#construction project management developers

[walkawaytall]

Something that will never cease to amaze and surprise me is the sheer number of ways organizations have managed to package and brand project management styles that are just common sense.

[videogamepoc]

A New Video Game Allows You to Repatriate African Artifacts by Looting Western Museums

Earlier this month, Nyamakop unveiled Relooted, a new video game where players stages heists to take back stolen artifacts from Western muse

Have you ever imagined yourself, on a visit to a major museum, busting through a wall, arms full of ill-begotten African artifacts and ready to return them to their rightful homes? No? Well, you may soon have the chance, thanks to South African video game studio Nyamakop. Earlier this month at the annual Summer Game Fest in Los Angeles, Nyamakop unveiled its latest project, Relooted, a side-scrolling puzzle platformer—think early Tomb Raider or Prince of Persia games—where players join a crew of Robin Hood-esque thieves staging elaborate heists to take back stolen artifacts from Western museums, and repatriate them to the peoples from whom they were taken. As Nyamakop lays out on the game’s listing on the online video game marketplace Epic Games, Relooted takes place in a near future where “the political powers that be brokered a Transatlantic Returns Treaty, promising the repatriation of African artifacts from museums.” But the hitch in the treaty is that it only applies to artifacts on “public display,” leading museums to circumvent the requirement by placing the pieces in highly guarded private collections. And that’s where players come in: scoping out a given facility, carefully constructing an exit route, and then, of course, stealing the artifact and escaping. As Ben Myres, the creative director of the game, explained to Epic in a news post, all of the artifacts in Relooted are based on real-world pieces in Western museums. In crafting the various missions, the developer team spent two years of research narrowing done the list of which pieces, of the hundreds still held by Western museums, into something manageable.

[tmkutawrites]

A World Turned Upside Down

My dear friends, it has Been A Minute. Yes, this is my first post on this blog since September 2025, and my last post was a promise to make sure everything got uploaded once I got home from Nova Scotia.

My, my, how things change.

[The tests for the infection that changed my life]

You see, on my way home from Nova Scotia, I popped positive for COVID. And then…oh, and then. In the last few months, I have had the following harrowing medical adventure:

Had a massive, near-anaphylactic reaction to an unknown trigger at a convention

Slowly became “allergic to everything” including: all food, literal water, and my own house

Went to the ER…twice

Lost 20 pounds in two weeks because I was unable to eat for four days straight

Discovered my house was infested with mold

Had to temporarily move out of said home and back in with my father

Had 30+ vials of blood drawn (with very little answers out of that)

Been to 20+ doctors appointments across 5+ doctors of various specialties

Was medically gas lit, refused treatment, and nearly killed by one of those said doctors

Loaded up with enough antihistamines and steroids to tranquilize an elephant

Finally (finally!) found a specialist who started treating me properly at the end of Decmeber

[Views from my 1st ER visit, before things got Really Bad] "You're too young to be having chest pain. [...] Just take some Tylenol or antacid." [deadpan] "I did. It didn't work. That's why I'm here." "...oh."

As it turns out, when COVID spontaneously triggers a disease that flips your immune system upside down, sends your autonomic nervous system spiraling, and turns your mast cells into a trembling, neurotic, over-reactive little chihuahua of a guard dog… well, you lose the ability to function.

It is hard to describe my slide into hell quantitatively for those who didn’t witness it firsthand, but I went from writing a book in 4.5 months, cycling 30 miles once a week, and voraciously reading at least one book a week to… not. I tested positive for COVID the same day Charlie Kirk was shot. By the end of December, I was unable to stand for more than 5 minutes at a time, engage in any socialization/hobbies, or even idly scroll through social media. All of my energy went to attempting to feed myself what little I could and trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with me.

[Traveling with spontaneous allergic reactions/mast cell degranulation at random environmental triggers includes all of the fun emergency supplies. And a cute capybara nightlight. For balance.]

It was here where my fandom connections "saved" me once again.

I use saved in the loosest term, because I wish I hadn't had it. You see, I was on tumblr for @joydemorra's slide into MCAS hell. Watching a friend go through that sort of thing, especially when you’re thousands of miles away and there is absolutely nothing you can do, is one of those things that sears itself behind your retinas and haunts you at night. So when my symptoms started up, I recognized what was going on immediately.

It took a little bit (or a lot bit) longer to convince my medical team of what I knew. By the time they finally got on board/I fired my first allergist, I had slid so far and so fast that I had become a shell of my former self.

[The author at their sickest/gauntest during the last 3 months]

I am, frankly, extremely lucky. I have decent health care and a day job that is (so far) invested in keeping me around despite [gestures at the last 3 months]. I had a place to go to escape the mold making everything worse, and amazing friends and family who are helping me weather the storm. I am extremely type A, organized, manage construction projects for a living, so I was able to apply those skills to managing my newly developed and rapidly degrading chronic illness.

[One of my Spreadsheets of Doom, which track my daily medications, symptoms, menstrual cycle, and more!]

I didn’t know that testing positive for COVID on September 10, 2025 would turn my entire life upside down, but here we are. It is only now, about 2.5 weeks into starting treatment—treatment I begged and pleaded for over a month before I found a doctor who would listen—that I am starting to recognize myself again.

