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collateral damage, part 1

toto wolff faces his own undoing when the daughter he has long buried reappears at the paddock.

ᯓ★ toto wolff x kpop idol!daughter!reader, platonic!seventeen x fem!14th member!reader

ᯓ★ familial estrangement, personal passion v. father’s wishes, miscommunication through assumptions, reunion, deep emotional wounds, crying, 13(!!) protective brothers, lying by omission, emotional breakdown, technically abandonment, found family v. (biological) family, etc. — angst, slight crack (sponsored by seventeen)

ᯓ★ paragraph format — 9.7K words

masterlist

[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

ᯓ★ all the (austrian) german & korean in this are from google, as usual. there are no physical descriptions for yn, nor is she directly referenced to be biologically related to toto. since she’s a kpop idol, she’s implied to be at least half-east/southeast asian. title’s from the band camino’s damage!

ᯓ★ i just wanted an antithesis of the ghost of you!kimi räikkönen, and i somehow made it here? certainly didn’t expected it to be a monster, though, oml. important: you don’t need to know both (f1 & kpop) worlds to understand! :]

Before the program Seventeen TV welcomed its sole female trainee during its third season, Toto Wolff first had to lose his eldest.

The day before Flight OZ731 took off to Seoul, a non-expiring VIP access pass was added into the Mercedes F1 Team’s system. It’s the same pass Toto handed his eldest years ago with a rasped "if you ever decided to visit." It sat like an unfulfilled promise for twelve long years.

Within those twelve years, Toto’s eldest became a whispered myth within Mercedes. Unlike her paternal siblings, her face doesn't grace any of the frames in his Brackley office or the temporary ones he keeps at the paddock. As far as anyone knows, she has never set foot in the Mercedes area—and he has never spoken her name.

Yet, she haunts Mercedes with vengeance. Her presence is felt above the deafening roar and below the absolute silence. She lives in the unsettled tempers and the cold rain.

She exists in the phantom number on his family tree, the only one whose name never reaches the public. She exists in the vague recollections of Lewis Hamilton, Peter Bonnington, Andrew Shovlin, James Vowles, and any other senior Mercedes figures, who remember working for him in the early days.

She exists in the date forever circled in red on his calendar. She exists in the signed music albums he never allows dust to touch.

She exists around him, but never with him since she boarded Flight OZ731 and chased a dream he didn’t approve of.

Now, twelve years later, Mercedes is abuzz with whispers they don’t yet understand: the custom VIP pass they had only heard of just scanned into the paddock.

"I feel like I should fix myself up a bit," one of the mechanics fidgets with his standard-issue uniform. "How’s my hair?"

"Hey, can I hang out here for a bit?" Another finds himself at a different motorhome, seeking refuge. "Mercedes is a jittery hub right now. Something about a ghost visitor."

The air crackles with a nervous energy, a tense anticipation that hangs thick and heavy. They stand on the precipice of a moment they can’t possibly prepare for, holding their breath.

Then, in a single, heart-stopping instant, the wait is finally over.

The fabled VIP access pass swings from the neck of a visitor, catching the light as she moves. A ghost of the man she came from haunts her features, from the determined set of her jaw to the stoicism in her gaze. She's surrounded by thirteen men who move as an impenetrable, well-oiled unit. She’s not their leader, nor their youngest, but their protective wall around her is unmissable.

The whispered "hana, dul, set" halts the paddock's murmurs just in time for the authoritative start of a group introduction. "Say the name—"

"SEVENTEEN!" Fourteen voices echo in the paddock hospitality, synchronized in every beat—down to the humble bow. "Hello, we are— SEVENTEEN!"

As she offers a blinding smile to the murmuring crowd, it's a silent declaration: she belongs to both worlds, yet it's the men standing beside her who truly bring her home.

Toto Wolff can only watch. The world around him blurs, the seemingly ceaseless chatter of the crowd fades into a distant hum. His vision tunnels, narrowing until all he can see is her.

Her—the phantom of a child he once held, a ghost of a daughter who exists only in his memories, superimposed over the woman standing on the makeshift stage. He doesn’t know her.

For a fleeting, agonizing moment, he feels the stoic mask he prides himself on almost shatters. He doesn’t like the thought that just crossed his mind, but her twelve-year absence is a physical weight he can’t ignore. He doesn’t know her.

An F1 staffer purposely hands her a microphone, their hidden agenda as secret as Mercedes’ loud whispers. She accepts it with an inaudible "thank you" before skillfully passing it down the line until the microphone eventually lands on someone who owns it. The familiar, practiced gesture of teamwork makes his chest tighten.

"How does it feel to be here at the F1 paddock?" The interviewer asks.

"Honestly surreal," a clear American accent booms from the foamed microphone. "We’ve been fans of Formula One since our YN—" the possessiveness preceding her name stings, especially with the soft, adoring chuckles the rest directs her way— "introduced us to the sport back in our trainee days. We all came from different backgrounds and had some language barriers then, but watching the races together really brought us closer."

Toto takes every cut each word makes. "Our YN" twists in his gut, a stark reminder that she belongs with them now.

"It’s a dream come true to be here," another member continues succinctly, with a short nod. There’s a slight tremble in his voice, but it fades away when she taps him encouragingly. "It feels like everything’s come full circle."

The ease of their existence around each other pierces through him. He doesn’t know these men whose hearts beat the same way as hers, just like he doesn’t know her.

"Yeah, we just want to say a big thank you to Formula One for having us here," a third member adds on. His American accent sounds more casual than the first, "especially during the year of our tenth anniversary. It really means a lot."

"Congratulations on your tenth anniversary! That’s a huge milestone." The assembled crowd watches as the members pass around the two microphones—almost playing hot potato with them. "Are there any special plans to celebrate the occasion?"

"Thank you," the fourth member unlucky enough to hold a microphone responds. The rest nod along in supportive agreement. "As this is our tenth year as a group, we planned to celebrate the whole year." He chuckles lightly, some chuckling along with him. "But so far we’ve released our fifth full-length album and held a birthday concert with our CARATs."

"We’re actually filming something special while we’re here," her sudden interjection catches a number of people in the crowd off-guard, including him, "but we’ll try our best to stay out of everyone’s way."

