George William Russell

George's morning on race day was as busy as usual.

He opened his eyes in the dark, the insistent crack of his alarm clock jolted him out of his slumber. A moment later, he was on his feet, chasing away the drowsiness. The icy water washed away the numbness, and the scalding espresso sent a quick jolt through his nerves. He skipped breakfast—the body needs to keep it light; a signature snack awaited him in the pits. Throwing on his formal driver's uniform, he left the hotel and headed for the paddock, where the smell of hot rubber and fuel already hung in the air.

After twenty agonizing minutes in the morning traffic, Russell passed through the parking lot, passed through the turnstile, and rushed into the team's garage. The atmosphere there was buzzing with tension. George greeted the mechanics briefly but warmly, clapped the senior engineer on the shoulder, exchanged glances with Kimi, and shook hands with Toto—the chief architect of their fate.

After changing into a fireproof suit, he returned to the command post. Toto called him over for a tactical discussion: tires, suspension settings, and attack zones. The conversation lasted a few minutes when George, his gaze absently gliding along the walls of the garage, caught a glimpse of a woman's silhouette in the dim light of the technical area. A camera lens gleamed nearby, as someone silently recorded their every move.

Russell instinctively looked away, chalking it up to the media team. But there was something alien about the fleeting observation—an overly intense, scanning gaze from behind the viewfinder. George merely shrugged and returned to the track map, dismissing it as an annoying but minor inconvenience. His world narrowed to the start line and the first turn.