THE DRAGON’S DEN

Monday, April 14, 2025 Aston Martin Performance Center,

Silverstone, UK 08:00 Local Time

The romanticized version of Formula 1 is the one sold on Netflix and plastered across Instagram, is a montage of champagne sprays, private jets, and Monaco sunsets.

The reality of Formula 1 smells like stale sweat, chalk dust, and vomit.

Deep inside the cavernous, hyper-sterile gymnasium of the Aston Martin headquarters, Hyein was discovering this reality the hard way. The youngest driver on the grid was strapped into a medieval-looking contraption known as the Iron Neck. She sat on a reinforced bench, a heavy harness strapped to her head, connected to a pneumatic pulley system designed to simulate the violent lateral Gforces of a Formula 1 car.

"Pull," barked Callum, the team’s lead physiotherapist. He was a mountain of a man with zero empathy in his eyes. "Left side. Hold for five."

Hyein gritted her teeth, her jaw clenching so hard she thought her molars would crack. She strained her neck to the left, pulling against the resistance. The veins in her neck bulged, straining against the delicate skin.

"One... two..." Callum counted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.

At three, Hyein’s muscles gave out. Her head snapped back to the center with a sickening jolt, the harness digging into her forehead. She gasped, her hands flying up to clutch her neck as a sharp, electric spasm of pain shot down her spine and into her shoulder blade.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She squeezed them shut, panting heavily, the sweat stinging her vision.

"You dropped it," Callum said flatly, writing something down on his clipboard. "The load is only twelve kilos, Hyein. That’s baseline."

"It... it cramps," Hyein gasped out, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to knead the knot of muscle that felt like hardened concrete. "My neck isn't used to this. In F3—”

"You aren't in F3 anymore," Callum interrupted, stepping forward and adjusting the pneumatic dial. He increased the pressure. "Formula 3 cars pull maybe two, twoand-a-half Gs. The AMR25 pulls five Gs under braking and through high-speed corners. Lance lifts twenty-five kilos on this machine. Fernando can do thirty."

Hyein looked at the floor, a drop of sweat falling from her nose onto the rubber mat. She felt small. She felt entirely out of her depth. Two weeks ago, she was eating ramen in a dorm room. Today, she was sitting in a multi-million-pound facility being told she was physically inadequate for the job she had just been handed.

"Shanghai is this weekend," Callum said, his tone softening just a fraction, though his words remained brutal. "Turn 1 is a 270-degree right-hander. It tightens as you go. We call it 'The Snail.' You will be cornering at high speed for nearly four full seconds. If your neck fails, your head will drop to the side. If your head drops, your eyes aren't level. If your eyes aren't level, you miss the apex. You miss the apex, you put a twenty-million-dollar car into the wall."

He stepped back, crossing his arms. "Let’s go again. Right side. Push."

Hyein closed her eyes, letting out a ragged sob that she immediately swallowed down. She grabbed the edges of the bench, braced her core, and pushed her head against the impossible weight.

Welcome to the big leagues, she thought, the pain blinding her.

Wednesday, April 16, 2025 Heathrow Airport, Terminal 3 14:30 Local Time

The social hierarchy of Formula 3 was horizontal. They were all kids, all struggling, all flying economy class, eating terrible airport sandwiches, and sleeping on each other’s shoulders in the terminal waiting for budget flights to Budapest or Monza.

The social hierarchy of Formula 1 was vertical. And Hanni Pham was currently staring straight up at it.

Hanni stood in the queue for the Business Class boarding gate for British Airways Flight 169 to Shanghai. She was wearing her standard-issue VCARB team kit, dragging a scuffed carry-on suitcase whose wheel had been squeaking since Bahrain.

She was exhausted, nursing a mild headache, and desperately craving a proper Vietnamese iced coffee.

As she shuffled forward in the line, sandwiched between a snoring businessman and a crying toddler, she glanced out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the tarmac.

A sleek, matte-black Mercedes Maybach glided smoothly across the restricted tarmac, bypassing the commercial gates entirely. It pulled up next to a pristine Bombardier Global 7500 private jet.

The door of the Maybach opened. A man in a tailored Aston Martin polo shirt stepped out and opened the rear door.

Out stepped Fernando Alonso. And right behind him, carrying nothing but a small designer handbag, was Hyein.

Hanni froze in the queue. She watched as a flight attendant in a sharp uniform greeted Hyein with a warm towel and a glass of what looked like sparkling water. Hyein laughed at something Alonso said, a genuine, relaxed laugh before disappearing up the stairs into the private jet. The door closed. The jet engines began to whine.

Hanni gripped the plastic handle of her squeaky suitcase until her knuckles turned white.

A dark, ugly feeling coiled in her stomach. It wasn't hatred. She loved Hyein like a little sister. But it was envy pure, unadulterated, burning envy.

I fought like hell in F2, Hanni thought, her jaw tightening.

I pushed Minji to the absolute limit every single weekend. I bled for every point to earn my super license. I earned my seat in the dirt and the gravel. She looked down at her VCARB logo. The "tractor" of the grid. A car that struggled to get out of Q1.

Meanwhile, Hyein who hadn't even finished a full season of F3 had been handed a golden ticket because a billionaire’s son broke his wrists playing a stupid racket game. Hyein got the private jet. Hyein got the car capable of podiums.

"Excuse me, miss? Boarding group four?" the gate agent called out, breaking Hanni’s trance.

"Right. Sorry," Hanni muttered, handing over her passport.

As she walked down the cramped, carpeted jet bridge toward her seat in row 5, the envy hardened into something colder. Something sharp.

Enjoy the private jet, Hyein, Hanni thought, finding her window seat and shoving her bag into the overhead bin. Because when we get on the track, I'm not going to treat you like a little sister anymore.

Thursday, April 17, 2025 Shanghai International Circuit, Paddock 11:00 Local Time

The air in Shanghai was thick with smog and humidity, wrapping around the paddock like a wet wool blanket. The sky was an oppressive, industrial gray.

For Danielle, the gray matched her mood perfectly.

She sat in the center of the McLaren hospitality suite, surrounded by bright, blinding ring lights. Two makeup artists were hovering over her, applying a layer of matte foundation to hide the dark circles under her eyes. A stylist was pulling at the collar of her fireproof race suit, trying to expose the logo of a new cryptocurrency sponsor.

"Okay, Dani, look to the left. Hold the phone up. Smile!" instructed Chloe, the team’s over-caffeinated PR Manager. "Say the line!"

Danielle stared at the lens of the iPhone. Her cheeks felt numb. She had been doing this since 8:00 AM.

"Hey guys, it’s Dani," she said, her voice bright, bubbly, completely synthetic. "I'm so excited to be here in Shanghai! Make sure you download the app and use code DM11 for a welcome bonus. Let's get racing!"

"Cut," Chloe said, frowning at her iPad. "Dani, sweetie, the energy is a little... flat. You’re the Sunshine Rookie! Give me that Aussie glow! We need the fans to forget about the little bump in Australia, yeah? Let's do it again. More teeth this time."