Unlike her members, her response is curt and dry. She doesn’t have the playful and friendly undertone the rest had—just professionalism through and through. Even if she tried to smile it off in an attempt to add humor, it’s obvious she says the last part for someone in particular.

Her gaze finds and holds his for a split second, and in that fleeting, devastating connection, he understands. She isn’t there for him.

It makes the most logical sense, yet it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Toto’s ears ring. The air around him thins. His entire world narrows to a single point: her—the phantom of his little girl who loved music more than she loved him.

The interviewer tries his best to bring the energy back. "Since you’ve mentioned you guys have been watching races since your trainee days, which teams or drivers are you guys rooting for this season?"

The one with a clear American accent immediately obliges to his mission. "Oh, we’re all rooting for the same team."

The rest corroborate with a solemn nod—before a cacophony of answers erupts.

"Ferrari."

"Williams!"

"McLaren!"

"Haas."

"Red Bull!"

"Sauber."

"Aston Martin."

"Mercedes!"

"Racing Bulls."

"Alpine!"

The thirteen men name all ten teams at once, effectively making the crowd laugh. It’s a comedic timing perfectly executed. They are cogs of one machine—and he feels the sting of knowing his eldest completes them.

The interviewer chuckles. "It sounds like you guys are a little divided! So which team is the true favorite here?" he asks, looking directly at her. It’s the perfect set-up he must’ve been waiting for.

The entire assembled crowd holds their breath. He finds himself swept up in the silence, his own breath held tight in his chest.

She takes the bait with a nonchalant shrug. Her gaze, cold and steady, finds his, looking away just before her answer changes their lives. "My heart has always belonged to Mercedes."

The backrooms of the Mercedes garage is relatively the quieter part of the entire building, with its padded walls meant to keep the chaos of the paddock out. Toto, as the Team Principal, gets the luxury of occupying the quietest corner, the furthest room from all the action.

In there, he’s just Toto—no decorations attached. Still a boss, a father, and a husband with responsibilities, but with a lifted pressure to perform and be seen. The sterile, white walls of the room serve as a canvas—not an extension of his public persona, but a private space where he can simply exist. It's a sanctuary where he can momentarily step away from the relentless demands of his role and just be.

A knock resonates from the door, breaking his concentration just enough to respond. "Come in!"

He already knows who entered before he looks up. After all, he exists in the fast-paced world of Formula One—his usual visitors start talking as soon as they enter.

His eldest’s silence is purposeful, a deliberate pause between musical notes meant to build anticipation. Her presence, too, vibrates in a frequency distinct from the high-energy rhythm of Formula One—resembling a softer, more complex melody he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t meet her eyes right away. Instead, he looks up and watches as she scans the room with mild interest, taking in the minimal personal touches he's added. There are photos of his wife, Susie; Lewis and Bono celebrating one of their championships; George and Kimi; Benedict and Rosa at Benedict's university graduation; and Jack with his kart.

"I just wanted to drop this off," she eventually says, her voice clear and professional as she places a white-and-green album on his desk. "For your collection."

"Thank you," his response sounds as disconnected as she did despite his sincerity. "I’ll put it with the others."

He sees her gaze linger on a specific empty spot on his desk, where a frame of them during one of her science fairs once stood.

He catches the second a flicker dies in her eyes—and how quick it was for her shoulders to drop ever so slightly and for the determined set of her jaw to harden.

The blow hits him like a Formula One car coming at top speed. He almost tells her about the custom-made, dust-proof cabinet at his office in Brackley where he keeps his favorite childhood photos of her and all the music albums she has sent. He almost tells her how he doesn’t allow anyone else to see them because he doesn’t have the strength to talk about her without being reduced to tears. He almost— but he doesn’t.

And almost is never enough.

"I won’t keep you, Vater." There’s no warmth, no flicker of emotion in her professional tone. "Thank you for having us."

Without waiting for a response, she turns and walks out, leaving him alone with an echo of "Vater"—a title so foreign it contaminates his memories of a little girl who used to call him "Papa."

His eldest earned the nickname "nightingale" early. She was always singing— performing whenever she had the chance. Her favorite toddler toys were a xylophone and a singing contraption, which were later replaced by a toy microphone and a guitar. Eventually, there were formal lessons. Throughout it all, their home never knew true quiet—and he didn’t prefer it any other way.

Toto was proud of her musical talent, but he saw it as just one of her many skills. She was equally gifted in science and never shied away from working with him on projects. He encouraged the music, believing it was important for her to be a well-rounded person, but he never mistook it for her true path.

He never would’ve thought his well-intentioned encouragement would eventually backfire on him.

YN barreled into his office, vibrating on her feet. A Mercedes hat sat proudly on her head, a VIP access pass comfortably resting around her neck. "Papa!"

"Yes, YN?" He looked up, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips as he met her sparkling eyes.

She could barely contain herself. She squealed, "Ich habe eine Zusage von Pledis bekommen!" ["I got an acceptance from Pledis!"]

He gestured for her to sit down, secretly afraid she’d start bouncing off the walls if he left her standing. "Pledis?"

She obliged, humming in affirmation. "Remember I told you about that one judge in my last competition? The one that said she liked my performance so much, she sent a video of it to her boss in Seoul?"

He took a moment to think. He stopped attending her music-related activities when she turned ten, so he was left to rely on her relays and debriefs since. Admittedly, it was more difficult to riffle through memories of her retelling than of her actual performances. "The one that said you might be a good fit to train to be a performer in South Korea?"

"To be an idol, Papa," she corrected, her voice filled with undeniable reverence, "but yes, that. Apparently, the company she works for is Pledis."

He considered it with a slow, thoughtful nod. "Herzlichen Glückwunsch, schatzi." ["Congratulations, darling."]

"Danke, Papa," ["Thank you, Papa,"] she beamed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ich überlege, ihr Angebot anzunehmen." ["I’m thinking of accepting their offer."]

Toto froze at that. He wasn’t versed in what training to be an idol entailed, but the mere fact that she would have to be in South Korea—where he wouldn’t be—was already an unpleasant thought. "Willst du ein idol werden?" ["You want to be an idol?"]

"Well . . . ja, mach i." ["Well . . . yes, I do."]

