The Singapore Grand Prix is run at night, but the day itself is a slow, suffocating burn. The air in the paddock on Sunday is a volatile cocktail of anticipation, nervous energy, and the cloying scent of sponsor-provided energy drinks. Every smile is a fraction too wide, every handshake a little too firm. It’s the prelude to war, fought in fireproof suits and broadcast to millions.
For the first time in seven years, I was wearing the wrong colours. The deep midnight blue and silver of Magnusson-Drake felt foreign against my skin, a declaration of allegiance I was still growing into. But when I stepped onto the pit wall, clipping my new headset into the main console, it felt like coming home. This was my throne room, the nerve centre of the race, and Kael had placed me at its very heart. I
