My phone rings before I fully finish unlacing my boots. Not the kind of vibration I can ignore so I have only one choice, pick it up, place it next to my ears and listen to whatever the person on the other side wants to tell me.

"Lando", someone from the team says, voice clipped and professional, "There's a car waiting downstairs, in front of the hotel. Pack your bag and be ready to leave in 15."

I blink in confusion, ask back, "Now? Why?"

A pause from the other end and I know it is meant to say the decision has already been made long ago. "Yes, now. No debrief, no appearances. We're returning to MTC immediately."

No dinner party, no congratulations whatsoever as well. I look at the mess on the floor and sighs, not wanting to leave so early and having to clean it all up. But I am still a professional driver so 15 minutes later, I slide into the back seat with my luggage neatly put on the back. The space beside me is empty and clean. Oscar isn't there. I look up at the driver but he doesn't meet my eyes. The car pulls away smoothly like this was always the plan.

The international terminal is bright and busy. People come and go, laughing and crying at the same time. I catch a glimpse of Oscar, the younger kid stands near security with Zak besides him, posture tight, jaw set. He looks like someone told him not to move and he obeyed out of habit.

Our eyes meet just for a second, enough to say everything we are not allowed to. I don't wave, he doesn't smile – we both feel the cold coming from inside us, threaten to unalive this newly blooming love.

Someone clears their throat behind me. Andrea. He gestures me toward the boarding gate with the politeness of a man who knows he's delivering something cruel and necessary.

On the plane, the separation becomes official without a word being spoken. Zak sits with Oscar on one side of the cabin, Andrea sits with me on the other. Opposite aisles, opposite rows. Opposite future, as it feels like.

I turn my head just enough to see Oscar, he's staring straight ahead, hands folded, not daring to look at my way even once. The FIA hasn't said a word yet, but the team already has. Separating us seems to be the easiest choice for whatever is coming next.

***

Monday.

MTC smells like coffee that's gone cold, the kind no one bothers to throw out because everyone is pretending, they might still drink it. Useless, but needed.

I know it's been only twenty-four hours because I've checked the time obsessively like something might arrive if I look at the clock close enough. No FIA notice, no new Reddit posts, no "we are reviewing this case". Just silence stretched thin across an entire building.

Engineers nod when they pass me, smile with their lips but not their eyes. Conversations dip the moment I step into a room and then resume once I've gone. I feel like an insider in my own home.

I text Alex to ask him to hangout anyway, just out of habit. He replies faster than I expected, almost immediately.

Alex Albon:
Mate, I'm gonna be honest with you. Probably not great for me to be seen out with you right now.

Another message comes after I stare at the phone's screen for so long.

Alex Albon:
Come over, I can make you Pad Thai. Won't be spicy this time.

I appreciate his honesty, at least he just told me straight up the truth instead of sugar-coating it. I type back to let him know the answer.

Lando:
Nope thanks. Next time.

I set my phone face down on the desk and feel the quiet presses in again. Lonely in a very professional driver way. By mid-afternoon, I've checked my phone so many times my thumb aches. But obviously, still nothing.

That evening, Zak and Andrea call Oscar and me into a meeting room. Andrea folds his hands on the table and says it like he's casually reading weather conditions. "Until further notice, we are implementing separation protocols."

He gives us a list of shit that I don't even want to listen. Separate sim sessions, separate gym schedules, separate briefings. No shared physical spaces, not even lunch together, no private meetings. Zak adds in, rubbing his temple, "Communication only through approved group chats. Engineers present."

I glance sideways at Oscar only to see his eyes glued on the floor, his jaw tightens for half a second before he pretends like everything is fine.

"This is not punitive, it's protective", Andrea says.

I nod like how this sport has taught me to do in any situation. What I hear in my head is: We don't know what you are anymore, we don't trust you. No accusation nor fine has been made, but the fear has already found a way to isolate us.

Next hours, or even next days pass me in an agony way. There's only one place in the entire building where me and Oscar are allowed to cross paths. A narrow corridor between two secured departments at MTC with cameras mounted in the corners, security badges required at both ends.

Oscar steps into the hallway from the opposite end at exactly the minute printed on his schedule, which reminds me of those dystopian movies. As if someone decided that was the maximum safe distance between two liabilities, he stands far away from me but his eyes look up and meet mine. For a second, his face forgets what it's supposed to be, relief flickers everywhere.

People are watching us. Engineers pretend not to look but I feel the heat behind me. We slow as we approach each other, matching pace without thinking. Then Oscar stops exactly where the tap on the floor changes color. So do I.

We are close enough that I can see the tired shadows under his eyes, close enough to smell the exhaustion on him.

"You okay?", he asks quietly.

