The fluorescent lights of the paddock hospitality hummed with a cold, electric buzz.
Dominik pushed a piece of steamed broccoli around his plate with a fork. The quinoa salad—prescribed by the team nutritionist to maximize energy release—tasted like cardboard.
His phone buzzed. A notification from the official F1 app.
HEADLINE: Corvinus Slumps in Jeddah FP2. Rookie Reality Check?
Below it was an unflattering image of his FW44 running wide at Turn 27.
"Oh? Is our little brother feeling down?"
George Russell's voice was light and teasing. He and Charles Leclerc slid into the seats opposite Dominik, carrying their own trays of scientifically formulated athlete food.
George had a small, lean steak. Charles had salmon. The Mercedes and Ferrari logos on their chests gleamed under the lights.
"That's called 'emo'," Dominik quipped, his mood instantly lifting. "I'm contemplating my existence as a backmarker."
"I saw the FP2 data," Leclerc said, pointing at Dominik's tray with his fork. "Just relax. If you were fast every single session, the rest of us would look bad. Let us have a turn."
His tone was comforting, but his eyes were sharp. Leclerc wasn't just a friend; he was a competitor. He was analyzing.
Dominik put down his fork. The metal clinked loudly in the quiet dining hall.
He looked at the two older drivers—champions in waiting, experienced, fast. He leaned in, lowering his voice, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"You two... be careful."
"Hm?" Russell chewed his steak.
"Especially in the race," Dominik whispered, a smile playing on his lips. "Don't let me get behind you. Or I might bite."
Russell looked puzzled. Leclerc, however, froze.
"Hiding your performance?" Leclerc asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
Dominik just winked.
Russell suddenly burst out laughing, nearly choking on his water. His shoulders shook so violently that he knocked over his glass. Water spread across the white tablecloth.
"Oh, brilliant, George," Dominik sighed, grabbing napkins. "Should we call a doctor? Or maybe a plumber?"
"He wet himself," Leclerc announced to the room, deadpan.
They cleaned up the mess, still chuckling.
"Last year in Monaco F2," Leclerc mused, drawing a circle in his salad, "this kid took pole by four-tenths. It made my brother Arthur look like he was driving a tractor."
"And Baku," Russell added, his face serious now. "He won the Sprint and the Feature. He likes walls."
"Are your cars still bouncing?" Dominik asked, steering the conversation away from his own potential speed.
"Like a kangaroo on a trampoline," Russell groaned. "My back is ruined. The straights here are bumpy."
"Same," Leclerc nodded. "The porpoising is... aggressive."
They finished eating, chatting about the track evolution and the humidity.
"Alright, Your Highness," Russell said, standing up. "Let's go back to the hotel. Get some rest. You have a reputation to salvage tomorrow."
Saturday Morning.
Dominik woke up before his alarm. The sky over Jeddah was a pale, dusty pink.
He went for a morning run along the Corniche. The air was already warm. He bumped into Pierre Gasly, and they jogged together for a few kilometers, complaining about the traffic in the city.
After a shower and breakfast, it was time for the Fan Zone.
A long line snaked around the paddock entrance. Dominik called Zhou Guanyu over.
"Come on, Zhou. Safety in numbers."
They sat side-by-side at a long table, sharpies in hand.
A little girl with pigtails approached. She was holding a Williams cap with a crudely stitched "45" on the side.
"Brother Dominik," she said in shy, accented English. "Yesterday practice... is okay! My dad says the Williams is a tractor here, but you got P4 in Bahrain!"
Zhou snorted, trying to hide his laughter behind his hand.
Dominik smiled gently. "Your dad is very knowledgeable. But sometimes tractors can be fast."
The girl's father, a middle-aged Chinese man, beamed. "We flew from Bahrain just to see you again. That save you made in Turn 13 yesterday? Incredible."
Dominik paused, pen hovering over the cap.
He remembered the moment. Turn 13. The banked hairpin. The rear had stepped out violently at 200 km/h. He had caught it with a lightning-fast flick of the wrists. On the telemetry, it was a blip. On TV, it looked heroic.
"Thank you," Dominik said sincerely. "Do you want a photo?"
He picked up the little girl, posing for the camera.
Then, she reached into her bag and pulled out another hat.
An Alfa Romeo hat. Number 24.
"Can you sign this too?" she asked Zhou.
Dominik looked at Zhou. Zhou looked at Dominik. They both burst out laughing.
Next in line was a young man with glasses. He held a high-resolution photo of the FW44 crossing the line in Bahrain, sparks flying, the rear diffuser visibly damaged.
"I study in the UK," the boy said, his voice trembling slightly. "I skipped exams to be here. You are... you are the reason I watch F1 now."
Dominik looked up. The sun was bright, reflecting off the boy's glasses.
He saw genuine hope in the fan's eyes. Not judgment for his P18 in practice. Not criticism. Just pure, unfiltered support.
It reminded him of the messages he got after his F2 wins. The "Genius" labels. The pressure.
But this felt different.
"Good luck on your exams," Dominik said, signing the photo with a flourish. "I'll try to give you something worth skipping school for."
He watched the fan walk away, clutching the photo like a treasure.
The doubt from yesterday's "sandbagging" session evaporated. He wasn't just driving for points anymore. He was driving for them.