The wind had picked up by Saturday afternoon, whipping sand across the paddock concrete and cooling the air significantly. It was a relief from the oppressive heat, but for Dominik, it brought a strange, restless energy.
He walked back from the autograph session, his mind drifting. He thought of his parents back in Budapest—Katalin demanding trophies, Gábor watching silently. He thought of Hanna, probably studying for exams but keeping an eye on the timing screens. And he thought of Yeji, who was likely on a flight back to Seoul right now.
The paddock felt lonely. Even with thousands of people around, the solitude of the cockpit seemed to be bleeding into his real life. Zhou Guanyu had his mother with him. Leclerc had his brothers. Dominik had O'Connor, who was more of a handler than a confidant.
He walked into the garage, staring at the floor.
"How are you feeling?" Gaëtan Jego asked, stepping into his path. "You seem... miles away."
Dominik blinked, shaking his head to clear the fog. He forced a smile, burying the nostalgia deep down where it couldn't affect his braking points.
"Just thinking about the wind direction," Dominik lied smoothly. "It's a tailwind into Turn 1."
Gaëtan studied the 19-year-old for a moment. He saw the flicker of something vulnerable behind the eyes, but he let it slide.
"Same plan as yesterday," Gaëtan said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Medium (C3) tires. Let's verify the setup changes."
Gaëtan watched Dominik walk to the driver's room to change. He turned to Jost Capito, who was monitoring the weather radar.
"The kid's head is heavy today," Gaëtan murmured.
Capito glanced up. "He is human, Gaëtan. He's a teenager living in a hotel room thousands of miles from home. He needs to let his mentality callous over. It takes time."
17:00. Free Practice 3.
The clock ticked over. The green light at the end of the pit lane illuminated.
On the Sky Sports broadcast, David Croft and Martin Brundle were setting the scene.
"Dominik Corvinus has had a quiet weekend so far," Crofty noted. "P18 in both Friday sessions. Is the Williams struggling here, or is the rookie finding the limits of the fastest street track on Earth?"
"Don't count him out," Brundle replied. "We saw the telemetry yesterday. He was lifting on the straights. They call him the 'Street Prince' in the junior categories for a reason. But if he's the Prince, who is the King? Senna? Schumacher?"
"Well, let's see if the Prince can earn his crown today."
In the garage, Dominik was strapped in. The FW44 rumbled beneath him, a beast waiting to be unleashed.
"No rush," Gaëtan said over the radio. "Let the track come to you. Once the temperatures are up, give me a Qualifying simulation on the Mediums."
Dominik nodded. He engaged first gear.
As he pulled out of the garage, he saw the camera crew standing near the pit exit. On impulse, he gave the throttle a sharp blip. The rear tires lit up on the smooth concrete, the car sliding sideways in a controlled drift before he straightened it out and merged onto the limiter line.
"Oh, look at that!" Crofty exclaimed. "A little bit of swagger from the youngster leaving the box!"
Inside the helmet, Dominik was grinning. The gloom was gone. The car was his therapy.
He warmed the tires. The Haas cars were ahead, clearing the dusty line.
"Adjust to Qualifying Mode, SOC 3," Gaëtan ordered. "Go all out. Track is clear."
Dominik flicked the switches. He adjusted the high-speed differential, tightening the rear end.
Turn 27. He launched onto the main straight.
The car porpoised violently, his head bobbing up and down like a metronome, but he kept his foot pinned.
Turn 1. The sharp left-hander. He braked late, downshifting aggressively. The car cut into the apex with surgical precision.
Turn 2. The slow chicane. The enemy. Dominik fought the understeer—the FW44's heavy front end resisting his inputs. He wrestled it through, getting on the power early. The rear snapped—a moment of oversteer—but he caught it instantly.
"Sector 1 green," Gaëtan noted.
Then came the magic.
Turns 4-8. The winding, snake-like section. Dominik flowed through it, threading the needle between the walls.
Turns 9-12. The high-speed Esses. This required absolute commitment. Dominik didn't lift. He trusted the downforce. The G-forces tore at his neck, but the muscles he had spent all winter training held firm.
Purple Sector.
The timing screens lit up.
Turn 17. A blind, high-speed kink. The wall was right there.
Dominik shaved it.
On the broadcast, a graphic popped up: DISTANCE TO WALL: 3 CM.
"Look at that commitment!" Brundle shouted. "He is using every millimeter of the race track!"
He flew past Zhou Guanyu, the Alfa Romeo driver watching the blue blur disappear into the distance. Zhou shook his head. He's not sandbagging anymore.
Dominik arrived at the final complex. Turn 27. The hairpin.
He braked deep, the deceleration forcing the blood into his face. He rotated the car, missing the inside barrier by a whisper.
He crossed the line.
1:32.004.
He was P1 on the Medium tires, faster than the Ferraris on Softs.
"Box, Dominik. Box," Gaëtan said, sounding satisfied.
Dominik came in for a tire change. The mechanics fitted a set of red-walled Softs (C4).
"One more run," Dominik said. "Let's see the ultimate pace."
He went out again.
Sector 1: Purple. Faster than Verstappen.
Sector 2: Purple. Faster than Leclerc.
He was on course for a lap that would shatter the timing sheets. The paddock held its breath.
But as he exited Turn 22, Dominik checked his dash. He saw the delta.
He lifted.
He backed off completely, cruising through the final sector like he was on a Sunday drive.
He crossed the line without improving his time.
"Aborted," Dominik said casually. "Traffic."
There was no traffic.
Gaëtan smirked. "Copy that. 'Traffic'."
Dominik finished the session in P14 on the timing board, but everyone who had seen the sector times knew the truth.
The Williams was fast. And the driver was playing games.
In the Mercedes garage, Toto Wolff frowned at the data. In the Red Bull garage, Christian Horner looked concerned.
The "Street Prince" wasn't just here to participate. He was here to cause panic.