[Glass of water in an Addams Family cup, and silver packet of Cromolyn Sodium medication, a mass cell stabilizer and the first step of my new treatment]

Answers are starting to come into sharper focus as I respond to medication and get the scans I should have been given weeks ago. The exhaustion and brain fog are slowly starting to lift and I am able to start considering things other than survival. I’m starting to daydream about my characters again, and have scribbled ideas down for a new story or two now that I am no longer “disassociating and dragging my corpse along behind me.” Some day soon I might even have the energy to sit down and write them!

As we continue to trial drugs that stabilize my condition and get me back on my feet, I’ll continue to be a little less active on social media but don’t worry! I’m still here and I’m still kickin’! My misbehaving mast cells can get in line with all the government entities and assholes who want people like me and mine dead.

I have stories to tell to keep my community out of the dark, and I’m not going anywhere until I do. Until I post again please take good care, wear your mask, and take your meds. We need you! <3

[sofstiltskin]

Our fated career by Mars degree

Based on my research, and degree theory I am going to guide you on your "fated career".

Mars at 1°, 13°, 25° degree

Career related to leadership, companies, CEO, martial arts, military, human rights, surgery, a police officer, firefighter, anything that is dangerous, full of adrenaline, formula 1 driver, motorbike racer, athlethes, security personnel, real estate agent, engineering, sales maneger, entrepreneur, chemists, carpenters, doctors, research work

Mars at 2°, 14° 26° degree

Career related to finances, lobbyst,public affairs consultant, catering, interior decoration, fashion designing, advertising, beautician, make-up artist, accountant, florist, farming, baker, architecture, agriculture, chef, farming, agriculture, environmental lawyer, photography, landscape artist, interior design, healthcare, construction, modeling

Mars at 3°, 15°, 27° degree

Career related to communication, travelling, software developer, interpreter, public relations, project manager, scientist, teacher, salesperson, languages, translator, writing, television, blogging, vlogging, influencer, journalism, magazine editing, tour guide, pilots, aircraft tehnicians, flight attendant, authors, event manager, comedist

Mars at 4°,16°,28° degree

Career related to cooking,patient care, oncologists, oncology nurses, support workers, biologists, biostatisticians, nutricitian, house keeping, child care, gallery owner, art director, corporate executive, also beautician, nail artist, exterior design, acting, stand-up comedy, knitting, sewing, food industry, home designer, also architecture

Mars at 5°, 17°, 29° degree

Career related to singing, acting, dancing, playing a instrument in a band, music composer, director, film manager, film making, hairstylist, motivational speaker, graphic designer, performing, diplomacy, law, administrative services, photography, game developing, event planning, wedding planning, executive producing

Mars at 6°,18°degree

Career related to pets, animals, farming, office worker, teaching, fitness, retailing, writing, yoga teaching, psychology, fields of astrology, astronomy, science, literature, space, museum curator, IT expert, librarian, critic analyst, system analyst, therapist, social worker, HR manager, project manager, personal assisant

Mars at 7°, 19° degree

Career related to law, politics, liberacy, fashion, digital marketing, publicist, party promoter, makeup artist, food critic, human rights advocate, creative director, artist, publicist, filmmaker, mediator, broker, counselor, sports coach, agent, relationship terapist, mediator, wedding planner, trading

Mars at 8°, 20° degree

Career related to economy, medical research, psychology, ecologists, navigators, market analysts, pathologists, soldiers, mining operations, oil drilling and archaeology, woodworking, pharmacy, data analyst, researching, entrepreneurial ventures, working in a lab, doctors, surgeons, any type of medicine

Mars at 9°, 21° degree

Career related to tourism, transport, travelling,teaching,photography, journalism, roles in advertising ,marketing ,philosophers,therapists, motivational orators, flight attendant, pilot, travel writers or travel guides, international business, hospitality worker, preacher, publisher, life coach, antropologist

Mars at 10°, 22° degree

Career related to business, finance, management, banking, accounts, law, administration, scientist, electrician, international relations, CEO, leadership, technology, computer programming, web developing, application developing, legal secretary, nursing, jeweler, legal secretary, accountant,

Mars at 11°, 23° degree

Career related to humanism, fields of science, sociology, biology, radiology, engineering, social work, politics, activism, networking, enviromental engineering, TV producer, inventor, pop star, life coach, acting, project manager, electrician, virtual assisant, social media manager, tech support specialist, copywriter

Mars at 12°, 24° degree

Career related to arts, astrology, astronomy, esoterics, psychology, psyhilosophy, tarot reading, music, graphic designing, counseling, marketing, music teachers, childcare, caregiver, boat captain, pastor, charity work, painter, art dealer, DJ, holistic healer

That's it, lemme know ur thoughts in comments x

-Sof

[our-lady-of-haymakers]

The ways in which some Western European and American 'socialists' breezily discuss income redistribution and social welfare without ever actually mentioning how you need to put a stop to the imperialism and neocolonialism that their countries engage in first is genuinely mind-boggling. This is a group of people so desperate for the treats to be shared a little more equitably that their mental timelines of advancing to Western communism have neatly skipped over the bits where the empire actually stops exploiting the Global South and projecting power worldwide to crush socialist development. They're fundamentally identical to the conservatives and the bourgeoisie in the sense that they've chosen to cast empire as either a thing of the distant past or as an unshakeable force that shouldn't impede the imperial core from demanding democratic-socialist kickbacks and security.