He couldn’t believe his ears. Not when he had a photo of them during one of her science fairs framed on his desk. Not when two more hung on his office walls: one of her mid-laugh after an experiment exploded on her face; another of her grinning, covered in soot and grime, with a wrench in her hand.

She wasn’t supposed to be a performer. She was supposed to be a problem-solver. An engineer.

"I hob glaubt, du willst Ingenieur werden?" ["I thought you wanted to be an engineer?"] He blurted out, the words tasting like ash laced with desperate hope.

"I hob des nie gsogt." ["I never said that."] YN quickly rebuffed, words sharp. "I hob nur gsogt, 'Ingenieurwesen mocht Spaß.'" ["I only ever said, ‘Engineering is fun.’"]

"Ingenieurwesen mocht Spaß" burn him like a soldering iron. Fun. Not a calling. Not a passion. Not the life he had so meticulously—and silently—planned for her. Just fun.

The foundations of his world began to crumble beneath him, but he persevered like a driver pushing old tires to the checkered flag. He had to make her understand. He needed her to know she’d be making a mistake if she pursued that fleeting path. "Becoming an idol . . . Des is ned praktisch, YN. Des is ka sichere Karriere." ["Becoming an idol . . . That’s not practical, YN. It’s not a stable career."]

He almost took it all back when he saw the light in her eyes dim, with her shoulders tensing and her jaw tightening. A short, desperate plea for her to smile again was already on the tip of his tongue, but his fear for her future was far stronger than his immediate regret.

"Owa du host gsogt, i kann do whatever makes me happy." ["But you said I can do whatever makes me happy."] Her voice was quiet, but heavy with accusation.

"Jo, und i man's ernst," ["Yes, and I mean it,"] he confirmed, his voice a touch softer. "But I didn’t mean this."

"Then what did you mean?"

It wasn’t the first time he and YN didn’t see eye-to-eye. It had been an occasional occurrence since she reached thirteen. Still, it was the first time he felt their relationship was truly on the line.

It didn’t help that this was something he wasn’t prepared to discuss with her, either. Frankly, he didn’t even think he would have to. He thought—

Toto sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose, "Let’s talk about this later, after dinner."

YN didn’t move right away, her body a statue of disappointment, but eventually stood. "Okay."

He hated how the conversation went. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. A part of him was convinced he’d have to thread carefully, else he’d risk completely fracturing his relationship with his eldest. He didn’t want that.

"I hob di liab," ["I love you,"] he called after her, subtly seeking a signal that they were still okay.

YN paused by the door, a small smile returning to her features, "I di a, Papa." ["(I love) You, too, Papa."]

Toto blinks, returning to the reality far removed from what it once was. He’s still behind his desk—in same the office, under the same pin on the map—but nothing else stayed the same. Not the scattered decorations serving as peeks into his personal life. Not the title that still rings in the silence he’s left alone with. Not the distance—chasm—that separates him and his eldest.

It’s difficult to believe he was once, as she put it at seven years old, her "most favorite person in the entire universe."

Now, she can’t even look at him for more than three seconds.

The white-and-green album she left mocks him. The bold, emerald green title blazes like a neon sign—screaming at him with an irrefutable taunt that it knows more about the woman his eldest grew up to be than he ever will.

It jeers him—daring him to look at the woman he created a stranger of.

Toto reaches for the album, fingers tentative as if he’s touching thin glass.

He sees a handwritten letter first. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but he identifies the capitalized block letters of a budding engineer before the familiar script of "Papa" does.

She always wrote "Papa" on the music albums that found their way to him.

Papa, As we cross ten years since our debut, I want to extend my utmost gratitude to you. I know this isn’t the life you wanted for me. You raised me to be someone else—someone with a stable career, someone who builds things and solves problems, someone who follows the path you laid out. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be. I’m sorry I used the blueprint you drew to follow a path that took me away from you. I used every lesson you ever taught me—to trust myself, to work hard, to stand back up every time I fall—because I was too afraid to hold onto you. I couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden or of you regretting letting me go. They were all I had. It wasn’t easy reaching ten years. As the only girl in a group with thirteen boys, there were moments I wanted to quit, to find someone who could contact you and just take me home. But every time I almost did, I remembered what you told me once: failure is a necessary part of the journey. You said a true champion’s mark isn’t in their wins, but in their ability to keep going. I never forgot that. It’s probably not what you want to hear, but a part of you is the reason I made it this far. So, thank you, Papa. Really. With love, Your YN P.S. I hope it’s not too much to ask for a hug when we meet.

Toto’s eyes blurs as the stoic façade he has fought hard to maintain fractures with a hot, single tear. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

He stares at the last lines like they’re his lifeline.

His breath shudders, hands suddenly unable to hold the feather-light paper.

For twelve years, he had foolishly believed his little girl merely haunted him because he refused to let her go. His secret, dust-proof cabinet was a shrine to a time he couldn't get back and to a person he had lost. He had convinced himself that the albums bearing her name and face were just artifacts, not messages.

Worse, he had assumed she was gone because he didn't recognize her in the woman before him. She didn't smile or laugh the same. She didn't look at him the same. She no longer addressed him the same.

But that wasn't the case.

His little girl hadn't left; she had simply learned to protect herself and be self-reliant because she thought she couldn't count on him. She was still here, hidden under all the calluses and the wounds she had endured alone in twelve years.

It was all his fault.

Toto lifts his gaze in a futile attempt to discourage another tear from escaping, but it merely lands on the empty spot on his desk, where a frame of them during one of her science fairs once stood.

His eldest— YN came to his office with a hope for reconciliation, eyes searching for a sliver of love, and found herself completely erased from his life.

She walked out the door thinking he didn’t love her—and he let her.

It’s strange to be back at the paddock where she received the email that changed her life forever. She was only fifteen years old then; now, a lifetime later in her late twenties ("Practically thirty," as she and her members would joke whenever their muscles strained a little too much), she’s a stranger to her own life.

Being back in this domain of her childhood with her members is a surreal full-circle moment. She had first introduced them to this world when a language barrier stood between them. Now, she’s finally sharing its magic with a group that understands her beyond words.

Frankly, she was excited when their staff told them Formula One had allowed them to film here. She would have assumed a working race week would be off-limits for a film crew, but a part of her suspected her birth surname had something to do with the special permission.