I nod once, too fast, "Yeah I'm fine". A lie, but indeed a necessary one.

Someone clears their throat behind me and I feel like a teenager got caught mid make-out session. The red light of the camera blinks rapidly in front of us, as a cue to break the connection. Oscar steps back first. I hate him a little for it – and myself more for being grateful. Someone has to break the moment before it becomes evidence.

We walk away in opposite direction, in silent promise of everything will be okay. I feel him go, the absence sharp and immediate like losing pressure in my chest. Having nothing else in my mind, I walk back to my table, feeling like a loser.

***

I start noticing patterns I wish I didn't. An engineer laughs at something then goes quiet the moment he sees me. Two girls from marketing standing too close then step apart like magnets flipped the wrong way. Somebody calls out Oscar's name, then mine, perhaps it slipped out by accident.

Staring means curiosity, but no one even dare to look at us. They all avoid me like a plague which has no vaccine to. Damn if I feel easy in this situation. The whole world turns their back at me, at my wins and that's fine, I still smile everyday. But this feels like betrayal by my own family members.

In another room, a setup change appears on the board that I never signed off on. I ask casually, "When did we decide that?"

The silence fills in the room before someone says, "We reviewed it earlier". "Earlier" and "we", which means without me. This must be the moment they forgot I am the driver and not any single one of them. I want to scream at them, or at least show how annoyed I am but I just quietly say "Okay" instead, not wanting to cause any other drama to the team.

Later, Andrea calls me in. His office is sealed from the rest of the building, soundproof in a way that suddenly feels ominous. He gestures me to sit down.

"We are still trying to identify the source of telemetry leak", he says and I nod, because there's obviously nothing there for me to say.

"Access log, interviews, system audits – but no conclusion yet."

Still nothing. Anger crawls up my spine, waiting to be let out. His words echo in the back of my mind as I carefully choose the word to reply. "So someone pulled internal performance data, leaked it publicly and we still don't know who is it."

The news hits me like a brick without warning. Someone chose the data, chose the timing, chose to frame it in a way that would look impossible, machine-alike. And now that very same person is still walking in the halls, showing up in meetings, looking at me in the eyes and ruining my career at the same time.

Andrea doesn't deny when I state out the fact that people are treating me differently. "We have to protect the team", he says finally, measured but reasonable. I nod again, because that's what a professional driver with history in Formula 1 do, but all I hear is "If it comes down to you or us, I choose us".

When I leave Andrea's office, the corridor feels hostile in a way it never has before. Camera blinks overhead, reflections multiply me in the glass, like even my image isn't singular, isn't mine anymore.

I didn't cheat, or lie, or steal strategy, but none of that matters once doubt enters the room, because suspicious doesn't need proof. Suspicious just needs enough people to start stepping away from me.

***

I've always thought of McLaren as home.

Not in the way people say it casually – not branding or loyalty soundbites – but in the way you know where to go when the light switches and you are left in the dark. There, I don't have to perform or put on a brave mask to get respected or care.

It's the only team I have ever had.

When I won the championship last year and half of the grid hated me for it, this place didn't flinch. Booed circuits, ugly headlines, dissatisfaction dressed up as analysis – none of it mattered because when I walked through these doors, people still put faith in me. That support carried me through everything. This time, the distance is internal, which means I'm more alone than I ever did.

Zak and Andrea call me in for another meeting, must be the third serious one this week I supposed.

Andrea speaks about procedures, responsibilities that I have to carry on. Zak talks about scenarios the way you discuss weather patterns you can's stop, only prepare for. I sit there like a clow, nod when it's expected of me, hands folded in my lap, spine straight. Playing the role I've been trained since I was a little kid.

Underneath the pretty, harmless, careful words, I can smell the threat. They don't say "we think you did something behind our backs". They don't say "we don't trust you, not even a bit". They don't have to.

They say things with the biggest "if" in the world, like "if the situation escalates", "if the FIA requires action", "if we need to demonstrate distance".

I realize that no one is here to fight for me nor Oscar. Not because they don't care – but because caring is expensive when the team's survival is at stake. Open hostility could never hurt as much as that.

Zak finishes speaking and looks at me like he wants to reassure me, like there's something human sitting on the tip of his tongue waiting to be spilled out. But he doesn't let a word come out. Andrea gives a small, professional nod, signaling the meeting is over.

I stand up. Thank them. That's what you do when you've learned how to survive rooms like this. When I walk out into the hall, the familiar silence doesn't comfort me anymore. Instead, it reminds myself how much I have poured into this place, how much of my life lives in these walls.

For the first time since I put on papaya, I feel the ground shifts. I am fully aware, that I am not being defended by my family anymore. Standing in the middle of my home, I know I'm half already gone.