"Democracy at home and fascism abroad" is a proposition that vast sections of the Western left will gladly and wholeheartedly accept. They act like their suffering under capitalism in the imperial core has somehow purged them of any accountability in the imperialist system of extraction and subjugation, as if socialism was something to be deserved rather than constructed in internationalist solidarity. The Western right and the Western left are equally silent about NATO, about their bases in the Global South, about their settler/colonial genocides and the prospect of any meaningful reparations or even retreats from global capitalist influence. The only difference is their approach to managing and distributing the gains of empire among the peoples of its heartland. Ending imperialism is the stuff of a distant compartmentalised past or a distant incrementalist future in which equality spreads, ludicrously, from the core to the periphery. Western democratic socialism is just global trickle-down economics with mildly red aesthetics- the end of history in the victory of the rapacious West replaced with a new beginning of history also pioneered by the enlightened West.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA LESSON IN PROFESSIONALISM * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Y/N is very, very patient. Just not when it comes to women flirting with her husband.

FEATURING　husband!Matt Sturniolo x reader　　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　inspired by that one scene from 50 shades of grey.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The building still smells like dust and fresh paint when Y/N steps inside.

The entrance hall was half finished, the floor covered in protective sheets and scattered tools, ladders leaning against unfinished walls. Voices echo somewhere deeper in the structure, construction workers moving in and out of rooms that don’t yet look like rooms.

In the center of the hall sits a temporary wooden table, scratched and powdered with a thin layer of white dust. A portable coffee machine hums quietly beside a stack of rolled blueprints.

Matt’s arm settles around Y/N’s waist as they approach the table, his thumb brushing lightly against her side as if he does it without thinking. She leans into it just enough to feel the warmth of his body.

Across the table, Brittany is already smiling.

Now, let me tell you something: Y/N is a very patient woman. She really is. She grew up in a house where perfection was an obligation, raised by parents who believed there was a right way to do everything and a wrong way to do the rest. She spent most of her life studying alongside the Sturniolo triplets, three boys who might share a face but not a personality, and learning how to exist between their childhood and teenage chaos required a level of patience most people never develop.

She helped coordinate their move from Boston to Los Angeles when their careers demanded something bigger years ago, balancing logistics, schedules, and emotions while quietly building her own path. Somewhere in the middle of all that, she managed to go from girlfriend to fiancée to wife of one of the biggest YouTubers of their generation without letting her studies or her work fall behind; and just that one last thing already meant she had the patience of a saint.

But what Y/N doesn’t have is patience for a parasite, a parasite in the form of the architect hired to oversee the remodeling of the triplets new office building.

The recommendation came directly from Tara, fresh off moving into a new big ass mansion in Los Angeles that had been completely designed by the same architect. The place looked flawless. If Tara was satisfied, if the work spoke for itself, then bringing the architect on board for the first major project in the brothers new era seemed like an easy decision.

It isn’t until they see Brittany that Y/N realizes good design doesn’t always come with good manners.

Brittany is all bright teeth and eager energy. She spreads the blueprints with a dramatic sweep of her hands, leaning a little too far forward toward Matt as she starts explaining the layout. Her voice lifts when she talks to him, animated and sugary.

"So what I was thinking for the main storage area." Brittany starts, tapping the paper and then, inexplicably, Matt’s forearm with her perfect hands and perfect manicured nails. "Is that we keep it open concept. It’ll feel modern and clean, something that Nicolas mentioned in one of his emails, right?"

Y/N watches the touch, raising her eyebrows at how Brittany’s fingers linger half a second too long. Matt doesn’t react beyond a polite nod, his arm tightening slightly around Y/N’s waist.

Y/N asks a question about the flow between the storage area and the filming rooms. Brittany answers without looking at her.

"Well, the idea is to keep the traffic minimal." Brittany says to Matt, smiling at him like Y/N wasn't the one who asked. "You wouldn’t want unnecessary interruptions while you’re recording your little... videos."

Y/N’s smile stays in place. She asks another question, this time about accessibility and brand visibility from the entrance. Brittany finally glances at her, quick and dismissive, before turning back to Matt to explain a concept Y/N already understands perfectly.

It’s subtle, the way Brittany does it. If Y/N weren’t paying attention, she might miss it. The redirection of her shoulders, the way her body angles toward Matt, and Matt only, the light brush of her hand against his sleeve when she laughs at something that isn’t fucking funny.

Y/N feels the irritation settle low in her chest.

She rests her fingertips on the edge of the table and studies the blueprints while Brittany continues her performance.

The layout is decent. It lacks personality, though, and the circulation between sections is inefficient. Y/N points it out gently, suggesting a minor adjustment that would improve the flow of inventory between the brand's storage spaces.

Brittany gives a small, airy laugh.

"That might complicate the structure." She says. To Matt. "Sometimes simpler is better, am I right?"