Alas, as she just realized, it couldn’t be a string her father pulled.

YN tries not to think about it, but she sees the empty spot on his desk every time she blinks.

"Excuse me," a voice breaks her out of her thoughts just before she reaches the front of the Mercedes garage. She halts. It’s George Russell.

She guards her expression to mask her confusion. Why is an F1 driver approaching her? "Yes?"

"Do you mind if I tag along to the tour for you and your mates?"

She fights hard to not squint at him suspiciously. "Mr. Russell—" she sees no need to pretend she doesn’t know who he is— "with all due respect, don’t you have more important things to do than follow along to a tour of your workplace?"

"Just George, please," he offers an easy smile with his polite request. "And technically, yes, I do. I’m between debriefs and simulator sessions, so I’m free to roam."

She doesn’t buy the flimsy excuse. The paddock is a hive of activity, and an F1 driver doesn’t just "roam." Her eyes flickers to the closed office door she just left, a clear accusation forming on her tongue. He sent you, didn’t he? As his spy, his proxy?

She bites the thought back, in the name of her SEVENTEEN, and reminds herself can’t afford to burn a bridge when she’s a ghost so thoroughly erased. Right now, she’s not just an unwanted reminder of the past her father had apparently buried, she’s also a shield for her thirteen brothers, and she won’t let this man—or the man who sent him—breach her defensive wall. "It’ll be in Korean."

George doesn’t let it deter him. He merely shrugs, his natural charm oozing through, "It’ll be fun."

YN is really contemplating asking if he knows her, because why else is he insisting on tagging along with a bunch of foreign strangers? He doesn’t look like he knows Kpop, much less SEVENTEEN. Alas, she isn’t mentality available to hear any of his possible answers to that, so she just sighs. "I’ll ask."

After all, as her brothers often remind her, she isn’t alone—and SEVENTEEN makes decisions together.

Before either of them can say anything else, she feels her members’ presence before they appear in her line of sight. It's a low hum of energy, a familiar, chaotic rhythm that her body instinctively relaxes into. It's the same feeling she gets just before a show starts or a song drops.

Kimi Antonelli is in front of them, looking every bit like a guide assisting a lost group, his politeness is a stark contrast to the boisterous energy that radiates from the thirteen men behind him. "Here we are," he says with a wide, polite gesture, "the Mercedes garage."

"Thank you, Ki—"

"YN!" Mingyu’s polite gratitude is effectively interrupted by Soonyoung’s unrestrained glee. The sound of her name, shouted in pure excitement, releases endorphins in her brain—dissolving the armor further hardened by her cold encounter with her father.

A smile immediately decorates her features, starting from the corners of her lips and reaching her eyes. Relief visibly spreads through her entire body, relaxing her posture from a tightness she didn’t even realize.

She excuses herself to George with a slight bow, her feet already closing the gap between her and her members. "멤버들!" ["Members!"]

"우리 Max Verstappen 만났어!" ["We met Max Verstappen!"] Her older brother excitedly reports, his voice still filled with awe, as soon as she approaches.

The pure, unadulterated joy on his face is contagious. "Max 만났어?" ["You met Max?"] She asks, her own voice full of genuine, wide-eyed wonder. "와아. 대박! 너희 사진 찍었어?" ["Woah. That’s awesome! Did you guys get a picture?"]

Jihoon hums, his usual dry humor making her smile even wider. "우리도 순영이만 같이 사진 찍게 했어." ["We also got him to pose for a photo with just Soonyoung."]

"순영이형 Max한테 호랑해 시켰어," ["Soonyoung made Max do Horanghae,"] Minghao reports, a hint of playful accusation in his voice. He grins at her, knowing she’ll get the joke.

YN laughs at that, the sound warm and genuine. The heavy weight of her father's disapproval and her own painful memories falls away, replaced by the simple thrill of her members' happiness. She’s the one who told them that Soonyoung and Max should take a picture together, because he's SEVENTEEN’s tiger and he’s F1’s lion.

For a moment, surrounded by the familiar comfort of her brothers, she feels a profound sense of peace—and utterly forgets where she is. "나 그거 좀 봐야 돼." ["I need to see that."]

Unfortunately, it’s not meant to last long, for Chan unknowingly brings her back to the reality. "저 남자가 자꾸 쳐다봐, 누나." ["That man keeps staring at you, YN."]

Her brothers’ expressions change in an instant, sharpening with a promised threat. Twelve older wolves follow the youngest’s line of sight, eyes already narrowed, before she can even comprehend.

"그 남자가 우리 YN 좋아해?" ["Does he like our YN?"] Jeonghan questions for the rest, voice dangerously low and almost conspiratorial.

YN’s sensitive ears picks up Kimi’s amusement from somewhere behind her. "They’ll eat you alive."

The air around her cackles as thirteen pairs of eyes cage George Russell.

YN can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up from deep within her, melting the tense cage of eyes into endeared looks.

George Russell joins the tour, in the end. Not because YN vouched for him, but because Kimi did. She is yet to hear how her members unanimously approved of the younger Mercedes driver and his judgement, but she has no complaints. It’s just a shame that his word landed opposite of what she was hoping for.

She could’ve vetoed it, but her curiosity about George’s endgame is a stronger force than her apprehension, so she simply lets it happen.

George doesn’t fight to be their tour guide, but he doesn’t question why she wants to be, either, instead of getting a Mercedes team member to do it. Unfortunately for him, that doesn’t help loosen up her apprehension—if anything, it just strengthens her suspicion that he does know who she is; that he’s sent to her way with a mission.

YN decides to give him a show. After all, she is a performer, and she knows how to play a part.

"Alright, 여러분." ["Alright, everybody."] She claps once, perfectly mimicking the opening of her group’s iconic set opener "Clap." It doesn’t resonate as loudly as Seungcheol’s, but it does its job. "들어가기 전에: 프라이버시 문제로 촬영은 불가하다는 점 다시 한번 말씀드립니다. Capisce?" ["Just a heads-up before we go in: filming is not allowed due to privacy concerns. Capisce?"]

"Capisco!" Her members and George reply in unison. She grins, satisfied. She’s the one who taught her members that, back when Italian was still strong on her tongue.

"Yeah! Let’s go!" Seokmin cheers, visibly—and audibly—excited. "여행 가이드 Wolff!" ["Tour guide Wolff!"]

