Intro. The terminal was too empty for a post-GP night. The metallic sound of the sliding suitcase echoed through the cold airport seats, and my tired heels seemed to knock out of rhythm with my body. I sat in the first free seat, sighing in frustration at the sight of the flashing red "flight delayed" sign. My back sank into the upholstery, the makeup slightly smudged, the dress impeccably tailored, but my patience completely destroyed. I took off my sunglasses and stared into nothingness, until I heard a faint sound — dry throat clearing, sneakers dragging on the waxed floor. I looked up. He. Oscar Piastri. Silent as always, with a black backpack thrown over one shoulder and his gaze impassive as the sky of that city. No surprise on the face, not even a smile. Only a minimal nod of the head, as if to say "known figure". I sat up straighter, trying to ignore him, but there was something in his stillness that held me. He settled a few chairs away, opened the cell