Back in the pit lane, Dominik vaulted out of the cockpit. Gaëtan Jego met him with a firm pat on the back—about as emotional as the French engineer ever got.
"Solid work," Gaëtan said, though his eyes were already scanning the data pad. "Any issues?"
"Understeer in the low-speed stuff," Dominik replied, accepting a water bottle from a physio. "And the front tires are scrubbing. The degradation is... pessimistic."
He sat on a tool chest, wiping sweat from his forehead. Yeji sat quietly on a stool behind him, watching the team work.
"Okay. Take a break. FP2 starts at 18:00," Gaëtan said, heading back to the engineers' island.
With the mechanics dispersing, Yeji leaned forward. "Not bad. Your name is pretty high up on the screen."
Dominik caught a faint scent of jasmine perfume cutting through the garage smells of rubber and high-octane fuel. He paused, breathing it in for a second before turning to her.
"Practice is just practice," he said, keeping his voice level. "Tomorrow is Qualifying. That's when the lies stop and the real pace begins."
18:00. FP2.
The sun had dipped below the dunes, and the floodlights bathed the Sakhir Circuit in brilliant, artificial daylight. The temperature dropped to a manageable 28°C.
The green light illuminated at the end of the pit lane.
"FP2 focus: Long runs on the Hard (C1) compound," Gaëtan instructed over the radio. "Pay attention to steering input in low-speed corners. We are trying a 1.5° front wing angle."
Dominik rolled out. The white-walled Hard tires offered less grip, but the cooler track surface helped. He found his rhythm, adjusting the brake bias to 62.5% to help rotate the car into the medium-speed corners.
Halfway through the session, the call came.
"Box, box. New Soft (C3) tires. One flying lap simulation."
Dominik pitted. The red-walled tires were fitted in a blur of motion.
He merged back onto the track. It was busy, but as he started his push lap, the sea of cars seemed to part. Lewis Hamilton stayed wide in Turn 4; Lando Norris slowed on the straight to give him space.
Civilized, Dominik thought. F1 drivers actually use their mirrors. Unlike F2.
He attacked Turns 5-7 (the S-curves). Dominik adopted a "V-style" line—braking late, squaring the corner off, and using the Williams' superior straight-line torque to rocket out. It was a style that sacrificed mid-corner speed for exit speed, perfect for a "muscle car" like the FW44.
But Turn 8, the tight hairpin, was the trap.
He had moved the brake bias forward to 65.5% to stabilize the rear. But combined with the aggressive Attack Mode deployment, it was too much for the front axle.
Lock-up.
Smoke puffed from the front right tire. He missed the apex by a meter.
He wrestled the car through the tricky Turn 9-10 complex. The rear end snapped out on exit—a nasty "tank slapper." Dominik caught it with a lightning-fast counter-steer, but the momentum was gone.
Dammit, he thought. Abandon the lap? No, finish it.
He eased off slightly in the final sector to save the tires, crossing the line.
1:32.997.
In the garage, the engineers stared at the screen.
Dominik Corvinus: P8.
Alex Albon: P14 (1:34.749).
Even with a massive mistake, he was nearly 1.8 seconds faster than his teammate.
Jost Capito walked over to the data desk, eyes wide. "Did he push to the absolute limit?"
Gaëtan checked the telemetry, shaking his head. "No. He lifted in the final sector after the slide. There is more time in the car."
Dominik brought the car in.
"Low-speed corners are the bottleneck," Dominik reported over the radio. "I lost three-tenths in Turns 9 and 10."
The Chief Mechanic suggested a change: "We can stiffen the rear anti-roll bar by 15%. It will help rotation in the slow stuff."
Dominik shook his head, standing by the cockpit.
"Don't touch it," he ordered firmly. "The traction on exit is our only weapon. If we stiffen the rear, I'll get wheelspin, and we lose our straight-line advantage. I'll live with the understeer. I can drive around it."
The engineers exchanged glances, then nodded. The rookie was decisive. They liked that.
The session ended. Dominik leaned against the garage wall, untying his racing boots. He was exhausted, his neck throbbing slightly from the G-forces.
His phone buzzed. A message from Zhou Guanyu.
Zhou: Russell is organizing a gathering. Leclerc says the hotel has camel milk ice cream tonight. You in?
Dominik looked at Yeji, who was waiting patiently on her phone near the tire racks.
Dominik: Too tired. You guys have fun.
In the hotel lobby, Zhou turned to Russell and Leclerc. "He says he's out. Saving energy."
Russell rolled his eyes. "He's dodging the bill."
Back in the garage, Dominik handed his helmet to a steward. A shadow fell over him.
Yeji was standing there, her cap pulled low. She looked up, eyes sparkling under the brim.
"I watched the feed," she said. "Your lock-up in Turn 8 looked... dramatic. Lots of smoke."
Dominik winced. "I thought you were watching the Ferraris."
"I was watching you," she said simply. Then she smiled. "I know you're tired, but I found a place. Korean BBQ. Authentic."
Dominik raised an eyebrow. "Korean BBQ? In the middle of Bahrain?"
"I have my sources," she teased. "Consider it a celebration. For not crashing on your first day."
Dominik laughed. "You just want someone to grill the meat for you, don't you?"
"Obviously," she turned and walked out, her ponytail swinging. "Are you coming, Racer-ssi?"
At the restaurant, the smell of grilling beef filled the private booth. Yeji seemed to come alive, expertly ordering in English and explaining the side dishes to Dominik.
"Eat," she commanded, placing a piece of galbi on his plate. "You need protein for tomorrow."
Dominik's phone rang. The screen flashed "Hanna".
He sighed and answered.
"Hello?"
"How is it? Did you crash?" Hanna's voice was thick with sleep. She was clearly still in bed back in Budapest.
"It's going well. Smooth. Fast. P8 in the second session."
"P8? Not bad. Don't let it go to your head. And don't stay out late."
Click.
Dominik stared at the phone. "She hung up."
Yeji sat across from him, resting her chin on her hand. Her eyes were curious.
"Girlfriend?" she asked.
"No," Dominik explained quickly. "Childhood friend. Basically a sister. A very aggressive, terrifying sister."
"Mmm-hmm," Yeji hummed, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "She sounds like she cares."
Dominik changed the subject, pointing at the grill. "The meat is burning."
Yeji gasped and rescued the beef.
"Tomorrow is Qualifying," Dominik said, watching the smoke rise. "If I don't make Q2, I'm blaming you and this beef."
"If you make Q3," Yeji countered, "I'll buy the next round."
Dominik smiled. "Deal."
Tomorrow, the sandbagging would stop. The engines would be turned up to maximum. It was time to see where Dominik Corvinus really stood in the pecking order of Formula 1.