Imola feels older than both of us combined. We arrive two days early, just enough time for the world not to find us yet. Just enough time to belong to each other without consequences pressing their weight against our ribs. I post pictures from Miami as if I'm still there so no one would suspect even a little bit.

Oscar walks besides me, hands tucked into the pocket of his jacket, curls stirred by Italian winds. Every now and then his shoulder bumps mine, light and accidental in a way that sends butterflies straight to my stomach all day. His eyes brighten up when he sees an alleyway bakery in front of us and insists on getting gelato for both. I said yes immediately. Whatever he wants. I'm so far gone I could probably live on air alone for months. Relationships really fit me on some levels.

The world keeps moving outside, tourists brushing past, bikes rattling on stone, church bells chiming somewhere out of sight. Here, in this narrow, unmarkable street, it's just the two of us. The ones who shouldn't have been seen together, now hands in hands. He squeezes my hands in silent and I hold him back even tighter.

Before returning to the paddock, he pulls me into a quick hug. My chin grazes the top of his hair. I inhale the smell of sunshine, gelato sweetness and the lingering scent of a boy who shouldn't feel like home, but does anyway.

And for the briefest heartbeat, before the storm that neither of us knows is coming, the world is kind.

***

Free Practice 3 at Imola is the kind of session where nothing extraordinary ever happens.

The track is cool, sharp around the edges, the kind of temperature is just prefect for anything. I slip into rhythm fast, hitting braking markers like they're pinned to the air itself. My car feels light, responsive and as great as ever. Tom calls out through the radio, "Lando, 3 clean laps, go"

I obey, eagerly prove myself and the worthiness of my car. The corner entry feels balanced, apex rotation snaps neatly beneath my finger, exit speeds hum the same pitch I've learnt by heart for years.

When I come back to our garage, the team looks perfectly normal. Calm, focus, no tension whatsoever. Just data engineers tapping on laptops, adjusting earphones, nodding quietly to me.

Across the garage, Oscar climbs out of his car, shakes water off his hair and grabs a towel, flashes me a tired thumb-up. I feel myself staring but there's absolutely nothing in the world can make me stop looking at him.

He doesn't seem worried, he doesn't have to. There's no reason for us to think about our result, not even a little bit. Racing is what we do for a living.

The race is over and now I'm on my way, heading toward William's garage to find Alex to hang out. Nothing unusual, just something we have done for years, going out to grab dinner whenever we are in Italy.

Halfway down the paddock corridor, I feel something shifted.

Ferrari staffs glance up as I pass. Not long enough to be rude, not short enough to be normal.

A pair of Red Bull engineers lower their voices mid-conversation. I only catch the tail end of a whisper, clipped sharply as if I wasn't meant to hear any of it.

Mercedes strategy analysts freeze with their eyes fixed on the screen, hands hovering keyboards as they have hit stop button.

None of it is dramatic, no gasps, no sudden silence. Just glances follow me every step I take and I'll be lying if I say it's a common thing for me.

By the time I reach Williams, my skin feels tight, as if I've smudged tomato sauce all over my face without noticing. I try to shake off the feeling and sprint back to own garage when I find out Alex isn't around in his usual place.

Inside our garage, the atmosphere is wrong in a completely different way. There's no full debrief, no slow breakdown of sectors, no discussion of tires degradation.

Instead, what greeted me was a stiff smile of Tom as he said "We are wrapping early, go back and rest Lando". He hands me some paper with data and numbers on it, a tablet full of FP3 statistics but I don't bother to look, still full of surprised from whatever this is.

The Australian boy catches my eyes from across the space. He looks like he wants to walk over to talk to me, but all he manages is "I've got something to do tonight, see you tomorrow alright?"

I don't answer him, because that's not even a question. He lets me know he would leave me alone tonight, when my head is still full of question and confusion. Saying nothing, I grab my bag on the counter and make my way out of the garage, heading back to my empty hotel room.

***

Back in the hotel, the room is too quiet. I get change, order some food then lie down on the bed. I doomscroll aimlessly, trying to convince myself that nothing is wrong, and I was just imagining things to scare myself off.

Then I see it.

A Reddit post pinned to the top of the motorsport feed, exploding with comments – the kind of post that you feel the heat and excitement through the phone.

McLaren – Norris and Piastri FP3 laps are IDENTICAL

My thumb stops mid-scroll. The world stops, my heart stops as well. This shit can't be good.

There are screenshots inside. Not fan graphs, not surface-level timing screens but raw data GPS overlays. Corner speed plots. Delta curves. Braking markers. Shift-point timestamps.

My stomach contracts so sharply I can't breathe for a second when I realize this must be internal leaked data, coming straight out of the inside of McLaren's garage.

I tap the image open – and there it is, two lines on a graph, papaya orange labeled LN, sunset purple labeled OP. The lines don't just match, they sit on top of each other as someone traced one over the other with the world's thinnest pen-tip.

Corner entry? Identical.
Minimum speed in turn 9 and 10? Identical.
Throttle pick-up at turn 12? Identical.

I am well aware that I might not be able to stand the heat of comment section, but I clumsily find it anyway.

"Looks like a copy-paste trace"

"Are they sharing live signals between cars?"

"Wonder if Papaya rule would let Lando win this year again though Piastri drove both cars"

My lungs stutter. This is goddamn insane. I whisper to myself in denial, "It can't be real. We didn't even try to follow each other. We didn't do anything wrong."

But then another voice in my head screams. I didn't see Oscar's laps, he didn't see mine. We were on different runs, different tires and different position. So how, how could all this possible?

I shakily stand up and grab for my tablet, hands trembling so bad I can't control it anymore. Corner by corner, I compare the traces. His, mine. Mine, his. The Australian boy's throttle trace curves in the exact rhythm as mine, down to the second of lift-off in turn 6. His rotation speed matches mine in a corner where everyone else struggles.

Our data doesn't look similar, it looks shared.

New comments keep flashing on my phone screen, begging me to look at them.

"McLaren must be hiding something"

"Cheating at its finest"

"Are they using new technique for auto-drive?"

The tablet slips out of my sweaty palms, lands on the bed with a soft thud but the impact feels like it shakes the room. My heart is pounding out of rhythm, too fast, too hard, too unbreathable.

I call Oscar.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. No answer.

I call him again, but all I get is the unwelcome sound of unpicked up phone call.

Lando: Call me Osc

Lando: We need to talk. Can you come over?

Oscar doesn't reply to any of my texts so I try to collect myself together, reach for the tablet and some paper, really force myself to think out of the box.

And for the first time in the whole Formula 1 career, I feel truly scared. This isn't something we can fix, especially not when we don't even know how it works. This isn't just us anymore. This is the whole team's effort we are putting in danger.