On any other day, she wouldn't have even blinked at the sound of her own surname. Her members call her "Wolff" so often, on- and off-camera, that it's become their special nickname for her. Her representative emoji is a gray wolf, too, so even their fans—CARATs—sometimes call her "wolf," even though they don't know her birth name. She’s simply too used to the name.

Unfortunately, today is different. Today, she's at the paddock, surrounded by the past she traded away for a future in a field she loves. Today, she's carrying the heavy weight of being erased by someone she'd held onto for twelve long years.

She doesn't even notice her own flinch at the sound of her surname, but she prays it was quick enough that her members missed it.

YN decidedly nods before guiding them towards Mercedes’ F1 cars for this season, signaling the official start of her special tour. "In front of you is the W16—"

She goes to describe the car in great, easily digestible detail, in a mix of Korean and English. She continues to do the same even as she continues on with tour and guides them deeper into the Mercedes garage, often also relating things to what her members understand best. She doesn’t shy away from their—nor George’s—technical questions, either, and actually relishes them.

"Over here are the offices for the team engineers," she gestures to the closed doors around them. "We have race engineers—걔네들은 완전 지훈이랑 범주 같아! 그리고 순영오빠! They make sure all the parts are working properly, and the 최종 제품 is 무대에 오를 준비가 되었는지 확인해." ["We have race engineers—they’re like Jihoon and Bumzu! And Soonyoung! They make sure all the parts are working together properly, and the final product is ready for the stage."]

"The performance engineers are," she pauses to think of a new analogy, but comes up short, "also like 지훈오빠 and 범주오빠. They’re like songwriters—all the data를 보고 driver한테 차를 최대한 잘 쓸 수 있게 얘기해주는 거지." ["The performance engineers are also like Jihoon and Bumzu. They’re like songwriters—they look at all the data and tell the driver how to get the most out of the car."]

YN’s pride bubbles up from her stomach. The utter fascination in her members’ faces is the exact reason why she denied the tour guide Mercedes offered them. Their guide had to be her—not because she spoke Korean, but because she’s one of them.

Besides, she has been waiting to introduce them to the world she grew up in beyond the limitations of a television screen and a yearly subscription. They have immersed her into the contrivances that led them to her throughout their ten years together, and today’s simply her turn. Never mind that she discovered herself nonexistent in what she had considered her home.

"You should say your name, too, YN," Jihoon—the member who has constantly seen her post-11 AM self under neon lights for the past twelve years—pipes up, voice clear despite being in a language he’s not confident in. "You’re our engineer, too."

Heat rises up from the back of her neck to the tip of her ears. She may be used to receiving compliments in her idol life, but one from her members always weighs more than others. Especially one from Jihoon, whose affections rarely escape outside the form of a song.

"Yeah, Producer NIGHTINGALE," Joshua chimes in with a grin.

YN lets out a soundless, slightly embarrassed laugh. Her members have absolutely no idea how much their words mean to her right now, while she’s surrounded by a world that didn’t love her back.

"You flatter me," she playfully waves away their indirect compliments before flashing them a bright smile. "고마워요, but let’s go back to the tour." ["Thank you, but let’s go back to the tour."]

However, before she can continue with her descriptions of the different engineers in the team, one of the doors behind her opens. Her idol manners immediately kicks in, and she turns to greet whoever it is. "Hello!"

It’s Peter Bonnington, the very man she looked over telemetry and data with more than a decade ago. "Oh, hello! I’ve never seen you around here before."

She smiles through the pang that she felt in her chest. "Oh, no, no. I’m not from here." She quickly gestures to the group behind her, unwilling to have the mistaken belonging on her shoulders for longer than necessary. "I’m with them."

"Hello!" She hears her members greet in not-so-perfect unison. She doesn’t need to turn around to know most of them smiled politely.

Bono greets them back, returning the polite gesture. He turns his attention back to her, eyebrows slightly scrunched. "But you’re leading a tour?"

The lie spills out too easily, her voice laced with the conversational professionalism she mastered in the ten years. "My father used to work here, so I remember my way around." But, then again, is it really a lie if the father she met today isn’t the same one that drove her to the airport twelve years ago? "I just wanted to give my members a more personalized tour."

She doesn’t miss how he tried to catch a glimpse of her pass, presumably to get her name. Unfortunately for him, she intentionally wore it the wrong way around. "You must’ve been in here a lot."

She opts to give a non-answer, starting with a half-hearted chuckle. "We’ll try to keep it down, Mr. Bonnington."

YN knows she can just introduce herself. Yet, she has concluded it inappropriate. Not because she’ll be using her birth surname to validate her return, but more so because she has obviously been removed in this world for a reason. She may not know why, but she wants to try and respect that—regardless of it hurting like she has been ran over by an F1 car on a straight.

"Right, well," he takes one hesitant step away without taking his eyes off of her. She tenses under his analytical stare. "I’ll leave you kids to it, then."

She only relaxes once Bono disappears in a corner, full attention returning to the crowd curiously looking at her. For a second there, she was frightened by the thought of being recognized. "You probably recognize his 목소리. That was—" ["You probably recognize his voice. That was—"]

The Mercedes tour continues without any more surprise interruptions. Eventually, she finally leads them to a hidden corner of the garage. Its door is unassuming, perfectly blended with the surrounding walls. There’s also a trick to opening it—something that only a few people back then knew how to do.

And, by the looks of it, that still holds true to this day.

The room looks almost exactly like how she last saw it, with a singular tire at the bottom of the tire rack and a cushioned nook seat. There’s no sprinkle of dust.

"여기서 낮잠 잤었어요," ["I used to take a nap here,"] she says, her voice thick with emotion, looking at the cushioned nook. A familiar, sharp ache blooms in her chest. "Pledis 합격 통보 받았을 때, 여기 있었어." ["I was here when I received the acceptance from Pledis."]

She catches Seungcheol share a look with Junhui, and she takes it as a sign to disperse them and let them explore the room. There’s admittedly not a lot going on in the room, with it being the most uninteresting part of the garage, but—it means something to her, and she knows her brothers can appreciate that.

George slides next to her the second they disperse. For a moment, neither of them says anything. The quiet of the room weighs between them, a stark contrast to the distant rumble of the garage.

