A cloudless sky, a blazing sun. Early summer in Catalonia is always like this, an oppressive, golden heat that makes you want to do nothing but lounge in the sun, soaking in the lazy afternoon.
But the roar of engines and the din of the crowd cut through the haze, an aggressive wave of sound and heat. Standing in the sun for less than thirty seconds, you'd already start to sweat. It was hard to believe it was only May, but Barcelona was already melting, hazy and shimmering in the heat.
The 2017 GP3 Series, after months of waiting, was finally about to begin.
The drivers and the teams were all rubbing their hands together, eager to face the challenges of a new season.
George Russell arrived at the pit garage early. After politely greeting the race engineers and team staff, his eyes immediately found the "bookworm" already sitting in front of a data screen.
Though they weren't close, Russell couldn't resist a good-natured jab. "Einstein, what are the fruits of your research today?"
The figure turned. He looked scholarly, with a bookish air, like a film buff in a library poring over a thick volume on French New Wave cinema. A gentle smile touched his lips, and his bright eyes seemed to hold a galaxy of stars.
"The most difficult corners are almost all right-handers," he said, his voice earnest. "Tire wear is already a major issue at this track, and the forecast is for high heat all weekend. This means the wear-rate difference between the front-left and front-right tires will be significant, which puts a higher demand on brake control. We'll need to manage it from the very start."
He shared his observations openly, holding nothing back.
Russell had just been teasing, but he was met with a completely sincere, detailed analysis. He didn't know how to respond and just let out a small laugh. "Ah, thanks for the info. Very useful. I'll be sure to feel it out when I'm on track."
He didn't linger on the topic, quickly scanning the garage. "So, is it just us two?"
The "bookworm" was Antoine Hubert. He was French, twenty years old, and, for a GP3 rookie, already considered a bit on the older side.
Hubert came from a working-class family and had no financial backing. Despite winning the French F4 Championship back in 2013, he had been unable to find sponsors and was stuck bouncing around regional series. It wasn't until last season, when he got a shot in the F3 European Championship, that he'd finally proven his talent, earning the attention of Nicolas Todt and Vasseur. Now, he was set to race for ART.
He was visibly excited. This was the opportunity he had fought for for years. Every second in this garage felt like a dream.
Hubert grinned. "It's only eight o'clock. Even the team managers haven't arrived at the circuit yet."
Russell immediately understood this was an excuse for their other teammates. Not being here yet didn't mean they were late.
He was still annoyed. "You're not curious?" he pressed.
"About who?" Hubert asked.
Russell was exasperated. "...Who else? Not Jack, obviously. The other one. The one who crawled out from under a rock."
The other ART driver was Jack Aitken, a British-Korean, who at twenty-two was even older than Hubert. Last season, driving for Arden, he had finished a disappointing fifth. His window to impress the F1 teams was closing fast, so he had made the jump to ART, hoping that the fastest car on the grid could help him launch a championship assault.
Aitken, Hubert, and Russell—they were all familiar faces to each other. They had all come up through karts and the junior formulas, and their paths had crossed many times.
Kai, however, was a complete unknown. He had just "popped out of a rock," suddenly appearing on the Ferrari Academy roster and just as suddenly joining ART. The whole process was shrouded in mystery and fueled by wild, unsubstantiated rumors.
Even more bizarre, Kai had only participated in the last of the three official pre-season tests.
For the first two test sessions at Jerez, he had remained at Maranello, supposedly on a "special training plan" in the simulator. The ART engineers had only been able to communicate with him via video conference, and his car had just been run on a baseline setup.
This unconventional approach was extremely rare in the paddock and only made him seem more "special."
Russell had hoped to finally see this mystery man at the Jerez test, but he'd been a no-show. He'd only appeared for a fleeting moment at the final test at the Red Bull Ring, and even then, there was no media, no meet-and-greet. He'd shown up, driven, and left, completely disconnected from the team.
To this day, Russell had only ever seen his back.
His curiosity was killing him. He wasn't just curious about what the guy looked like; he was curious about his background.
That was why he had come to the garage so early—to be the first to meet this "special guest."
And he still wasn't here.
The irritation that had been building in his chest was becoming unbearable.
Hubert, however, was completely unbothered. "Oh, you mean Kai? Yeah, I'm curious, too. He must be quite a character."
Russell was a tall, slender reed, already well over 180cm (6'1"). He had an androgynous handsomeness—like Barbie's features on Ken's face—a strange mix of striking and soft that made him stand out.
Right now, his big, expressive eyes were flashing with irritation, his fine eyebrows knitted together. Talking to Hubert was like punching cotton. He paced, not wanting to stay, but unable to leave.
Just then, another figure appeared in the pit lane. Russell noticed the other team members look up, and he instinctively spun around, bracing himself.
But it was just Jack Aitken, gliding in on a scooter. Russell's frustration only grew.
A second later, he realized how silly his "attack stance" must have looked, and he awkwardly straightened up, shaking his arms out.
"Hey, Jack!" Hubert, however, was happy to see him, waving.
Aitken came over, his features a clear mix of his heritage. He gave Hubert a cool nod, then glanced at Russell. "What's with you? You look like you're starving. Who pissed you off?"
"Ha. Ha," Russell gave a dry laugh. "Take a guess who's the last one to arrive?"
Aitken paused, looking left and right. "Wait, that guy... no way. Is he really that much of a big shot? Even if he is Jean Todt's illegitimate son, he's not Lance Stroll."
Russell just shrugged and rolled his eyes, which said everything. "Maybe he's the next Max Verstappen. Senna reincarnated, Schumacher..."
SLAM!
His sarcastic rambling was cut short by the sound of the door crashing open behind him.
In an instant, his heart stopped. Every sound in the garage was cut off.
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