Matt’s free hand scratches his beard as he looks down at the plans, considering, but before he can answer, his phone rings. He pulls it from his dark blue jeans pocket and glances at the screen.

"It's Nick." He says, already stepping back. He looks at Y/N. "I’m gonna take this, sweetheart. I’ll be right back."

She nods.

"Go ahead."

He squeezes her waist once more before walking toward a side corridor, his voice fading as he answers the call.

The moment he disappears, the atmosphere shifts. Brittany straightens, her smile faltering as she finally looks at Y/N directly.

Y/N meets her gaze calmly. She leans her hip against the table, her palm flat against the surface, the gold ring on her left ring finger full on display as she looked at the stupefied architect.

"Brittany-" She starts. "That is your name, right?"

Brittany blinks.

"Yes."

"I’m sure you’re very good at what you do." Y/N continues, her tone warm and polite. "You wouldn’t be here otherwise." She tilts her head slightly, studying the woman in front of her.

Brittany nods, about to speak but was abruptly cut off by a low scoff from Y/N. 

"But, please refrain from speaking to my husband as if I am not here. Ignoring me doesn’t make me disappear. It just makes this collaboration unnecessarily difficult."

"Ms. Y/L/N, I have designed countless office building's before-"

Y/N raised a brow.

"Ms. Sturniolo." She cuts her off. "You may call me Ms. Sturniolo, I have the pleasure to tell you that I have changed my name and took Matt's without second thoughts. And, may I be honest here?" She continues. "This building isn’t just another project."

Y/N pause for a second.

"It represents multiple brands that I’ve helped build from the ground up. The functionality of this space is directly tied to my work. Which means when I speak about layout or flow, you listen, because I’m not making casual suggestions."

Brittany opens her mouth, then closes it.

"And." Y/N adds smoothly without raising her voice. "There’s also the matter of professionalism." Her gaze drops briefly to Brittany’s hand, still resting on the edge of the blueprint near where Matt had been standing. "Touching clients tends to blur boundaries. I’m sure that’s not the impression you want to give."

Color rises in Brittany’s cheeks.

"I didn’t mean to-"

Y/N slightly raises her eyebrows, and silence stretches between them. The sound of the coffee machine seems to suddenly echo louder.

Brittany swallows.

"I’m sorry, Ms. Sturniolo." She says quietly. "That won’t happen again."

Y/N holds her eyes for a beat longer, measuring the sincerity there. Then she smiles. Of course.

"Good." She says. "Because your portfolio is impressive, and I’d hate for something avoidable to interfere with your work here. Or anywhere, for that matter."

The implication settles heavily in the air. Brittany nods quickly.

"Of course." She murmurs.

Footsteps echo from the corridor. Matt’s voice grows louder as he ends the call and walks back into the hall. Y/N turns slightly, her expression easing into something relaxed and neutral by the time he reaches the table.

"So." He says, slipping back into place beside her. His arm firmly finds her waist again. "What’d I miss?"

"Ms. Brittany was just explaining an alternative approach to the storage layout." Y/N replies smoothly. She gestures to a section of the blueprint. "We were discussing how to make the transitions between departments more efficient without sacrificing the open concept."

Brittany nods eagerly.

"Yes. I think Y/N’s suggestions will actually improve the flow a lot. I’m happy to revise the plans."

Matt looks between them, a hint of surprise flickering in his eyes. He smiles, clearly pleased.

"That sounds good." He says. "As long as Y/N likes it, we're on board." He glances at Brittany. "She’s got a great eye for this stuff, you know? With her whole background in interior architecture thingy, you’ll want her input."

The woman paled, of course, of fucking course, Y/N had a background in architecture.

"I absolutely will." Brittany says quickly.

The rest of the meeting passes without incident. Brittany listens carefully when Y/N speaks, taking notes and asking thoughtful questions. The tension that was close to exploding in Y/N’s chest earlier unwinds, replaced by a cool sense of control.

Eventually, Brittany rolls up the blueprints.

"I’ll have the revisions ready by Monday." She says. "It’s an honor to work with you both and, of course, your brothers."

"We’ll see you then." Y/N replies.

Brittany offers a final tight smile and heads for the exit, her footsteps brisk against the covered floor. The heavy door swings shut behind her, and the hall falls quiet.

Matt looks down at Y/N, one eyebrow lifting.

"Okay." He says slowly. "What did you do?"

She blinks up at him, innocence settling easily into her features.

"What do you mean?"

He huffs a soft laugh.

"She was a completely different person when I came back. Sweetheart, I know that look."

Y/N steps closer, sliding her hands into the front pockets of his hoodie, caressing his covered stomach.

"I didn’t do anything." She says lightly. "We just... clarified expectations."

Matt studies her for a moment, amusement warming his gaze. His hands settle low on her hips, squeezing her covered skin.

"Uh-huh." He murmurs. "And I’m sure it was very polite."

"Extremely." She replies.

He smiles, leaning down just enough to brush a quick kiss against her temple and other one against her lips.

"You’re scary when you want to be." He says against her mouth, not sounding bothered in the slightest.

"Only when it’s necessary."

His grin widens.

"Remind me to thank Tara for the recommendation."

Y/N snorts softly.

"I’ll do it myself."

"You're not firing her, right?"

