Sunday morning in Jeddah.
Dominik woke up feeling like he had gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight boxer. The Jeddah Corniche Circuit was brutal physically; the constant high-G lateral load combined with the bumpy surface meant his neck muscles were stiff and his lower back throbbed.
He rolled over and checked his phone.
Instagram:
@yezizhere posted a story: A photo of a TV screen in Seoul showing the F1 starting grid graphic.
Caption:Wake up early. Don't crash. 😼
Dominik smiled, typing a quick reply: I'll try to keep it off the walls. Go back to sleep.
He dragged himself out of bed. The hotel room was freezing—the AC blasted to combat the Saudi heat—but outside, he knew the air would be thick and heavy.
10:00 AM. Paddock Breakfast.
The atmosphere in the paddock on Sunday is distinct. Friday is busy, Saturday is tense, but Sunday has a vibrating, electric undercurrent. The hospitality units are packed with VIPs, sponsors, and influencers.
Dominik sat in the drivers' area, picking at a bowl of oatmeal.
Pierre Gasly slid into the seat next to him. The AlphaTauri driver looked fresh, despite his car catching fire on Friday.
"P5," Gasly whistled, shaking his head. "You are making the rest of us look bad, mon ami."
"It was a lucky lap," Dominik deflected. "And Alex gave me a tow."
"Luck is when preparation meets opportunity," Gasly quoted, pouring himself a coffee. "Just be careful at the start. Russell is starting P6. He will be... aggressive. He hates losing to a Williams."
"He hates losing to anyone," Dominik corrected. "But especially to a car that costs half as much as his."
Across the room, George Russell was talking to Toto Wolff. The Mercedes driver looked serious, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a focused frown. The "Mr. Saturday" nickname was failing him this year; the car just wasn't cooperating.
13:00. The Strategy Briefing.
The meeting room in the Williams hospitality was crowded. Jost Capito, Gaëtan Jego, Alex Albon, and the strategists were all gathered around the main screen.
Grid:
5. CORVINUS (Mediums)
...
12. ALBON (Mediums)
"This is a unique situation," Capito started, his voice grave. "We have a car in P5. This has not happened on pure pace in a long time."
He looked directly at Dominik.
"Do not let the position go to your head. You are surrounded by faster cars. The Alpines, the Mercedes... they have better race pace. If you fight them too hard, you will destroy your tires and finish P15."
Dominik nodded. "So, defend smart, not hard?"
"Exactly," Gaëtan interjected. "If Russell or Alonso are significantly faster, let them go. Do not lose 5 seconds fighting a battle you cannot win. Our race is with Bottas, Magnussen, and Gasly."
"And Alex?" Dominik asked, looking at his teammate.
"Alex is on an aggressive strategy," Capito said. "He will push to clear the midfield traffic. We need double points today."
Albon gave Dominik a thumbs up. There was no jealousy, just a shared mission. They were trying to resurrect a giant.
14:30. The Drivers' Parade.
The drivers were herded onto a flatbed truck for the lap around the circuit to wave to the fans.
It was chaotic. Interviews were happening in four languages at once.
Dominik leaned against the railing, putting on his sunglasses to hide the fatigue in his eyes.
"Hey, Street Prince."
He turned. Leclerc and Russell were standing there.
"Don't call me that," Dominik groaned.
"It's catching on," Leclerc grinned. "I saw a banner in the stands. All Hail the Street Prince."
"Enjoy the view from the third row," Russell said, nudging Dominik's arm. But there was a competitive edge to his voice. "I plan on staring at your rear wing for exactly two corners."
"Which corners?" Dominik shot back, keeping his tone light. "Turn 1 and Turn 2? Because after that, I'm gone."
Russell laughed, a short, sharp bark. "Confident. I like it. Just remember, my car is silver, not invisible. Don't turn in on me."
"I'll leave you space," Dominik promised. "Just don't bounce into me."
The truck rumbled past the main grandstand. The crowd roared. Dominik saw a Hungarian flag waving frantically. He raised a hand, acknowledging it.
For a moment, the imposter syndrome faded. He belonged here. He was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the future champions, and today, he was starting ahead of one of them.
16:00. The Quiet Moment.
Back in his driver's room, Dominik went through his pre-race ritual.
He lay on the floor, legs elevated against the wall to drain the blood. He put on his noise-canceling headphones. No music. Just silence.
He visualized the start.
Clutch bite point.
RPMs.
Reaction time.
Turn 1 apex.
Turn 2 exit.
His phone buzzed. It was Hanna.
He picked up.
"Make it quick," he said.
"Just reminding you," Hanna's voice was clear, cutting through the static in his head. "You're P5. Don't do anything stupid. Don't try to win the race in the first lap."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I'm serious, Domi. Bring the car home. Points are what matters."
"I know, Hanna. I know."
"Good. Now go drive fast."
She hung up.
Dominik stood up. He did a few neck stretches, feeling the muscles protest. He splashed cold water on his face.
He looked at his new helmet sitting on the table.
"Time to go to work," he whispered to the empty room.
He walked out into the garage. The mechanics were waiting. The car was waiting.
The storm was about to break.