Before the engines fired for Free Practice 1, the media scrum descended on Dominik Corvinus. His P4 finish in Bahrain had transformed him from a curiosity into a headline act. The photographers swarmed, lenses clicking like a chorus of mechanical cicadas.
He sat in the air-conditioned press room, adjusting his mask. Across from him sat a journalist from The Race, looking for a soundbite.
"Dominik, how much confidence does that result in Bahrain give you coming into Jeddah? Is Williams officially back?"
Dominik paused. He remembered O'Connor's media training: Praise the team. Deflect the hype. Stay humble.
"It gives me confidence," Dominik said, leaning into the microphone. "But more importantly, it gives the factory confidence. The men and women in Grove built a rocket ship for the straights. That P4 belongs to them."
He shifted in his seat, his eyes crinkling in a smile that didn't quite reveal his internal calculations. "But Jeddah is a different animal to Sakhir. Here, the walls are the track limits. We have more straights, yes, but the high-speed commitment required is... intense. We might fly, or we might struggle. In F1, you are only as good as your last lap."
He answered a few more questions with practiced ease, deflecting inquiries about his one-year contract and whether other teams were already calling, before escaping back to the sanctuary of the garage.
The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, bruised shadows across the paddock. The wind was picking up, whipping sand off the dunes and swirling it through the pit lane.
Dominik stood in the driver's room at the back of the garage. He peeled off his team vest and t-shirt, preparing to change into his fireproof race suit.
Unbeknownst to him, a roving Sky Sports cameraman was panning across the garage. The lens zoomed in just as Dominik stood shirtless, adjusting the waistband of his fireproof undershirt.
The image was beamed to millions of screens worldwide. The months of brutal winter training—torturous sessions of neck weights and core stability drills—were on full display. His physique was lean, corded with the kind of functional muscle that could withstand 5G cornering forces for two hours straight.
On Twitter, the timeline melted down.
"Is it hot in Jeddah or is it just the Williams garage?"
"That cameraman deserves a raise."
"Okay, I'm watching F1 now."
Dominik spotted the camera light. He didn't flinch. Instead, he flashed a quick, charming grin, pulled his race suit up over his shoulders, and zipped it shut.
Gaëtan Jego walked over, holding a tablet. He ignored the media circus.
"Low downforce package is fitted," the engineer said, his voice clipped and professional. "We are running the Mediums (C3) first. Let's see if the correlation holds up."
"Understood," Dominik said, pulling on his balaclava. "I'll take it easy."
Gaëtan raised an eyebrow. "I'll believe that when I see the telemetry."
17:00. FP1 Begins.
The green light illuminated. The track came alive.
Dominik sat in the car for the first ten minutes, letting the other drivers clean the dusty surface. The scent of the sea mixed with the faint, acrid smell of burning oil from the depot fire miles away—a grim reminder of the location.
Finally, the tire blankets came off. The yellow-walled Pirelli C3s gleamed under the garage lights.
Dominik engaged first gear. The FW44 rolled out.
As he merged onto the track, the sensation of speed was immediate and terrifying. Jeddah wasn't a circuit; it was a tunnel. The concrete walls flashed by inches from his wheels, blurring into a continuous grey streak.
He entered the high-speed "Esses" of Sector 1. In Bahrain, the car had felt heavy and cumbersome. Here, stripped of drag, the Williams felt liberated. It danced.
He threw the car into Turn 13, the banked hairpin. The suspension compressed, the steering weighting up beautifully.
"Balance is good," Dominik reported, his voice calm despite the violence of the movement. "High-speed rotation is excellent. But Turns 2 and 27... the front end is lazy. No bite."
He was flying. The splits were purple.
43 Minutes Remaining.
Lando Norris in the McLaren pushed too hard out of the final corner. The rear stepped out. He corrected, but the car slapped the outside wall.
CRACK.
Debris scattered across the main straight.
"Red Flag. Red Flag,"Gaëtan called. "Box immediately."
Dominik lifted off. He saw the orange McLaren limping, dragging a broken suspension arm.
"Is Lando okay?" Dominik asked.
"He's fine. Just a kiss on the wall."
"Expensive kiss," Dominik deadpanned.
The session paused while marshals cleared the carbon fiber. Dominik rolled back into the pit lane, stopping on his marks. He watched the screens.
Charles Leclerc was coming in. The Ferrari pit crew scrambled out.
But Leclerc, perhaps distracted by the red flag or just in a daydream, drove straight past his pit box. He realized too late, slamming on the brakes ten meters down the lane, looking lost.
Dominik watched in his rearview mirrors and burst out laughing.
"Did you see that?" Dominik keyed the radio. "Ferrari strategy starting early this weekend."
Gaëtan chuckled. "Focus, Dominik."
The track went green again.
"Okay, Dominik. We are switching to the Softs (C4)," Gaëtan said. "Let's test the degradation."
Dominik went back out. He pushed the red-walled tires.
Within three laps, the feedback changed. The car started to slide. The rear grew loose as the thermal degradation kicked in.
"These Softs are chocolate," Dominik reported. "They are melting. One lap of magic, then they are useless for the race."
"Copy," Gaëtan noted. "That matches the simulation. Good for Qualifying, bad for Sunday."
2 Minutes Remaining.
"Okay, Dominik. Time for a push lap," Gaëtan said. "Show us what the low-drag wing can really do. Engine Mode 2."
Dominik adjusted the switches on his steering wheel. He increased the differential entry speed, making the car sharper, more aggressive.
He started the lap.
Sector 1: He attacked the kerbs. The car flowed like water through the high-speed chicane. He was two-tenths up on his personal best.
Sector 2: He nailed the banking, carrying incredible momentum.
He was lighting up the timing screens. He was on pace for a top 8 time.
Then, he reached the long back straight leading to Turn 27.
Dominik checked his dash. He saw the delta.
He lifted his foot off the gas.
He coasted.
The engine note dropped. The speed bled away. He cruised through the final corner like he was looking for a parking spot at a supermarket.
He crossed the line.
1:33.529.
P18.
In the garage, Jost Capito watched the telemetry trace plummet in the final sector. A slow smile spread across his face.
Dominik brought the car into the pit lane.
"P18, Dominik," Gaëtan said, his voice neutral but knowing.
"Copy," Dominik replied, sounding bored. "Car felt... okay. Lots of work to do."
He climbed out of the cockpit, pulling off his helmet. He looked up at the timing board, where Leclerc sat at the top and his own name languished at the bottom.
Dominik winked at his mechanic.
The "Street Prince" was just playing games. The real speed was locked away, ready to be unleashed when the cameras were actually counting.