Y/N shrugs.

Y/N dials Tara’s number and lifts the phone to her ear.

Tara answers on the third tone.

"Hello?"

"You’re a bitch." Y/N says by way of greeting. "Why would you send us Brittany?"

There’s a beat of silence, and then Tara laughs.

"Uh oh. What happened?"

"You know exactly what happened." She replies dryly. "Next time you recommend someone, try not to pick a flirt who forgets basic professional etiquette."

Her laughter doubles.

"I swear I didn’t think she’d be that bad."

"Yeah, well-" Y/N mutters. "You owe me a drink for this."

"Deal." Tara says, still laughing. "I’ll make it up to you."

© vanteguccir

[evan-collins90]

The Library Discotheque - Barbizon Plaza Hotel, New York, NY (1974)

Designed by Raymond C. Perko, Inc.

"The concept for the Barbizon Plaza's new Library Discotheque was, of course developed with tongue-in-cheek: regardless of signage cautioning, "No Dancing" and "No Drinking," liberal engagement in both activities is not only expected but encouraged; despite instructions demanding "Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!," nightly at nine all hell breaks loose.

Covering 2,240 square feet, the installation's two levels were the happy result of an unexpected difference of elevation discovered when the designers broke through the walls between the cocktail lounge and the drugstore which formerly occupied the space. The resulting additional ceiling height greatly eased the placement of the row of 2'-x 4' audio-visual screens which abut the ceiling, and upon which are projected a series of images related to music controlled from an elaborate disk jockey's console adjacent to the bar. Music volume level is high only over the dance floor to permit conversation in the seating areas, which include both conventional table seating and perimeter lounge seating, with emphasis on the latter.

The installation is intended to appeal, the designer explains, "less to the teen-aged crowd than to the relatively affluent young-executive group," and while the disco-theque/library juxtaposition is meant to be amusing, the library element is not entirely a joke. The books which line the walls are not merely decorative: in addition to current best sellers, they include volumes covering a full range of topics, and Library card holders (there is no charge) may borrow books for up to two weeks.

The idea for the Library (there are several similar installations either completed or under construction around the country) was conceived by Jack Bishop of JOB Enterprises. The hotel is managed by Lambert Brussels Real Estate Corporation; architectural consultants for The Library were Goldstone & Goldstone."

It appears from some research that other Library Discotheques opened in Pittsburgh, Atlanta, and Syracuse

Scanned from the Oct. 1974 issue of Interior Design Magazine

[piastriscenes]

WILDLY INCONVENIENT (PT. 1)⭑ OP81

MASTERLIST

SERIES

pairing: vampire!oscar piastri x writer!reader

a simple research interview turns into an exercise in frustration when the wrong driver shows up: quiet, distant, and entirely unhelpful. but just as you decide he’s a waste of time, oscar finds a way to make things far stranger than they should be.

the first chapter of the series: lights out, fangs out.

genres: rom-com, formula 1, vampire fiction.

warnings: mention of physical discomfort, but otherwise just a very, very strange encounter.

word count: 3.6k

taglist: @mclaeronautics @inseongsbitch @malle4321 @f1norris04 @bacheerawr @mediterraneanprincesss @haloswiftt @marvolos @lavishenya @evilive @persassyjacksonsblog @airenicbibliophile @princesspiastri007 @dearhnymn @emzzn @joelmillershorse @recklessyears @sivaninanutshell @banananie @ale-522 @freddiefromthefandoms @helloiamoscarsfoot @darksoulgemx @oscgr

a/n: HIII, GUYS! THE FIRST CHAPTER IS FINALLY OUT! it starts… a little weird. that’s on purpose. trust me. i’m so excited.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: A Small Proposal

Good morning! How are you? I hope this email finds you well.

I’m not sure if you remember, but a few months ago you reached out to me with a list of constructive feedback after the release of my young adult romance, Beyond the Next Corner. You mentioned that the premise was very compelling and the romance genuinely lovely, but that the setting lacked a bit of realism, and I completely agree.

Despite being a motorsport fan since childhood, I’ve never quite had the instinct for understanding the environment firsthand, the paddock, its dynamics, the ecosystem as a whole. But your feedback really brought that to my attention, and I’m reaching out because I believe you might be able to help me change that.

Which brings me to my question.

Would there be any possibility, however remote, of arranging a paddock or garage visit for research purposes? Ideally, I would love the opportunity to interview Max Verstappen, as the protagonist of my current project is loosely inspired by him. Understanding his perspective, presence in the paddock, and day-to-day environment would be incredibly valuable for the level of authenticity I’m aiming for.

Of course, I fully understand the level of coordination something like this would require, and I would never want to overstep or cause any inconvenience to the teams or their management. Transparency would be a priority, and I’m more than willing to adapt to whatever boundaries are necessary.

I realize this is a rather ambitious request, but I thought it might be worth asking.

Thank you for your time, and regardless, I truly appreciate the insight you’ve already shared.

Best regards.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: A Small Proposal

Oh my God! I can’t believe you actually reached out to me! I don’t know if I should feel embarrassed about everything I said before or genuinely honored to have you in my inbox!

Well, this took me a little longer to reply than you probably expected, but I needed some time to fully understand the scope of your request and find the right people to talk to.

