Race weekends always have a rhythm, even the bad ones do. There's always a vibration waiting on my phone, messages everywhere nudging me into motion before I'm ready. Someone, somewhere needing me for something immediately.

This morning has none of that.

Oscar is still asleep beside me, one arm flung carelessly across the empty space where I had been 15 minutes ago. He looks peaceful when he sleeps that I never want to disturb him. I lie there and catalog the silence in my head. No news from FIA, no revised schedule, no message from Andrea.

I swing my legs out of bed and stand up, bare feet against cold tile. Quickly pull on a shirt, run a hand through my hair, I'm ready to leave the room. I glance once more at my phone to check it again but still nothing pops up. If no one's coming for me then I guess I'll go find them myself then.

Mclaren's temporary ops in Singapore has always felt like a borrowed body with the same personality and different skin. People are already in motion but not rushed the way they should be, that's the first tell.

I stop besides the logistics desk and find one of the familiar faces. "Morning", I say, easy.

He looks up, exhales deeply like he's been expecting to see me. "Morning, mate".

I don't ask how he is or what's happening, small talks can wait. I focus on only question that matters. "Are we racing in Abu Dhabi?"

There's a pause long enough to confirm I asked the right person with the right amount of information. "As of this morning, no". His answer suggests the decision is newly formed, maybe less than an hour ago.

"Any reason provided?"

"No one is willing to put their name under guarantees they can't control."

The reason is easy enough to understand. I thank the guy and move on. My legs are already closing the distance from me to the staircase. I need somewhere dark and alone to think without people looking for a reaction.

FIA didn't move the race because they truly concern about us, that's the first thing I need to see through. I've been in this sport long enough to understand that compassion rarely survives contact with contracts. What survives are numbers, insurance contracts, broadcast rights, sponsors.

Abu Dhabi didn't collapse because someone had a moral awakening. It failed because we refuse to follow their order, refuse to put our lives in danger and our dignity in being jeopardized.

The dominos cascade effortlessly from the moment Oscar started moving one. If FIA excluded us, all drivers would withdraw. If the grid withdrew, broadcasters would revolt. If broadcasters revolted, sponsors would panic. If sponsors panicked, shareholders would notice.

This isn't about two random drivers anymore. It's about the structure integrity of a billion-dollar ecosystem. And no one wants to watch that crack open.

The only mathematically survivable option was relocation and that's exactly what they are trying to do at the moment. For years, we've been marketed as interchangeable helmets inside colored cars. Replaceable, contractual, easy to be managed. But the moment all of us moved in the same direction, the foundation trembled hard.

Zak is alone when I find him in his own room. He looks up as I step in, studies my face for a second then gesture me to sit down. I tell him I'm okay standing up and he isn't insisted.

"It's here. Singapore. Next weekend. They need one more week for things to settle down", Zak says, confirming what I already worked out without explaining things again.

I just nod at his words.

"It'll be framed as safety and logistics. Which isn't wrong, just not fully complete". Zak leans back on his chair while eyes still reading my expression. "There was never a scenario where we let you walk into that without protection."

And by "we", I know he doesn't mean him and Andrea. The whole McLaren team takes our side. Our fellow colleagues too, in the way they didn't stop to think before signing the paper like it was just another random autograph for fans.

"It will be loud. People won't let it slide. But the race will be clean on track."

Zak is a great CEO, he always has valid points and a vision way ahead of us. Sometimes no matter how great your prophecies are, you still can't prevent things from happening. I nod slowly, let him know that I understand the problem then turn around to leave the room. He calls me back from behind, "Win this damn championship for us, yeah?"

***

The room smells like mint tea when I walk in. Oscar is sitting by the window with a cup of tea in his hand, legs stretched out, eyes wandering at the Marina Bay like he's contemplating world domination.

"I thought I was the only one allowed to drink tea? It's cultural appropriation. I'm an authentic British after all."

He doesn't even look guilty. "You've been gone for an hour. I adapted to my boyfriend's lifestyle."

Energy still humming in my mind, I carry the excitement of figuring something out so I didn't pay much attention to the affection word of choice coming out from Oscar. Carefully close the door behind us, I sit in Oscar's lap and start yapping about the news, words spilling out before I can filter them.

"It's Singapore. They're moving the race here. They'll call it safety and logistic but eventually they have to announce a new location for the last race."

Oscar takes a sip, his expression doesn't change even a bit, casually hums along with whatever I tell him like this is a weather forecast.

"You already knew the whole time."

He sets the cup down on the table, use his free hands to pull me in closer. "It was the highest possibility outcome."

Oscar annoys me by being right. Why does he need to be right all the time? He shakes his head lightly and continues to explain the way he put things together. "They couldn't force the race without fracturing the grid. They couldn't fracture the grid without collapsing the championship. Relocation was the only move that preserved control. If it makes you feel better then I only figured it out yesterday morning because I couldn't foresee the drivers' actions."

I run my fingers through his hair, gently tucking his face closer to mine. "Do you just sit here and calculate the political outcome while I go downstairs and interrogate logistics and run around like a fool?"

"Sometimes, yeah", Oscar pretends like he needs to think but I know he always have all the answers in the back of my mind.

I whisper to him between kisses, not wanting to break it, "Remind me never to play chess with you."

"We never play chess babe."

Oscar's phone buzzes against the table, sharp in the quiet, cut off our intimate moment. We both glance down and surprised to see the recipient's name pop up on screen.

Max Verstappen:
Five-time world champion

It's cocky, passive-aggressive and such a Max move. Somehow it shows supportive and arrogant at the same time. I throw Oscar's phone down on the table again and divert my focus back on strangling his thighs, making out with him senselessly. The rest can wait.