"How did you know about this place?" He asks, his voice a low, awed murmur that barely breaks the silence.

YN keeps her eyes trailed on her members, a small, sad smile playing on her lips. She doesn't look at him, but she can feel the weight of his stare. "I used to be here a lot," she replies, her voice softer now, echoing Bono's words like a ghost.

At her peripherals, she sees him turn fully to look at her. The expression on his face is a raw, unguarded look of awed confusion. It’s a look she doesn’t understand, as if her simple answer has shaken his entire perception of this place.

"I didn’t even know about this place," He says, the disbelief in his tone palpable. "And I’ve been here for years."

She finally turns to him, a hint of her old self-assurance returning in a wry smile. She shrugs, pushing back a comment about him being a terrible spy. "Now you know."

You’re a good actor, but not quite as good as me.

She walks away to join her members, the wall between them back in place.

YN almost makes it through. She just has to guide her members and George back to the front of the Mercedes garage, and give her closing remarks. She just has to fall back to her place next to her members before they address the crew for a general thank you—for their hard work, for letting them momentarily invade. She just has to do those three things.

But she doesn’t make it.

Because she made the critical error of freezing as soon as she spots the model car for the W04, Mercedes’ F1 car for the 2013 season. It's the very same model car she last saw in person, the very same one she had asked her father if she could put in the display.

It might’ve been a split-second freeze, but a split-second is enough for them who understand each other beyond words.

The corners of YN’s eyes start to burn.

"Ow!" She hears Seungkwan somewhere behind her, effectively snapping out of her trace. She’s next to him within a blink, as are the rest of their group. "I— I think . . . Too much coffee . . ."

Her personal sorrow is immediately forgotten, having been replaced with worry for a younger brother. "어디가 아파?" ["Where does it hurt?"]

She mentally goes through the paddock blueprint in her head. She needs to calculate the quickest way to the medical center. Perhaps if they—

"아이구!" ["Ugh!"] Seungkwan almost doubles over, but is saved by Wonwoo who steadies him.

"잠깐만, 승관아," ["Hold on, Seungkwan,"] Seungcheol’s leader tone is tainted with concern. "YN—"

She doesn’t wait for him to finish. "어디로 가야 할지 알아." ["I know where to go."]

"알았어—" ["Alright—"] Wonwoo takes that as his cue to lead Seungkwan out the door, with Seokmin hovering on the other side in case he needs extra support. YN follows, with Mingyu’s hand on the small of her back.

"It was wonderful meeting you, George!" Vernon calls over his shoulder. She’s glad her brother did that courtesy for her, because she certainly doesn’t feel like extending it to her father’s proxy herself.

She doesn’t look back as she guides Mingyu’s hand to hold hers instead.

SEVENTEEN doesn’t relax their protective wall around Seungkwan until they’re halfway to the Mercedes motorhome. Despite their extreme proximity barely giving them enough room to walk, their formation—unconsciously formed as it may be—never breaks.

That is, until YN tries to take a turn to the medical center . . . just for Mingyu to tug her back.

"이쪽으로 돌자," ["Let’s turn this way,"] she instructs, lightly gesturing with her head.

Her eyebrows immediately touch when her same-age brother merely lets go of her hand to put an arm around her shoulders. "아니." ["No."]

"근데 승관이—" ["But Seungkwan—"]

"—는 연기를 너무 못 해!" ["—Is terrible at acting!"] Junhui completes her sentence from the back. He sounds incredibly offended, somehow.

YN suddenly stops in her tracks, causing those behind her to stumble on their feet. No one falls, thankfully. "뭐라고?" ["What?"] Her disbelieving eyes search their faces.

Seungcheol intercepts before she can say everything else that’s on the tip of her tongue. "먼저 들어가자." ["Let’s go in first."]

She knows better than to argue with her leader.

Once Joshua finally closes the door to their assigned guest room inside the Mercedes’ motorhome, YN wastes no time. She finds Seungkwan, her gaze still edged with concern amidst her confusion. "승관아, 괜찮아?" ["Seungkwan, are you okay?"]

Seungkwan gives her a thumbs up, his smile a little sheepish. "나 괜찮아, 누나." ["I’m okay, YN."]

"그랬으면 왜—" ["Then why did you—"] She halts, thoughts racing. She thinks back to the garage, to the exact moment she heard her younger brother shout in agony— "Oh."

"‘Oh,’ indeed," Vernon echoes with a short nod.

It’s not the first time one of them feigned an illness to get out of a situation. They’re not exactly proud of it, nor the number of times they’ve resorted to it, but some situations are just too difficult to escape using different methods. Truthfully, they continue to be amazed that they’re still finding new kinds of situations they desperately need to get out of.

Had she been in the right state mind, she would’ve effortlessly seen through the act. She would’ve remembered that such dramatics are reserved for what they codenamed as ‘last resort.’ But, alas.

Her relief manifests in an audible breath. "우리 차 빌려야 할 줄 알았어." ["I thought we’d have to borrow a car."] Unfortunately, that relief also comes with weakened knees and opened tear ducts. "괜찮아서 정말 다행이에요." ["I’m really glad you’re okay."]

There’s already a crowd around her before a tear even escapes. YN’s cries intensified the more seconds passed—starting with a mere silent waterfall on her cheeks, to a loud, sobbing mess. She clings to the closest member—Joshua, judging by his perfume and built—and buries her face.

"미안해." ["I’m sorry."] She apologizes hoarsely, voice breaking with every syllable, overwhelmed with emotion. "I ruined—" her words slips in English, suddenly too emotional to translate them into Korean— "I can’t—"

As always, her brothers understand before she even expresses herself correctly. "괜찮아, YN아, 영어로 말해도 돼. 우리가 이해하려고 노력할게." ["It’s okay, YN, you can talk in English. We’ll try to understand."]

And, right now, that’s all YN needs.

When the program Seventeen TV welcomed its sole female trainee during its third season, her brothers gained a sister who would one day teach them the quiet tragedy of a man’s loss.

She joined them with no Korean they could understand, but they understood her heart all the same. They saw the fire they all had, burning bright and glowing hot. They understood that her passion wasn’t just a dream; it was a lifeline. It was a purpose that gave her strength, a drive that gave her a future, and a dedication that gave her a new life.

