, while Dominik had to fight a snap of oversteer on the dirty line.
By the exit, the gap was already a car length.
Dominik tried to fight back through the sweeping Turns 2 and 3, but the physics were against him. Without traction on the exit, he couldn't build the speed needed to unleash the Williams' slippery aerodynamics on the following straight.
Leclerc was gone.
On Lap 13, the Ferrari was just a red blur in the distance. It looked planted, aggressive, a beast breaking free from its cage. Dominik's Williams felt like a shopping cart with a loose wheel by comparison.
"It's over," Dominik panted over the radio, wrestling the steering wheel. "The rears are gone. Degradation is higher than expected."
"Copy, Dominik. Box, box," Gaëtan Jego replied calmly. "Good job. The data is solid."
In the garage, Jost Capito and the engineers were smiling. They had learned something crucial: Dominik could manage a loose car. The setup direction was confirmed—tune the car for Dominik's oversteer preference, even if the data from Albon suggested a safer route.
Albon, watching from the monitors, sneezed. "Is someone talking about me?"
As Dominik slowed for his in-lap, coasting down the main straight, a silver arrow emerged from the pit exit.
It was George Russell in the Mercedes W13, finally starting his run. As he passed the slowing Williams, Russell raised a hand from the cockpit—a thumbs up.
Dominik and Leclerc (who was also cooling down) waved back.
Back in the garage, Dominik pulled off his helmet. His fireproof balaclava was soaked.
"Straight-line speed is excellent," the data engineer said, pointing to the telemetry. "But the tire deg curve... it falls off a cliff after 10 laps."
"Leclerc's cornering speed is annoying," Dominik muttered, wiping his face. "But if we can fix the tire life, we can race them. At least on Sunday, nobody will pass me on the straights."
In the Ferrari garage, Leclerc was saying the exact same thing. "That Williams is a rocket on the straights," he told Mattia Binotto. "If he has DRS, he will be a problem."
Noon. The engines fell silent for the lunch break.
Leclerc walked out of the Ferrari garage, looking fresh despite the session. He scanned the paddock and spotted the Williams hospitality.
"George!" Leclerc called out.
Russell, who had just climbed out of the Mercedes, turned around. His hair was a mess of sweat.
"Intense session, Charles," Russell said, grabbing a water bottle. "Saw you lock up into Turn 11. Dominik made you work for it."
"It's testing, George. I wasn't pushing," Leclerc lied smoothly. "I was just... observing."
They walked together toward the Williams motorhome. The mechanics stared—it wasn't often you saw the lead drivers of Ferrari and Mercedes hunting down a rookie.
Dominik walked out of the driver's room, sleeves rolled up, holding an electrolyte drink. He stopped when he saw them.
"The Inquisition has arrived," Dominik quipped. "Let's go. I need air conditioning and food."
"You battled me for twelve laps," Leclerc said, snatching Dominik's drink and taking a sip. "I gave you a masterclass in tire management. I should charge tuition."
"Tuition?" Dominik laughed. "You were the one staring at my rear wing for half the stint."
"Defense is an art," Leclerc countered, steering them toward the hospitality entrance. "And art is expensive. You're buying dinner tonight, Corvinus."
Russell nodded. "I agree. Consider it the 'Welcome to the Grid' tax."
Dominik sighed. "Fine. I'll pay. But only because I feel bad that your Mercedes is bouncing like a kangaroo, George."
Russell's smile vanished. "Too soon."
They sat in the cool air of the hospitality unit.
"When are you back out?" Leclerc asked, picking at a bread roll.
"1 PM," Russell checked his watch. "Lewis and I are splitting the afternoon. It's going to be hot. What about you?"
"Carlos is driving," Leclerc grinned, leaning back. "I will be in the garage, looking at data and enjoying the AC."
Russell scowled.
Dominik raised his hand. "Albon is driving for us. I am also on AC duty."
Russell looked at them both with deep betrayal. "I hate you both. Dinner tonight. Don't be late."
The afternoon session was a grind. Dominik sat on the pit wall, watching Albon wrestle the FW44. He compared the telemetry with his own. The car was fast, but it was on a knife-edge.
He glanced at the screens. Leclerc was right—the Ferrari looked compliant. Russell's Mercedes looked stiff. And somewhere in the midfield, the Aston Martin—his future car—was putting in solid, unspectacular laps.
As the sun began to set, painting the desert sky in purple and orange, the session ended.
Dominik texted the group chat.
Dominik: Dinner is booked. Bringing the other kids.
He met up with Zhou Guanyu and Oscar Piastri (who was Reserve for Alpine) at the paddock gates.
"Free food?" Zhou asked.
"Tuition payment," Dominik corrected.
They found Leclerc and Russell waiting by the turnstiles.
"I'm driving," Dominik announced, leading them to a waiting black SUV. "And I chose the place."
They went to a high-end Japanese fusion restaurant in downtown Manama. They secured a private room. fusion restaurant in downtown Manama. They secured a private room.
When the menu arrived, Leclerc started to look at the prices, but Dominik took the menus away.
"I'm ordering," Dominik said. He looked at the waiter. "Bring us the tasting menu. Double portions of the Wagyu. And a bottle of your best vintage red for the Ferrari driver, and sparkling water for the Mercedes driver—he needs to stay hydrated for the bouncing."
The table erupted in laughter.
"Seriously though," Russell said halfway through the meal, "that Williams is slippery. In the speed traps, you're 5 kph up on us."
"It's the only trick we have," Dominik admitted. "If we have to turn, we're in trouble."
"This is called 'senior care'," Leclerc told Zhou and Piastri, gesturing to the feast. "You find a rich friend, and you let him pay."
Zhou laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."
The warm yellow light illuminated their faces. Five young men, representing the future of the sport. Dominik looked around the table. A year ago, he wouldn't have dared to speak to Leclerc or Russell. Now, he was roasting them over dinner.
He wasn't just a visitor in their world anymore. He was one of them.