Of course I want to help you develop your story. I truly love the way you write and what you do with the material the media puts out about the drivers. When it comes to mainstream narratives, you do an exceptional job!

Now, about the interview.

I spoke with a few contacts in the paddock, and I was informed this morning that a driver has been made available for you. I can’t guarantee it’s the one you initially mentioned, but it’s the best I could manage, and I really hope it works for you.

I’m sending you a paddock pass for the next race under my name, with full access included. The assigned driver will be expecting you.

Let me know once you receive everything!

"Gordon! You can drop me off here. We’ve arrived!" you exclaimed, leaning your head out of the window of the oversized pink limousine that had taken you all the way to the paddock, your smile bright enough to rival the sun.

Your driver of nearly five years — ever since, at nineteen, you managed to turn yourself into a bestselling young adult author, a story for another time — parked in the designated area without pointing out that, yes, he knew you had arrived. It was hard to miss the massive landmark that was the Circuit of the Americas, especially with miles of parking surrounding it.

He stepped out first and made his way to your door, opening it so you could step out safely. Before turning to leave, however, you used your cutesy voice to talk to Tiffany, the small, elderly chihuahua who went everywhere with you. Gordon didn’t even blink as you picked her up and tucked her into the bag hanging from your arm; he simply extended a hand to help you set your feet on the ground.

"I want you to have fun, Gordon. Seriously! You’re not staying in the car," you said, and he raised an eyebrow as you slipped your hand into the inner pocket of your bag, gently asking Tiffany for some space. When you finally found what you were looking for, you held up the tickets and handed them to him with a smile. "So you can see everything before the race.”

Gordon glanced down at the tickets, then back up at you, one brow still slightly raised.

“I’m working,” he reminded you, in that calm, patient tone he’d perfected over the years.

“And I’m your employer,” you shot back sweetly, tilting your head. “Which means I can order you to have fun.”

He looked at you for a beat longer, as if deciding whether this counted as a real instruction or just one of your many… interpretations of authority. In the end, he took the tickets with a half-smile.

You nodded, patted his shoulder, and finally walked away, waving your fingers in a quick little goodbye as you turned toward that absolute monstrosity of a building that was — no, absolutely not — going to intimidate you.

The sharp click of your heels barely made a dent in the scene: uniformed staff rushed back and forth, pushing shiny metal carts, while mechanics shouted over each other as they organized tires. Here and there, clusters of fans gathered — most of them dressed in cowboy hats and flannel shirts, dancing along to whatever country song blasted through the speakers and craning their necks in hopes of spotting an unsuspecting driver.

This was part of the research too.

You pulled your notebook and pencil from your bag and started jotting things down.

You weren’t sure this would be the circuit you’d choose for the story — it wasn’t your favorite, and definitely not your still-undecided-name protagonist’s either. You planned on letting him choose, after all, he’d be the one racing at 300 km/h to impress the brilliant still-undecided-name female lead.

Still, there was a certain charm to everything around you. And it felt very different from watching it on TV, no matter how big the screen.

You pushed your sunglasses up to the top of your head and narrowed your eyes slightly. Tiffany barked from inside your bag, and you gave a quiet “shh,” pulling her a little closer against you.

A group of Haas staff rushed past without sparing you a second glance. Phones and cameras were already up, all pointed toward the two tall figures at the center, Esteban Ocon and Oliver Bearman,ngiving instructions for whatever they were filming for media.

You had no interest in either of them.

“Maybe we should keep walking, Tiff…” you murmured, without admitting you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do next.

Biting the corner of your lip, you turned slightly, choosing a direction that simply felt right.

That was when you saw her.

A mass of bright, curly red hair rushed toward you, her wide, almost childlike smile forcing you to wave back.

“You made it!” she said, excited, stepping in to pull you into a tight hug. “It’s Cassie.”

With a relieved sigh, you hugged her back just as tightly — right before Tiffany barked in protest at the sudden division of attention. Cassie pulled away, immediately distracted, crouching to fuss over the little dog with a laugh.

“I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to know where I should wait for the interview,” you said, adjusting the hem of your light pink skirt.

Cassie nodded, reluctantly peeling herself away from Tiffany before pointing ahead for you to follow.

“I swear, I thought you were older…” she started, already talking a mile a minute.

She didn’t stop the entire way. You didn’t mind. You actually liked her enthusiasm. It reminded you of one of the interns at your publishing agency.

Amy… Jenny… what was her name again?

You tried to remember, you really did — but you’d just realized the Red Bull building was already shrinking behind you, its bright colors fading into the distance while Cassie kept walking without a second glance.

Your hand curled into a fist at your side. You needed to say something.

“And then you wrote that scene where Carter lifts Sofia by the hips and I almost died right th—”

“Cassie, sorry to interrupt. I have a question,” you said, raising your index finger.

She blinked and finally stopped, looking at you with those wide green eyes. You scratched the back of your neck, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and glanced over your shoulder.

“Red Bull is that way… Where are we going?” you asked gently.

Cassie glanced behind you just to check — and, well, yes. Red Bull was definitely that way.

“I know,” she confirmed with a nod. “But McLaren is this way.”