Her words might’ve been foreign and broken, but her actions bared her heart—and that was enough.

She was their sister, their YN, from there on out.

YN introduced them to the fast and furious world of Formula One. With table napkins and nearly ink-less pens, she drew them into the horrifying wonders of high-speed corners and the bewildering ballet of strategy. Soon, she hooked them with the blurred colors of dangerous speed, and before they knew it, they were eleven teams and a thousand questions deep. Practices didn’t just end with replays of their final take; they ended with replays of races they were too busy to watch on time. Their performances weren't just powered by sheer energy and passion, but by the lingering thrill of high-speed chases and team rivalries as well. Formula One gave them a drive on nights when all else failed.

While YN introduced them to the vast and open ocean of Formula One, her personal life remained a quiet island they could not reach. The only map they had was an ‘all about me’ worksheet meant for grade schoolers, a single page full of conversation starters that never did.

They learned every detail of her talents, from the formal lessons that taught her piano, guitar, and violin to the raw, self-taught passion behind her every dance. They knew her favorite pieces to play and which choreography was her favorite to perform. They had heard her offer elaborate explanations for her chosen lyrics and composers, yet they had never once heard her utter her father’s name. They knew the names of her favorite fictional characters, the titles of songs that made her cry, and which movie she had seen a thousand times, but they did not know the name of her favorite person in the world: her Papa.

Over time, the surface of her quiet island became charted territory, but the secrets beneath it remained a mystery. Her heart, once a closed off cove, began to open its shores only after their debut. The secrets she carried were not hidden behind grand, fortified walls, but would slowly surface with the rising tide of their trust.

For a long while, the word "Papa" only existed on the ‘all about me’ worksheet she had to fill out during their trainee days—right next to My favorite person is.

Then, there was the "My Papa would’ve liked this" after she had the taste of the Korean dish they made her try during their strictly timed breaks. Back then, it held no real weight, but they agreed it must’ve been a compliment, based on how she went for seconds.

Next was her nonchalant "I used to do this a lot with my Papa" as she expertly loosened lug nuts, her movements quick and precise, the afternoon one of their group vans suddenly needed a tire change on their way back from a television program. Their driver/manager then didn’t know how to do it himself, and she was already on it before he could call for assistance. She didn’t elaborate, even when she said the same thing on a separate morning when their van broke down on their way to a schedule, and she correctly identified the issue after taking a short good look under the hood.

Their curiosity almost overflowed that day, with their own knowledge of cars limited. Thanks to Wonwoo’s cheers ("우리 YN이 가는 것 좀 봐!" ["Look at our YN go!"]), they were able to start building sandcastles on her island’s shore. For her equally nonchalant "별거 아니에요" ["It’s not a big deal"] told them everything they needed then.

The sandcastles of their assumptions were built from those nonchalant, unelaborated statements. The best they could do, given the very limited information, was assume that YN was very close with her father and that he had probably passed before she moved to Seoul. It made sense, consistent with her unwillingness to share anything else. They didn’t want to push through her tides, with the uncertainty of death, so they just let the waves take them adrift.

However, that sandcastle was ransacked by a powerful wave almost a year into their debut. They had just gotten their first music show win for "Pretty U" in Show Champion. Their emotions were high—they had cried on stage, on camera. They were on calls with their parents almost as soon as they were able. Even Joshua’s mother in Los Angeles and Minghao’s parents in Anshan celebrated with them through a video call. Thirteen calls, fourteen members—and YN just shrugged off their expectant looks with, "My Papa hasn’t attended any of my music-related activities since I was ten years old," before asking them if they were up for watching the replay of the F1 race last weekend to celebrate.

Mercedes got a 1-2 in that race, with Nico Rosberg ahead of Lewis Hamilton. They only remember that factoid because YN’s reaction to the win mirrored her reaction to their own. (That, and because Jihoon broke off of the Red Bull Alliance™ with Seungcheol to pledge his loyalty to Mercedes.)

It was difficult to warp their heads around the new information they heard about her Papa. How could he and YN be so close, but he stopped attending something important to her a whole five years before she became a trainee? Is he really dead like they’ve been assuming?

The half-formed new sandcastle crumbled when Chan innocently asked, awestruck, "Mercedes가 네 Papa 팀이야?" ["Is Mercedes your Papa’s team?"]

". . . 네." [". . . Yes."]

It didn’t disprove the strengthened ‘death’ theory, but it did give them a new angle to ponder. Suddenly, her western surname felt heavier than a mere coincidence. Suddenly, her choice to keep it hidden felt heavier than a mere plea for privacy. Suddenly, her body language whenever Mercedes’ Team Principal appeared on screen felt heavier than they ever noticed before.

Suddenly, the new sandcastle was a walled fortress caging a thought: What if YN Wolff is actually Toto Wolff’s daughter?

They collectively hated that thought. Because it’d mean something they couldn’t help her with; something that they couldn’t even begin to understand.

Time helped them to be fluent in silence with each other. Along with that silence came a quiet recognition of the pain and sadness that subtly manifested in YN’s every move, and a growing comfort in knowing their presence hopefully offered enough.

When their managing staff gathered them for a meeting about an offer from Formula One, they were equally ecstatic and skeptical. While it was an honor to be recognized by the very sport that played such a big part in their lives, they were also collectively concerned about how YN would take the offer.

"네 생각은 어때, YN아?" ["What do you think, YN?"] Joshua had innocently asked then, after he sharing a subtle look with the others within his line of sight without moving his head.

It was only appropriate. After all, she was the one who introduced them to the sport. It would be uncontestedly more important to her than it’d ever be for them. "내 생각에 . . . 우리 그 제안을 받아들이는 게 좋을 것 같아." ["I think . . . We should accept the offer."]

"정말 좋은 기회라고 생각해," ["It is a good opportunity,"] Minghao supported slowly, his voice almost dipping, Is that what you really want?

"우리 기념일에 좋을 것 같아." ["It’ll be great for our anniversary."] Yes.

They didn’t contest. They couldn’t. Their concern might’ve been a lingering whisper in their minds, but the sheer, unfamiliar light on her eyes was a resounding promise they had to keep. They supported the choice because it was hers to make.

