The Mixed Zone was a chaotic scrum of cameras and microphones.
Dominik's fireproof suit was soaked with sweat, the heat of the Bahrain night clinging to him. He had removed his helmet, his hair plastered to his forehead, face flushed from the adrenaline.
He downed a bottle of water in one go, crushing the plastic in his hand.
"Dominik! Dominik! Over here!"
A Sky Sports microphone was shoved in front of him.
"This is the first time a Williams has entered Q3 on pace since 2018," the reporter shouted over the noise. "How did you do it?"
Dominik smoothed back his hair, flashing a tired but genuine smile. "Honestly? Until I heard 'P7' on the radio, I didn't believe it myself. The car is a rocket on the straights. We just... held on for dear life in the corners."
He gestured to the Williams mechanics in the background, who were still celebrating. "The team gave me a weapon today. I just pulled the trigger."
"What does starting P7 mean for tomorrow?"
Dominik's expression hardened slightly. "It means we are a target. We are out of position. Faster cars are behind us. But if I can hold Turn 1..." He paused, a glint in his eye. "I'm not planning on looking in my mirrors."
Suddenly, the crowd parted. Charles Leclerc, the Pole Sitter, squeezed through.
He grabbed Dominik by the shoulders and shook him. "I told you! I told you the kid was fast!" Leclerc yelled to the cameras. "Good job, student."
Dominik laughed. "You just want me to hold up Verstappen for you."
Then George Russell appeared. The Mercedes driver looked exhausted; he had qualified P9, two spots behind the Williams rookie.
"That blue car was blinding today," Russell joked, though his smile was tight. "I couldn't get it out of my way."
"You'll see plenty more of the rear wing tomorrow, George," Dominik shot back. "Try not to bounce too much in my dirty air."
The reporters ate it up. The banter, the rivalry, the shock result. Dominik Corvinus was the story of the night.
By the time Dominik finished his last interview, the paddock had quieted down. The stars were bright above the Sakhir desert.
He walked toward the Williams hospitality. From a distance, he saw a figure standing in the shadows near the entrance, phone in hand.
Yeji.
She looked stressed. Her brows were furrowed, the light from her screen illuminating a worried expression. She had been waiting for nearly an hour.
"What's wrong?" Dominik asked, approaching her. "Hungry again?"
She looked up, her eyes wide. "I was photographed."
She turned the phone screen to him.
Trending in Korea: #3 - YEJI IN BAHRAIN.
Trending Worldwide: #DominikPartner.
The F1 broadcast graphic—"Yeji Hwang: Dominik Corvinus' Partner"—had gone viral.
"The internet thinks we are dating," Yeji said, her voice trembling slightly. "Or that we are secretly married. My agency is calling. The fans are... spirited."
Dominik took the phone. The comments were a mix of shock, support, and the usual toxic jealousy.
"Love confirmed?"
"Why is she in Bahrain?"
"They look good together though..."
"I knew I should have hidden," Yeji sighed, kicking at the dust. "Now all of Asia thinks I'm the 'Secret Girlfriend'."
Dominik chuckled. "Secret girlfriend? You were on the 4K global feed."
"It's not funny! My manager is going to kill me."
Dominik thought for a second. Then he pulled out his own phone.
"Come here. Smile."
"What?"
Before she could protest, Dominik snapped a selfie.
It showed Dominik grinning, still in his race suit, with Yeji looking surprised and wide-eyed next to him. The Williams garage was in the background.
"I'm posting it," Dominik said, typing rapidly.
Caption: Thanks to @yezizhere for the special delivery. She flew all the way here to return the keys to my car. Faster than DHL. Next time, bring bubble tea. You can't get good boba in the desert.
He hit Share.
"There," Dominik said. "Narrative controlled. You're not a secret girlfriend. You're a courier service."
Yeji stared at him, then at the phone. "Courier service?"
"It explains why you're here. Business. Friendship. Car keys."
Ten minutes later, the official JYP Entertainment account reposted it with a formal statement:
Yeji visited Bahrain for personal matters and assisted a friend with a delivery. We congratulate Mr. Corvinus on his result.
The comments shifted instantly.
"Lol she's just a delivery girl."
"Expensive courier."
"Dominik is savage."
Yeji let out a long breath. "You are... surprisingly good at PR."
"I learned from the best," Dominik said, thinking of O'Connor. "Come on. Let's look at the data. Then I'll feed you."
10:00 PM. The Garage.
The Williams garage was a hive of quiet intensity.
Jost Capito sat at the strategy desk, looking over fuel loads. Gaëtan Jego waved Dominik over.
"Look at this," Gaëtan pointed to the tire degradation simulation. "We are starting on Used Softs. It's a risk. We need to hold position for the first 5 laps, then manage the pace."
"You locked up in Turn 8 this afternoon," Gaëtan reminded him sternly. "Tomorrow, with 100kg of fuel on board, that braking zone will be treacherous. If you lock up, you flat spot the tire. If you flat spot, the race is over."
"I know," Dominik nodded. "No heroics in Turn 8."
"P7 is the start," Capito said, looking over his glasses. "But holding it will be the hardest thing you've ever done. Alonso and Russell will be hunting you."
Dominik looked at the car. The FW44. It carried the initials of Frank Williams. To put those initials back in the points... it meant something.
"I'll hold them," Dominik promised.
They walked out of the garage. Yeji was waiting on the steps, scrolling through her phone.
"What does this mean?" she asked, showing him a comment. It was written in Hungarian.
Dominik looked. It read: Hajrá Dominik! A kék zászló repüljön magasra! (Go Dominik! Let the blue flag fly high!)
He looked at Yeji. A mischievous thought crossed his mind.
"It's Hungarian," Dominik said seriously. "It says: 'Go Dominik! The girl is very beautiful, you should marry her and bring her to Budapest.'"
Yeji's face turned bright red. "What?! It does not say that!"
"My Hungarian is better than yours," Dominik lied smoothly, enjoying the blush creeping up her neck.
"I hate you," she muttered, puffing out her cheeks. She turned and marched toward the hotel, her ponytail swinging.
Dominik laughed, jogging to catch up. The tension of the race faded for a moment.
But as he looked back at the track, dark and silent under the stars, the reality settled in.
Tomorrow wasn't just a race. It was war. And he was starting on the fourth row.