I wake up before my phone goes off, that's already the first sign something is wrong.

The room is still dark, curtains half-drawn. Shanghai is still sleeping peacefully but I am no longer be able to fall back asleep, so reaching out for my phone to scroll seems to be a better choice.

Messages stack faster than my eye can catch. Names blur, headlines half-load, notifications keep coming – as if everyone decided overnight that this is the perfect moment to talk to me.

Never have I ever been faster at connecting the dots to come up with a clear conclusion – McLaren can't hold this together anymore. I have sensed it in the way last weekend didn't end clear with no promises made, no clarify given. But a part of me still hoped for a better outcome.

My phone buzzes again, but this time it's McLaren team. The message is short, "PR room, now". No greeting, explanation or "are you okay?", just blunt out and immediate, as urgent as our situation right now.

I pull on a hoodie, grab my pass, leave the room without touching the food on the table. Can't even remember when was the last time I have eaten something proper, might be some pasta Kimi handed me over last weekend. By the time I reach to the elevator, my mind has already run through ten thousand different scenarios, all end up with me being disgusted by the whole world.

Shock is an understatement when I open the door and see Oscar sitting right there.

He's already seated across the table, hands folded loosely on his lap. Out of the race gear, he looks more vulnerable – hoodie sleeves push up, hair damp from morning shower, eyes fix forward. Gosh, we even have the same choice of clothing for today, what a nice way to start more rumors!

We exchange a weak smile, the useless kind you use when smiling is safer than speaking.

The PR room is filled with paper and tablets on one side of the table, faces behind them neural. Kind of expression coming only from expert PR strategists, who rehearse disappointment daily and how to handle them gracefully.

"Before we start", the head of PR Department says smoothly, "we need to align on what our story is".

She taps her tablet and a slide appears on the screen. Bullet points, approved phrases, certain words underlined in red – words under no circumstance we are allowed to use.

"We are not denying", she continues, "We are clarifying."

But clarifying what, exactly? That we don't understand this damn thing either?

PR start running through different scenarios.
If we are asked about telemetry.
If journalists accused us of cheating.
If questions about the team are involved.

Every answer is careful word of choice, polished and empty. The same old recycled phrases you hear on TV all the time – "We trust the process", "We are cooperating fully", "We have nothing to hide".

I want to say "I don't know what's causing this crazy matching level of us. That's the truth" to the media. But no one cares about me and my tiny little truth.

The PR head looks at me, doesn't let any emotions shown on her face. "That answer creates uncertainty, and uncertainty is the last thing we need on our plate right now".

So we practice those scripted answers again. What to say, how long we can say it for, when to stop. At one point, I catch Oscar looking at me, under his eyes is a storm coming close. A mix of apology, stubbornness and fear, all trying to coexist.

The meeting ends without any nice words being said. Chairs scrape softly, tablets close. The PR staffs stand first, leaving like the damage we made doesn't require witnesses anymore. Oscar hesitates like he wants to say something but an assistant is already guiding him toward the door.

I don't get that far though. The head of PR calls out my name loudly, hand hovering near my elbow right I'm about to stand up, "Come with me".

Oscar looks back once as he is being dragged out of the door. There's no time for us to communicate anything useful, just another thin, careful smile before we're pulled in opposite directions again.

The woman leads me down a short corridor to an empty room, gestures me to sit down then steps back out into the hallway. The door doesn't close all the way, which might be the worst mistake she makes today. I hear voices almost immediately from the outside. Hers – low and professional and Zak's – unmistakable.

".... they are talking nonsense, not sticking to the script", she talks to Zak, "they default to be honesty. Did those guys hit their heads somewhere?"

"Honesty isn't the problem", Zak sighs in disbelief, "Because it's true that we don't know the reason. But doesn't help anyone"

"We can manage the media", she insists, "but only if we are able manage them first".

There's a loud groan came out of Zak but he replies to the woman anyway, "Just keep it contained. Whatever it takes, we must take the narratives back."

Feeling like a kid doing wrong thing, I tiptoe back to my chair and sit down quietly while all ears on the conversation, but nothing else has been said. Zak steps inside alone a few minutes later, pulls out a tablet under his arm then looks at me like this is just another normal meeting on another normal race weekend. "Let's talk about what we could do to improve the car this week".

I sit there, nodding, discussing set up changes with him while fully aware of the fact that from now on, the only place I can talk freely is this briefing room.

***

Cameras are closer than they used to be. That must be the first thing I notice the moment I step into the paddock. Every walkway feels narrow. Nobody bothers to smile at me anymore, only journalists full of questions and microphones pointing at us. In the corner of my eyes, I catch a glimpse of Charles Leclerc freely walk into Ferrari's garage, no one behinds him like usual. What a lucky bastard! I'm sacrificing myself for my friend's freedom.

I keep my head down and move when I'm told to move, smile when I have to. The PR phrases loop in my head like instructions I'm afraid to forget, remind me of how bad my situation is.

Free practices pass in heat and noise. I am aware of eyes on me, even when I'm alone in the car, as if the scrutiny has seeped through visor and into the cockpit. I drive well enough, but everything feels tight.

Later, tucked in a quiet corner of the motorhome, I overhear the commentators live for the first time. "..... again, McLaren boys are improving through mini-sectors with the same time laps". The graphic freezes on the screen, orange and purple overlapping.

I reach out for my phone. It's hard to ignore thousands of videos being sent to me, flooded my inboxes on every single social media platform people can find me. Pick a random video, I find the courage to slip in an empty room and listen to everything the world wants to comment on us.

By the time I step back into the open, medias are already looking at me differently. They must be thinking, wondering which kind of question is appropriate to ask me, but they go with anything they could anyway.

"Have you seen the sector comparisons?"
"How is the team coping with the possibility of having an unsuccessful season?"

I answer the way I was told to. The words come out smooth, practiced and nothing personal. I feel like leaving a part of real me behind with every sentence, but I brush the thought off immediately. This is not the time to think.

When the media finally disperses, the relief is brief and thin. The noise fades, but attention doesn't. It lingers in the space they leave behind, like heat trapped in concrete. The race hasn't even happened, yet it already feels like the weekend is closing for us.

I escape back to the hotel as soon as protocol allows, shoes kicked off at the door, still wearing the same hoodie I've lived in for days. Not that changing clothes will automatically help me to ease this tension. I lie back on the bed and let the ceiling stares back at me while the television murmurs on low volume with interviews play on repeat.

Different drivers, same question. What do you think about McLaren's situation? Can you say something so we can make a headline out of it? Is McLaren cheating?

Alex goes first, his tone careful. "I'm sure there's an explanation", he says politely, "Something can be used to explain this situation".

George is next, calm and controlled like he never needed any PR lesson in his life. "It's not my place to speculate, the FIA will do what they need to do".

Ferrari comes up with Charles answering questions, his voice even, "We trust the process, we'll wait out for the result."

Then Max. Takes him long enough to answer the question, but he always knows what he's supposed to say. "If something looks unusual, it should be looked very closely. Fairness matters to me and to anyone else standing on the grid".

It sounds supportive until I realize it isn't, just distance disguised as diplomacy. I turn the volume down after that, but the words keep replaying in my mind anyway. No one defended me, not because they think I'm guilty, but because silence is safer. Defending me would mean choosing a side, and sides are expensive when championships are sill in reach. And what if they choose the wrong side?

I think back to earlier seasons, to the way I was happy being surrounded by people I love and love me back openly. That warmth probably still exists somewhere, just not enough to go across the line to reach to me. I lie there longer than I intent to, listening to the world talk around me instead of to me.