Her thumb pointing behind her gave you the strange impression that you were no longer speaking the same language. You let out a small laugh and nodded.

“Wait… oh! I think I didn’t explain myself properly,” you said, a hand going to your chest, your voice already halfway into an apology.

Cassie looked at you curiously, openly interested in whatever you were about to say.

“Maybe I forgot to mention it in the email! My main inspiration for the character is Max Verstappen, you know? Red Bull driver.” Your voice, still sweet, gave away your intentions entirely. “I just assumed it had worked out. I mean… why wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, no, I know that! But it wasn’t possible to schedule that meeting with him. Max was unavailable.”

That was new information.

Okay.

What exactly was happening here?

You blinked, your hand lowering from your chest to your waist, your expression settling into mild confusion.

“What do you mean… it wasn’t possible?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“Oh, I mentioned in the email that there was no guarantee which driver you’d get! Their schedules are really tight,” she continued. “But Oscar Piastri agreed! And wow, that was a surprise.”

Wait, what?

She must have taken your reaction as the same kind of surprise she’d had, because she nodded enthusiastically.

“He’s usually so difficult about these things. Not difficult! Oh my god, that sounds rude. He’s nice. A nice person. But when it comes to media…”

And just like that, she started walking again, heading toward the McLaren facilities as if she hadn’t just delivered completely unexpected information.

You stayed where you were for a second too long before finally moving to follow her.

Everything was very, very orange.

From your spot inside the McLaren facilities, you watched the movement around you with a subtle expression of disapproval. Your interview would only happen after the end of the first Free Practice session and the drivers’ media duties. Bureaucratic, but fine.

In the meantime, you and your plastic cup full of coffee took notes of whatever you could.

The McLaren staff were nice, always checking in to make sure you were comfortable and letting you know how much time was left before the drivers returned to the garage. But honestly, they did not mess around when it came to being orange…

The walls were orange, the decorations matched, the uniforms didn’t help.

No—wait. You needed to adjust: not orange. Papaya.

The word alone sent a small shiver down your spine.

It was fine.

Just for today.

You found yourself drifting closer when everyone gathered around the TV in the reception area, watching the drivers climb into their cars. Curiosity won.

It wasn’t new to you. You hadn’t lied to Cassie, Formula 1 had been your thing since childhood. That was exactly why, when you decided to write your first story, it had to be about it. But you can’t understand everything from a distance… Apparently.

You walked over to a round table near the cream-colored sofas, surrounded by comfortable chairs, and took a seat. Someone had taken Tiffany to the designated pet area, and Cassie had gone off to handle her duties.

It was officially a solo mission.

The TV began showing the onboard cameras side by side. Lando Norris adjusted himself into the cockpit, while Oscar Piastri was already inside — helmet on, hands on the wheel, listening to something his engineer was saying before heading out.

Honestly, you had never paid much attention to him.

You’d always been a devoted Mercedes fan, and your desire to use Max Verstappen as inspiration was mostly about appearance and the way he carried himself. The McLaren boys had never caught your attention, not for anything. And, honestly, by the end of the session, you weren’t impressed at all.

Even if Oscar had managed a solid P3.

Even if he spoke over the radio with precise detail about every small adjustment needed, as if he were part of the car itself.

You had to stifle a yawn.

That interview was going to be a terrible waste of time.

The movement picked up again, but you didn’t move from your spot. You pulled a piece of gum from the pocket of your button-up and scrolled through your phone, random, meaningless reels flashing by just to keep you occupied.

Then you heard someone clear their throat and looked up.

“Oscar is waiting for you in the other room. I’ll take you there,” the orange-clad staff member said.

You offered a polite smile, despite everything, and stood up.

It was a disaster. A disaster.

Just like you’d predicted.

You had a generous forty minutes to get through that interview, and twenty had already passed.

Oscar sat across from you and, well, he was nothing like you’d expected.

He was worse.

When you walked into the room, you tried to be reasonable. You smiled, held out your hand to greet him and, okay, he had smiled back, but then he’d turned to the staff member — Caleb, apparently — and started talking, not returning your greeting at all, leaving you standing there with your hand awkwardly in the air until you had to pretend there was something wrong with the sleeve of your shirt.

Oscar was supposed to be sociable. That’s what Cassie said, what the staff said, what every video you’d seen on YouTube and Instagram had told you. Funny, engaged, communicative in his own way. You had expected the meeting to be a disaster for several reasons, but… this? This was borderline outrageous.

“So what’s it like to be a Formula 1 driver? Like, the real feeling,” you asked, trying to inject a bit of charisma into the room.

For a moment, he just looked at you. His dark eyes, analytical and a little cold, passed over you before settling on the blue pen in your hands. His arms were crossed, and even from where you sat, you could tell just how pale his skin was. It was… a little hypnotizing. Pale. Very pale.

He looked like he was about to answer.

Worse — he looked like he was about to throw up.

Thump. Oscar stood up abruptly, the force of it making you flinch.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than it should have been. Off. “I’ll be right back. Just a moment.”

You turned in your chair to follow him with your eyes, your eyebrow practically climbing into your hairline.

And then you were simply… alone.

