---
Silverstone Circuit was buzzing with the kind of energy that only Formula 1 weekends could bring. Mechanics scurried through the paddock, engineers debated strategy in hushed tones, and the distant roar of engines echoed through the air as the teams prepared for Sunday’s race.
Y/N Y/L/N stood near the McLaren garage, her clipboard in hand, a frown etched across her face. She was one of the brightest engineers on the team, having recently been promoted to lead aerodynamics engineer. Her job was to ensure the car was fast, stable, and precise—every millisecond mattered in this sport. But today, something was off.
“Y/N, you’ve got to check the front wing design again. Oscar’s not happy with how the car feels in the high-speed corners,” one of the junior engineers called out.
Y/N sighed. It wasn’t the first time that Oscar Piastri had complained about the car’s setup this season. The young Australian driver, in only his second year of F1, had a reputation for being talented but demanding—constantly pushing for perfection, always wanting more out of the car.
And while Y/N respected his drive, the two of them had been clashing all season.
“He’s never happy,” Y/N muttered under her breath, but she grabbed her tablet and walked toward the garage anyway, ready to face him.
Oscar was sitting in the cockpit of his car, helmet off, a frown on his face as he spoke to his race engineer. His brown hair was messy from the helmet, and his intense green eyes were focused, sharp.
When he saw Y/N approaching, he raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.
“We need to talk about the wing,” Y/N said, her tone more direct than usual. She wasn’t in the mood for any more complaints without solutions. “What’s the issue this time?”
Oscar looked up at her, arms crossed. “The front end is unstable in the fast corners. I’ve told you this, what, three times now?”
“And I’ve adjusted the wing three times,” Y/N snapped back, her patience wearing thin. “The car is performing within the expected parameters. Maybe it’s your driving that needs adjusting.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed, his frustration boiling to the surface. “I’m driving the car to its limits. You know that. If the car isn’t responding the way I need it to, how am I supposed to push?”
Y/N crossed her arms, matching his glare. “This is about compromise. You’re not going to get a perfect car, Oscar. It’s about making the most of what you have.”
“Compromise?” He stood up, stepping out of the car and now facing her directly, the height difference between them evident but not intimidating to Y/N. “You think that’s how you win in Formula 1? By compromising?”
She held his gaze, her heartbeat quickening, though whether it was from the argument or something else, she couldn’t quite tell. “No, but you also don’t win by blaming the car every time something goes wrong. I’ve run the numbers, Oscar. This setup is your best chance at winning on this track.”
Oscar’s expression softened slightly, but the frustration was still there. “I need to feel confident in the car, Y/N. Right now, I don’t.”
Y/N took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. She knew he wasn’t trying to be difficult. This was the nature of Formula 1—drivers and engineers, always pushing each other, always searching for that tiny edge that could make the difference between victory and defeat.
“Okay,” she said, her tone more measured now. “Let’s go through the data together. We’ll see if there’s anything else we can tweak.”
Oscar hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Fine.”
