"And after this weekend, McLaren is set to win the Constructors' Championship for the third year in a row. What a season it has been. The Champion Cup is coming back to Woking only if Norris and Piastri make no mistake, drive cleanly and either one of them secures the first place at Azerbaijan Grand Prix. Which is honestly doesn't seem like a difficult task for our boys considering how dominant they have been so far ....."

The commentator's voice floats out of a screen somewhere behind me, voice cheerful enough to make everyone think McLaren is the paddock's sweetheart. Inside the briefing room, the same message got delivered to us but dressed differently, stripped out of the romance.

Engineers point at screens and talk in calm voices about scenarios which all end the same way if we do what we've been doing all season. Funny how they continuously give us reassurances of "it's gonna be okay, you are going to make it" when it should be the other way around.

One more clean weekend – that's all we have to do. It's strange how real it feels of a sudden. Three years, three titles. Woking stops being a location on the map and turns into something tangible – a trophy cabinet, the engraved plates, the word "again" stamped across headlines like it belongs to us permanently. Me and Oscar, side by side in the math of it, inseparable in the best possible way.

By the time briefing ends, everything in me has clicked into place. The noise fades into background hum, no longer getting any of my attention. Doubt thins out and my focus sharpens on one thing only. I straighten my shoulders, feel the familiar pull toward the track. I lean over to peak a kiss on Oscar lips before putting on my helmet, whisper low enough just for both of us to hear.

"Let's bring what we've already built all the way home."

Red Bull knows us all too well. Not in the vague way that people see each other in years but in the precise, uncomfortable way only professionals can do. Oscar and I share everything, from braking points, throttle traces to the way we build up pace and how we react in several situations. It's made us better, almost seamless but also very readable.

Telemetry doesn't stay as a secret forever and ours has stopped being one for a while after the investigation. Red Bull doesn't need live data to learn our habits. They just need some time to figure it out and that's exactly what they have plenty of.

If they want to beat us today, they won't do it by being faster even if they want to choose that path badly. The car setup isn't something you can change overnight.

They'll beat us by putting us exactly where we don't want to be and letting our own tendencies do the rest. Which left me and Oscar with no choice, whatever game they want to try, we have to play it better.

***

The lights go out and the world compresses.

Max starts from the pole position. I'm right after him and Oscar's orange car stands a step behind my back. Max won't make it easy for us and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to win.

There's only room for timing and instinct taking over, the car surging forward beneath me as the pack funnels into the first conners like gravity's pulling us all the same way. I get a clean launch but everything feels tighter than it should be when Max Verstappen is directly ahead.

Not far enough to escape, not close enough to touch. He stands in the way like a ghost from the past I'm trying hard to let go of. The kind of presence that looks harmless on the screen and feels suffocating from inside the cockpit. I tuck in behind him and immediately feel the air go messy, the steering lighter than it should be.

Red Bull knows how close I like to run. They know I hate wasting laps sitting in someone else's wake. Oscar is better at waiting, he absorbs frustration and convert it into timing. But I am no Oscar. I am built different, which makes me the obvious target of the show.

Tom shouts over the radio, "Good pace. Manage the fronts". I back off half a breath just to test the water and Max responds instantly, slowing by the same margin. Max is not doing anything wrong. He's not defending aggressively to get a penalty and not breaking any rule. Just simply useful with his own strategy.

This is the trap.

Behind me, Oscar's timing flashes on the dash. Whatever decision I make now matters twice since it affects him as well. If I push too early, the car is fucked and I put everything we've built at risk. If I don't, Red Bull dictates the rhythm and lets the points drip away slowly. There's no dramatic failure here, no obvious mistake people could blame on me.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and breathe through it, eyes fixed on Max's rear wing, his reflection tells me he's exactly as comfortable as he wants to be. He's waiting for either one of us to break first before moving on to next step of Red Bull's careful tailored scheme.