Five minutes passed. Nine… ten… You fidgeted with your pen, uncomfortable and a little embarrassed. Fifteen minutes…

Twenty.

End of the interview.

You let out a slow breath, pulled your bag off the back of the chair, and stood up. Okay. Maybe this was better. You’d tell Cassie it didn’t work out, push a little harder for Max Verstappen, and end up with the next BookTok hit — full of delicious, intense scenes, beautifully crafted and—

The door opened.

You turned back.

“Hi. Do you have a bit more time so we can do the interview?” Oscar asked, composed and impeccably polite.

You blinked.

Who was that?

A classic McLaren cap sat low on his head, the number 81 stitched across it, shadowing his hair and part of his face… The flush on his cheeks wasn’t a trick of the photos, as far as you could tell. And he was looking at you like he actually expected a real answer.

“Well, I… I have a few more minutes,” you said, a little thrown off, still standing in the same spot.

With a small smile that seemed oddly relieved, he nodded and stepped fully into the room.

“Okay,” he said softly, moving back to the same chair he’d been sitting in before.

Still a little suspicious, you turned slowly, placing your bag back on the chair as if it might betray you at any second. You tucked your hair behind your ear and finally sat down again.

“All right,” you said, taking your pen. Your gaze lifted to him and, despite how disconcerting the sight of him still was, you asked, “Are you… are you okay?”

Oscar seemed caught off guard by the question, straightening slightly.

“Hm? Ah, yeah. I am. I just…” He scratched the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “Low blood pressure. From the strain during practice and the heat.”

Oh. You hadn’t considered that. It made sense… he really had looked unwell, and you hadn’t done anything to help. Wow. Great job.

“And… are you sure you’re okay to continue? If you’re not feeling well, we can reschedule or… or not. Whatever you prefer,” you offered, a hint of uncertainty in your voice.

He shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. Let’s do this,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. “And… I don’t know if I’ve already asked this, but… why are we doing this? I mean, I don’t mind. Cassandra explained a bit, but I didn’t fully get it. She was… very enthusiastic,” he added, a trace of a smile in his voice. “Are you writing a book?”

No—

Hadn’t Cassie explained it properly?

You had asked her to.

God.

Heat crept up your neck, settling at the tips of your ears.

“Y-Yes. I’m writing a book,” you said, with no intention of offering anything beyond that. Your gaze dropped to your notebook, already retreating. “Oscar, you’ve been a Formula 1 driver since 2023, correct?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Is it a biography? Would there— would there be any chance I could… see what you write? Approve it?”

For a second, you just stared at him.

Approve it?

Your fingers tightened slightly around the pen.

“No,” you said, a little too quickly.

A beat.

“I mean— it’s not a biography.”

He paused, watching you. Waiting.

You exhaled softly through your nose, eyes dropping back to your notebook.

“It’s a romance.”

That got a reaction. Quiet, but there.

Oscar’s eyebrow lifted. Just slightly.

You ignored it.

“When you’re in the car, what do you think about?”

“Hm…” He tilted his head a fraction. “It depends. Sometimes I’m counting laps. Thinking about what I’ll do after. I hum sometimes.” A small pause. “It can get a bit boring. Especially when I’m leading.”

You blinked.

“Boring.”

“Yeah.”

“While leading a Formula 1 race.”

He gave a small shrug, like that was the least controversial thing he’d said all day.

“That’s… wildly inconvenient for my narrative.”

That finally pulled something out of him. Not a full smile. But close.

“I can pretend it’s more dramatic, if that helps.”

You shook your head lightly, thinking for another moment before adding a note at the bottom of the page — fully aware of the way Oscar was looking at you.

“Do you think it’s like that for all drivers?” you asked.

He shrugged, lips pressing into a small, uncertain pout that read no idea.

You took a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as you added one last line.

That was enough.

“Oscar, well, I appreciate your time,” you said, closing your notebook with a soft snap that sounded far more final than you intended.

Silence settled. You took a deep breath, stood up, and reached for your bag.

“You’re going to write it wrong.”

Your hand paused mid-air. Slowly, you looked back at him.

But looking back was an understatement. You took a step back — because suddenly, so fucking suddenly, Oscar was right beside you.

You glanced behind him. The chair was still there. Further back than it had any business being.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, startled, blinking more than you meant to.

“The part about it being boring,” he said, almost thoughtfully — with a little more depth than there was any reason for, so much so that you didn’t even process your own confusion and simply pushed it to the back of your mind. “It’s not that.”

“Then… what is it?” you asked, quietly.

His attention shifted just slightly, his eyes flicking toward the door. Seconds later, you heard it:

Oscar Piastri! Fifteen minutes until the start of Free Practice Two.

“I have to go,” he said. “But I’ll tell Sophie to give you my contact. We can schedule another one.”

You wanted to question it. Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to, that you already had more than enough for your book research. You were fully intending to dismiss him—

but Oscar had already reached the door handle and was turning it.

“See you at the next interview! Bye,” he said, a polite smile stretching across his lips before it was swallowed by whatever was happening outside.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stayed where you were for a second longer than necessary, your hand still hovering near your bag like your body hadn’t quite caught up with what had just happened.

“…Right,” you murmured to no one. “See you.”

NEXT CHAPTER