Friday in Jeddah. The Corniche Circuit.
The fastest street track in the world. 27 corners. Average speeds of 250 km/h. Walls that felt close enough to kiss.
Dominik walked into the garage carrying his new helmet.
"New lid?" Alex Albon asked, looking up from his data.
Dominik placed it on the table. The matte black finish drank in the garage lights. The fluorescent green "paw print" data points glowed. And on the side, the stylized, geometric cat silhouettes.
"It's... aerodynamic," Dominik joked. "The ears generate downforce."
The mechanics laughed. Gaëtan Jego inspected it. "As long as it's fast, I don't care if it has kittens on it."
FP1. 17:00 Local Time.
The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the Red Sea.
Dominik strapped in. The FW44, stripped of drag, should suit this track. Jeddah was basically one long straight line bent into a few squiggles.
He rolled out.
The sensation of speed in Jeddah was terrifying. In Bahrain, you had runoff areas. Here, you had concrete.
Turn 13 (The Banked Hairpin): 12 degrees of banking. Dominik threw the car in. The suspension compressed. The G-force hit him—5G vertical and lateral.
"Car feels good," Dominik reported. "A bit floaty in the high-speed section, but the straight-line speed is mega."
He was P9 on the timing sheets. The slippery Williams was loving the long flat-out zones.
Then, about 40 minutes into the session, a strange smell filled the cockpit.
"Is my engine burning?" Dominik asked, sniffing the air. "I smell... burning oil."
"Checking data," Gaëtan replied, his voice tense. "Engine parameters are normal. Max is reporting the same thing."
Dominik looked to his left as he blasted down the back straight.
In the distance, a massive plume of black smoke was rising into the sky. It was thick, dark, and angry.
"What is that?" Dominik asked.
"Box, Dominik. Box now," Gaëtan ordered. "Red Flag."
The Meeting.
The paddock was in chaos.
It wasn't an engine failure. It was a missile attack. The Houthi rebels had struck an Aramco oil depot less than 10 kilometers from the track.
The drivers were summoned to the hospitality unit.
Stefano Domenicali (F1 CEO) and Mohammed Ben Sulayem (FIA President) stood at the front.
" The race will go on," Domenicali said firmly. "We have assurances from the authorities. The target was the infrastructure, not the event. You are safe."
The room was silent. Then, the mutiny began.
Lewis Hamilton spoke up first. Then Fernando Alonso. Then George Russell, as the GPDA (Grand Prix Drivers' Association) director.
Dominik, the rookie, stood at the back next to Zhou Guanyu. They exchanged a look.
Welcome to F1,Zhou's eyes seemed to say. Fast cars and ballistic missiles.
The meeting dragged on. 1 hour. 2 hours. 3 hours.
The Team Principals—Toto Wolff, Christian Horner, Jost Capito—came in to convince their drivers to race.
"If we leave," one Principal warned, "getting the freight—and the personnel—out of the country might be... difficult."
It was a veiled threat. Or a reality check.
Finally, at 2:00 AM, the drivers agreed to race. Not because they felt safe, but because they had no choice.
Dominik walked out of the meeting room. He checked his phone.
Yeji:I saw the news. Smoke? Are you okay?
Dominik:I'm fine. Just a barbecue gone wrong. Go to sleep.
He put the phone away. He looked at the smoke still lingering in the night sky, illuminated by the fire that was still burning.
FP2. (Delayed).
The session finally started late in the night. The track was fully lit, a ribbon of light amidst the darkness and the smoke.
Dominik got back in the car. It felt surreal.
"Focus," he told himself.
He went out on Softs.
The FW44 was dancing. In the high-speed "Esses" of Sector 1, Dominik had to be perfect. If he lifted, the rear would snap. If he turned too hard, the front would wash out into the wall.
He grazed the concrete barrier at Turn 22.
Scrape.
"That was close," Gaëtan said.
"Just polishing the wall," Dominik replied, his voice calm.
He finished the session P12.
He climbed out of the car. The smell of burning oil was still there, mixing with the race fuel.
Jost Capito met him. "Good job keeping your head down."
"It's hard to look up," Dominik said, looking at the black sky, "when there is fire on the horizon."
He walked to the back of the garage. He touched the plate on his helmet.
Tomorrow was Qualifying. And on this track, one mistake didn't mean a lap time deletion. It meant a hospital visit.