The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Jeddah Corniche Circuit Hotel, spilling gently onto the breakfast table.
Dominik sat between Charles Leclerc and George Russell. His coffee cup steamed, but the caffeine wasn't the only thing buzzing in his veins.
"Don't be nervous," Leclerc said, buttering a croissant. "Netflix is just like a normal interview. They ask drama questions, you give them drama answers. Simple."
"Oh, he doesn't need coaching on drama," Russell interjected, breaking the awkward silence. "Did you see what he did to Alonso last night? The internet is melting down."
Russell pulled up a clip on his phone. It was the onboard footage of Dominik's chop at Turn 1.
"You're a menace," Russell grinned. "I love it."
In Budapest, Gábor Corvinus had already saved the clip and forwarded it to his "Old Timers Racing" WhatsApp group with the caption: That's my boy. No fear.
Leclerc leaned over. "Your battle with Hamilton in Bahrain was shocking enough. I thought you were going to retire after that hit. Now you're bullying Alonso? In two more races, are you going to run me off the road too?"
"Two races?" Russell snorted. "He's already plotting it. He called himself the 'Street Emperor' yesterday."
Dominik choked on his coffee. "I was joking!"
"Sure you were," Russell said, extending his middle finger again, just like on the grid. "By the way, what did you mouth to the camera before the start? The censors cut away."
Dominik recalled his Try me lip-sync. He smirked. "Nothing important."
Russell and Leclerc exchanged a look. They knew exactly what kind of "nothing" it was.
The Shoot.
As the sun climbed higher, the breakfast banter ended. It was time for work.
Dominik was ushered into a darkened suite by the Drive to Survive assistant director. The lighting rig was intense, focusing a spotlight on a single chair.
Dominik sat down. The lens stared at him like a mechanical eye.
"Okay, Dominik," the producer said from the shadows. "Congratulations on the start of the season. Let's dive in. Talk to us about Bahrain. When you were fighting Hamilton... what was going through your head?"
Dominik paused, letting the silence hang for a moment—just like Leclerc said, drama.
"To be honest," Dominik began, "when I saw Perez stop, my mind went blank. It was pure instinct. I kept telling myself to stay calm. Lewis is a seven-time champion. You feel his presence in the mirrors. It's heavy. But that pressure... it sharpens you. It wakes you up."
"And the collision?"
"I didn't expect him to get sucked into my slipstream so fast in the braking zone," Dominik said honestly. "It scared the hell out of me. But we survived."
The producer nodded. "Now, let's talk about Saudi Arabia. The battle with Alonso. You cut Turn 2. You chopped him at 300 kph. Was that... dangerous?"
"Yes," Dominik admitted, looking directly into the lens. "Turn 1 is dangerous. Fernando is a master of defense. If I wanted to pass him, I had to be aggressive. Maybe I was too aggressive. But in this sport, if you are polite, you finish last. I have huge respect for Fernando, but I am not here to ask for autographs."
The B-Roll.
After a quick lunch, the crew moved to the Williams garage. They needed "candid" shots of Dominik interacting with the team.
It was awkward.
Dominik stood next to a mechanic who was polishing a sidepod.
"So," Dominik said stiffly, pointing at a wrench. "The... suspension looks good."
"Cut!" the director yelled. "Dominik, try to look like you're actually talking about the car."
Leclerc and Russell, who were passing by, stopped to watch.
"Oscars 2023," Russell whispered loudly. "Best Actor in a Leading Role."
Dominik glared at them, but he couldn't help but laugh.
Departure.
By sunset, the circus was packing up. The trucks were loaded. The drivers were fleeing to the airport.
Dominik said goodbye to O'Connor at the terminal entrance.
"Go home," O'Connor said. "Rest. You've earned it."
Inside the airport, Dominik tried to keep a low profile, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie. It didn't work.
"Dominik! Dominik!"
A group of European fans spotted him. They swarmed, holding out caps and phones.
"That move on Alonso was legendary!" one fan shouted in Italian.
"Future World Champion!" another yelled in English.
Dominik signed autographs as he walked, feeling surreal. Three months ago, he was an F2 driver worrying about his budget. Now, he was being mobbed in Jeddah.
The reception wasn't all positive, of course. He checked Twitter while waiting in the lounge. While the younger fans loved the aggression, the "traditionalists" were less impressed.
@F1Purist: "This Corvinus kid is arrogant. You don't chop Alonso like that. He's going to hurt someone."
@RacingFan99: "No respect for legends. He needs to learn his place."
Dominik scrolled past them. There are only 20 seats, he thought. Humility doesn't keep you in one of them.
The Flight.
He boarded the plane, finding his pod in First Class. He sank into the seat, the luxury a stark contrast to the cramped cockpit of the FW44.
The plane taxied, accelerated, and lifted into the night sky over the Red Sea.
Dominik closed his eyes.
Catalunya. Bahrain. Jeddah.
Every race felt like a fever dream. He had gone toe-to-toe with Hamilton and Alonso. He was P5 in the standings. He was driving a Williams that had no business being this high up.
The next stop was Australia. Albert Park.
It was another high-speed street circuit, but different. Narrower in places, faster in others. The walls were unforgiving.
As the plane leveled off, a sudden realization hit him.
"Oh no," Dominik whispered to the empty cabin.
He had promised his mother he would bring her a souvenir from Saudi Arabia.
He had forgotten.
Maybe I can find some duty-free baklava in Budapest, he thought, pulling the blanket over his head.