"The tests are scheduled for a single day."

That's all the message says. No greeting, no context, just a time and a room number. By the time I walk back into the McLaren Technology Centre, it's been almost a week since I left it the first time, was told to wait while other people decided what my work meant.

There were conclusions clearly being formed but they weren't shared with me. If decisions were close, no one hinted about them. None of the changes has made its way to me, at least not now.

I'm shown into a conference room that looks more like a classroom than anything else. Long table, neutral chairs, water bottles placed at even intervals, unopened.

Oscar is already there.

We don't acknowledge each other beyond a brief glance. That, too, feels instructed, even if no one said it out loud.

Two FIA officials sit across from us. A third stands near the screen, tablet in hand. They explain the structure of the day: four assessments, one vehicle test. All conducted individually. No discussion of results during or after. Everything reviewed as a set.

They don't say why again. They don't need to.

Language matters here and they choose it carefully. This is about response patterns. Decision integrity. Cognitive load under pressure. Words that sound technical enough to avoid implying intent.

We're told the entire process will take several hours. Breaks will be scheduled. Phones will remain outside the testing rooms. Questions are allowed only if they relate to procedure.

One of the officials adds without hesitation. "The data will be reviewed after the test".

No reassurance. No timeline. No hint of what they expect to find.

We're dismissed one by one. Oscar is called first. He stands, nods once, and follows an assistant out. I watch the door close behind him, try to tell myself this is just another test day. Another thing to get through by being precise, quiet and cooperative.

Finally, my name is called after a short while. A predictive choice task, that's how they call it.

An assistant leads me down a corridor I don't usually take, past offices I've never needed to enter and into a room that looks ordinary. I'm told to sit and the test will begin when the screen lights up.

No one explains what a successful test result looks like.

The first scenario appears without warning. A still image at first, then motion. A corner. Another car. A narrowing gap. I'm given a few seconds and a simple instruction: choose.

Left or right.
Now or later.
Commit or wait.

I answer instinctively. There's no time to second-guess, no room to rehearse. The image disappears the moment I make a selection, replaced by the next one before I can wonder whether I was right.

I stop trying to categorize the questions. The point clearly isn't whether I make the "right" call. It's how quickly I make one and what I do when certainty isn't available. I notice the lack of feedback immediately. No confirmation, no correction - just ongoing progression.

When the screen goes dark, the test is over. An assistant enters, notes something on a tablet, and gestures for me to stand up. As I'm led back into the corridor, I have the brief, irrational urge to ask how Oscar did. The question stays where it belongs, unspoken in the back of my mind.

The next room is labeled on the schedule outside the door - Stress Synchronization Task. The name alone twists in my stomach the way people react to the word "stress" most of the time.

Inside, the setup is minimal. Screen, sensors, headphones. I'm told this test measures performance under escalating pressure. Not sure if it's practical, but I still nod like I've done this million times before.

It starts clean. Simple sequences, identify the anomaly, respond before the timer runs out. Then the conditions shift. The background noise ramps up sharply, overlapping tones designed to distract rather than overwhelm. A countdown in the corner of the screen shrinks faster than ever.

My pulse creeps up. I can feel it in my throat when the rules change without warning, the screen floods with information faster than it can be processed comfortably. The instinct is familiar: narrow focus, cut out everything unnecessary, keep moving.

The pressure increases again.

I don't panic. I don't rush. I adapt, the way I always do when the margins close in. There's no room to consider about how it looks, only how it feels to stay in control while everything else tries to pull me off it.

When it ends, it stops all at once. No cooldown or summary. The noise cuts out and the room is suddenly too quiet. An assistant checks the sensors, logs the data, and asks me to step outside.

As I leave, I notice the identical setup in the adjacent room. Same screen. Same equipment. Same test name printed on the door. Hopefully Oscar will survive whatever the hell this is.

The third room feels less technical, smaller with softer light. A table, two chairs, a recorder placed neatly in the center.

Before I sit, an assistant fits a thin band around my head, light enough to forget but impossible to ignore once it's there. Another sensor is clipped to my finger. "To monitor heart rate and galvanic response. All basic things", I am told.

The FIA official across from me introduces the test by its name: Verbal & Cognitive Response Interview.

He explains it once, clearly. Open-ended questions. Natural answers. The equipment tracks response timing and physiological change. The words matter less than how I arrive at them. Then the recorder clicks on.

He asks about trust. Not in racing terms, teammates or strategy. Just trust. How I know it's there and where to find it. I answer without thinking much, after all that's the main purpose of the test.

He asks about hesitation. Moments when I slow down even though I know the correct decision and what stands behind that pause. I take longer this time. The band around my head feels tighter, though I know it hasn't moved. I talk about fear without naming it. Chose my words carefully then abandon that effort halfway through, why would it matter to anyone?

Another question - control. What it feels like when I lose it then regain. The sensors catch everything my words are not able to make sense of.

When it ends, he tells me the same thing he's told everyone else today: "the data will be reviewed". Portions of the verbal responses may appear in a summarized report. No interpretation will be shared with me.

The recorder is switched off. The band is removed. The room feels larger immediately as I am rushed out of the door.

The final assessment takes place far away from the main facility, at a closed test site that feels deliberately anonymous. There is no team branding, no familiar faces, just me and a bunch of FIA officers. The car waiting in the garage is identified only by a number on its nose, its bodywork plain and unremarkable. "Such a boring car", that would definitely something I say if I were not in this position.

An FIA engineer explains the parameters in a steady voice. The setup is fixed. Steering ratio, brake bias, fuel load and tire compound are all predetermined and locked. There will be no adjustments at all and we have to use whatever we can get. I listen, nod, and accept it for what it is.

When I climb into the cockpit, the difference is immediate. The seat fits well enough, but not precisely. The steering wheel sits a fraction higher than I prefer, the pedals slightly farther away. None of it is dramatic, but all of it is noticeable. This is not a car shaped around me, and it makes no effort to pretend otherwise.

On the installation lap, the handling confirms my first impression. The responses are clean but delayed, as if the car is waiting for certainty before committing. I find myself making decisions earlier than usual, compensating for the lack of familiarity by being more deliberate with every input. There is no sense of flow, only a sequence of choices made carefully without instinct.

When I return to the garage, the session ends without comment. Data is downloaded and logged, temperatures are noted and the car is rolled back into position. No one asks how it felt and I do not offer an opinion. The process is clearly finished.

As I step away, I notice the identical chassis being prepared further down the lane, reset and ready for the next run under the same conditions. The implication is simple and does not need explanation. This test is not meant to showcase performance, but to observe what remains when comfort and familiarity are removed.

I leave the facility knowing I did what was asked of me, even if I am still unsure what they are hoping to learn from it.