Dominik Corvinus crossed the finish line. The checkered flag waved under the floodlights, marking the end of 50 grueling laps.
P6.
Another 8 points for Williams Racing.
"P6, Dominik. Solid P6," Gaëtan Jego said over the radio. His voice carried a heavy satisfaction, the relief of exhaled tension. "You survived."
Dominik pressed the button, his hand heavy on the wheel. "Copy," he exhaled, voice ragged in the helmet. "Thank you, team. The car fought me at the end, but we got the points."
"We did," Gaëtan replied. "Bring it home."
In Budapest, the M4 Sport commentators echoed the mood.
"He looks exhausted," Gábor Wéber observed. "But P6. Consistent. Mistakes against Alonso today, yes, but he brought the car home when others didn't."
Cool-down Lap.
Dominik slowed, letting the cool night air flow through the cockpit. His neck ached with every turn of the wheel.
He pulled alongside Charles Leclerc in P2. They drove side by side. Leclerc glanced over and gave a thumbs-up.
Dominik raised a hand, holding up six fingers wearily. I survived.
Leclerc nodded. Jeddah exacts its toll from everyone.
Parc Fermé.
Dominik parked the FW44. He sat for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, heart rate easing below 160.
He climbed out slowly. Mechanics offered quiet congratulations, sensing his fatigue. It was a job well done, not a celebration.
Weighed in, then headed to the garage back.
Alex Albon stood there in civilian clothes, looking dejected.
Dominik approached. "I saw the replay. Stroll turned in on you. Nothing you could do."
"Yeah," Albon sighed, leaning against a tool chest. "Pace was good until then. Frustrating."
"We have points," Dominik said, bumping his shoulder lightly. "The car's fast, Alex. We'll get them in Melbourne."
Albon managed a faint smile. "Go handle media. You're the one with the result today."
The Press Conference.
Dominik sat beside Capito, race suit down to his waist, undershirt soaked. He looked ready for a long sleep.
"Dominik," a journalist asked. "Tough battle with Alonso—you ran wide at Turn 1, gave the position back, then lost it again. A learning experience?"
Dominik rubbed his face, leaned into the mic. Voice raspy. "Fernando's a professor. I defended too aggressively early, killed my tires. Fighting a double champion on dead rears... you learn fast. He schooled me today. But P6 feels good."
Honest, respectful. No bravado.
The Call.
Back in his room, packing. Phone rang. O'Connor.
"Don't tell me," Dominik answered. "Something else."
"Sharp," O'Connor chuckled. "Congrats on the points. But Netflix wants you tomorrow. Drive to Survive interview—Alonso battle, while it's fresh. One day, then Budapest Tuesday."
"Tomorrow?" Dominik groaned, head against the wall. "I'm drained, O'Connor."
"They want the rookie story hot. Deal with it."
"Fine," he muttered. Hung up. Texted Mom: *Delayed one day. Media. Tuesday. Goulash?*
Katalin: *Waiting. Good job, son.*
**The Alpine Garage.**
Before leaving, he grabbed his helmet. One stop.
Pit lane to Alpine. Mechanics packing crates.
"Fernando?" Dominik called softly.
Alonso turned, saw him.
"Good race," Dominik said. "Sorry for the Turn 1 contact. Didn't want to yield."
Alonso grinned faintly. "You have elbows, kid. I respect that. Most rookies let me by. You worked for it."
Dominik offered his matte black helmet. "Swap?"
Alonso nodded, had an assistant fetch his. They exchanged.
"See you in Melbourne," Alonso said. "Won't be gentle."
"I wouldn't expect it," Dominik replied.
He left the paddock, Alonso's helmet in hand. Desert night still. He'd survived Jeddah. Points. Respect. Now, sleep.