The members' months were a blur of Caratland, a comeback, and a dozen other packed schedules. YN's anticipation, however, was a steady, quiet beacon they learned to read. They didn’t need her to mention the upcoming schedule; they were fluent in her subtle cues. They saw her joy in the ghost of a smile that seemed to etch itself at the corner of her mouth, in the extra spring in her steps, and in the way she needed less of her usual creative fuel to keep her focused during long nights in the studio.

Up until they saw her with George Russell by the entrance of the Mercedes garage, they had been convinced they made the right choice.

Then they saw her flinch at her own surname, caught her lying to her favorite driver's old race engineer, heard her voice break while talking about her Pledis audition, and witnessed her freeze in front of the car models. (Not to mention her forgetting about their years old ‘last resort’ and believing Seungkwan’s poor execution.)

They didn’t have time to confer, but their shared conclusion was immediate. The team YN loves with her whole heart—Mercedes—is the heart of her pain.

And now, YN’s crying in Joshua’s arms like she hasn’t cried for twelve years.

It’s supposed to be an inside joke between them and CARATs that she has thirteen useless brothers, but in this moment, those words have never felt truer.

The feeling of helplessness is brief, however, because the group’s response is a swift and practiced choreography. Only Minghao and Seungkwan remain, a quiet barrier against the rest of the world as YN leans into Joshua. The others splitup, each with an unspoken purpose: Junhui, Seokmin, and Mingyu go to find something for her to eat; Jihoon and Vernon, in a bittersweet effort to bring her comfort, go to get the Red Bull she drinks like water; and Soonyoung and Chan go to fetch her actual water.

This leaves Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Wonwoo to do what they do best. This is a crisis, and it is time to strategize.

"우리 여기 오지 말았어야 했어." ["We shouldn’t have come here."] Wonwoo’s observation perfectly encapsulates the unspoken consensus. His voice is a soft whisper, yet firmly absolute.

Jeonghan, who hasn’t found the strength to look away from YN’s shaking form, rebuts with a fact they’ve forgotten as soon as her tears started flowing. "근데 걔 너무 기대했었어." ["But she was so excited to go."] His voice, too, is heavy with the same sadness as the younger one. "걔가 하고 싶었던 거야." ["It’s what she wanted."]

Seungcheol’s shoulders are heavy with self-inflicted blame. As their general leader, and her unit leader, he feels the full weight of their decision. "그리고 우리 더 잘 알았어야 했어. 우리 그랬어야 했는데 . . ." ["And we should’ve known better. We should’ve . . ."]

"아니." ["No."] Wonwoo doesn’t let the eldest continue. He acts as a voice of reason, leaving little room for argument. "그럴 수 없었어. 그때는 그냥 추측뿐이었잖아." ["We couldn’t have. All we had then were assumptions."]

Seungcheol shakes his head, his face an indescribable mix of frustration and sorrow. "봐, 결국 이렇게 됐잖아. 우리 YN만 더 힘들어졌어. 지금 너무 슬퍼하고 있어. ["Yeah, and look where they landed us. Our YN’s worse off. She’s mourning."]

The word mourning hangs in the air, a vacuum of silence. Across the room, Seungkwan and Minghao halt their efforts to soothe YN, their hands freezing in mid-air. They both look at Seungcheol, but say nothing; they, as Jeonghan and Wonwoo, know he’s right.

This isn’t the first time they’ve witnessed YN cry, but it is the first time they have heard her wail—a raw, gut-wrenching sound that tore from her very soul. It was a grief so complete, so all-consuming, that mourning was the only word that could describe it.

No one can blame the other seven who thought of ways to leave the room in a fragile hope of alleviating her sorrow.

"그녀가 여기까지 온 데에는 이유가 있었어요." ["There was a reason she came here."] Jeonghan is the first to break the latest wave of silence. His eyes, still fixed on YN, are glossy—not with tears, but with memories the rest can’t see. He swallows, a quiet effort, before adding, "어 . . . 뭔지는 모르겠는데, 걔는 여기에 와야 했어." ["I . . . I don’t know what it is, but she needed to be here."]

YN’s eyes are swollen and bloodshot by the time half of SEVENTEEN comes back with the physical offerings of their fragile hope.

On the floor of their borrowed room, a modest feast is laid out just for her. There are apparently no foldable tables in the Mercedes motorhome, and she refuses to move from her post-cry state.

She sniffles into her newly cooked ramyeon, the steam a poor comfort against the remnants of her heartbreak. With the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, she looks feverishly sick, a poster-child for a pain that has nothing to do with a fever.

On any other day, this scene would have been material for a photo, a joke, a birthday post. But her current state was too far from amusing, her stillness too heavy with what she carried.

This isn’t stress, and it isn’t something a few days off can fix.

She has lost a love, and she needs to mourn it.

They cannot fix a loss so fundamentally irreversible, but they can be her home while she navigates it—no matter how long it takes.

YN chews the ramyeon with a faraway look in her eyes, her movements mimicking a machine running on autopilot low on oil. Her voice, light and hoarse, ripples through the weighted silence. "He erased me."

The acceptance in her voice is jarring, as if she has finally surrendered to a fight she had been fighting alone for years. Her resignation needs no translation.

There is no question in their minds who she’s talking about. After all, after the thirteen of them, there is only one "he" they associated with her. Her Papa.

Her Papa who has enough power and influence to never lose touch—and chose to erase her instead.

All twelve members look at Seungcheol, a wordless understanding passing through their gazes. His blink serves as a discreet nod. "갈래?" ["Do you want to leave?"]

YN’s mechanical movements abruptly shudder to a stop. She doesn't flinch, but her gaze, which had been lost in some distant, private world, snaps back to focus on Seungcheol. The gears in her mind slowly begin to turn, and her response, when it comes, is not quick. "못 가—" ["We can’t—"]

Seungcheol breaks out of the loose circle they’ve unconsciously formed around her to squat directly in front of her. "회사 걱정 마. 내가 알아서 할게." ["Don’t worry about the company. I’ll handle them."] He gently takes the ramyeon from her hands, his eyes holding hers with a fierce, unwavering resolve. "네가 이렇게까지 힘들어하는 곳에 더 이상 두지 않을게." ["We aren’t going to let you stay in a place that causes you this much pain."]

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