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THE GRID, chapter 1: Australian GP with Satoru and Mercedes

Tags: F1 AU, Gojo x f!Reader, F1 driver!Gojo, PR Officer!Reader, kinda enemies to lovers, slow trust build, extremely slow burn (you’re too busy saving your team), feelings buried under strategy calls and press statements, full F1 immersion, F1 jargon (there’s glossary) | wc: 34k

← Pit Stop · Australian GP · Pit Stop → Masterlist · Glossary · Ao3 · Change the car: get into Ferrari with Sukuna

pre-session debrief: first gp of the season is here, ladies and gentlemen. place your bets on the winner of australian gp!

first things first: i am so sorry. i don't know how it happened that it got so long. i genuinely love writing this one and try to show you all aspects of f1. well, hope you'll have a good read anyway!

moments described from inside the cockpit are written from satoru's perspective. while the team has access to onboard footage, much of what is described there is not visible on camera or readable from telemetry, and remains his alone.

side note: if you're more interested in sukuna's storyline, read his chapter first to experience the weekend through his pov

Thursday, 13th of March 2025 Albert Park, Melbourne

The media pen is already swarming with cameras by the time the star attraction finally makes his entrance. He walks in late, of course, with a calculated delay that serves as a subtle, arrogant reminder to you and the assembled press that the Mercedes’ schedule runs solely on what you mentally dubbed 'Gojo Standard Time.'

As expected, he is a walking breach of the team's dress code. There is no sign of the official team kit, the sponsor jacket, or even the discreetly branded neutral athleisure worn by every other driver. Today it’s a white linen shirt, half-buttoned to expose just a hint of collarbone, paired with loose white trousers. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses so oversized they cover half his face, and a pair of expensive headphones rest around his neck that are more of an accessory, in your opinion.

Half the room turns when he pushes through the doors. The majority of the reporters instantly break out in smiles like they’ve been waiting for him. A smaller, more cynical group rolls their eyes, their pens ready for the inevitable headline fodder. Cameras tilt, shutters begin to click, and you note, for the hundredth time, that Kento could give a day-long masterclass in flawless, textbook answers and never command this kind of gravitational shift in a room.

And Nanami, by stark contrast, is an island of immaculate professionalism. He’s calm, walking at an unhurried pace, his tie is perfectly straight. He is, essentially, the driver who answers a sponsor's 'hello' with a polite nod, gives two or three crisp, press-release-ready sentences into a mic, and moves smoothly on. It’s flawless. But he’s not Gojo.

Meanwhile, your problem child already stops for the first microphone thrust into his space.

“Jet lag? You offering to keep me awake tonight?” he purrs with a slow wink aimed at a female reporter. The poor woman instantly turns red, as the surrounding reporters erupt in loud, appreciative laughter. He waves his hand lazily, and his cheeky grin is wide enough for you to see it even from across the dense crowd. “I solved that years ago. I just don’t adjust. Nap when I want, eat when I want. The Melbourne sun’s perfect for it. If you don’t see me in FP1, it’s ‘cause I’m still on the beach.”

The laughter spike again, louder this time, but you almost let out an audible groan, typing out an emergency protocol for the social media team: FP1 attendance, confirm clip, post BTS garage photo to kill rumor, because you know the second someone tweets that out of context, it’ll read like Gojo is blowing off practice for a tan.

Before you can reach him, you lock eyes with him from across the mass of bodies. You give him the smallest, most strained shake of your head in a silent warning. It only makes his smile broaden, like he feeds on being told no.

Someone shouts a question about the Red Bull’s latest upgrades. When he leans in too close to the mic, his dangerous, self-satisfied grin threatening to turn into something truly problematic, you take a small step nearer, ensuring you are directly in his eyeline. He catches the movement and tips his glasses down just enough to look directly into the camera before answering. “Upgrades? Cute. They’ll need wings to keep up with me.”

There’s a sharp sound of shutters clicking. One reporter actually fist-pumps him, and another leans to their colleague, muttering loudly about ‘headline gold.’ This time, you feel a slight easing of tension. He gave them something silly and ultimately harmless.

There’s the sharp sound of shutters, while one reporter actually fist-pumps him, and another leans to their colleague, muttering about ‘headline gold’. This time you know you’re safe as he gave them something silly and harmless.

The next question is a minefield: Singapore last year, when he cut wide across the track limits twice but kept the win. You immediately give him the raised-eyebrow signal you’d practiced in the mirror yesterday morning. He merely tilts his head, feigning consideration, then throws out a line that is significantly worse than anything you could have possibly imagined, just to watch you tense.

“Track limits are suggestions, right? If you don’t get caught, it’s not cheating. And hey, fans want action, not chalk lines, and nobody paid to watch me tiptoe. If the car’s fast enough, the line moves for me.” The entire press pen around him goes dead silent for a nerve-wracking heartbeat before someone’s single, nervous chuckle breaks the tension.

Your stylus freezes above the tablet screen. Oh my fucking god, he didn’t just say that. Every professional instinct screams at you to step in and redirect the conversation, but you know that cutting him off now will only pour fuel directly onto the fire he just lit. Nanami’s gaze flicks to you with a quiet, almost sympathetic warning in his eyes. You shake your head, already perfectly aware of what the FIA email will say when it lands in your inbox later.

A sharp and accusatory voice cuts through the noise, “Are you admitting to breaking rules?” and all the mics instinctively move closer to his mouth. Your heart rate spikes so hard you can almost hear it in your ears, and you tighten your grip on the tablet so violently the stylus lets out a tiny squeak.

Satoru, please don’t fuck this up or we’re gonna have a serious problem on our hands.

Gojo’s smile never wavers. “If I’d broken them, they’d have taken the win off me, wouldn’t they? Last I checked, the trophy’s still on my shelf.” A classic Gojo deflection, but the damage was already done.

It looks for a second like Satoru’s ready to move on, but then he notices a very pretty female reporter positioned slightly on the side. He pushes his sunglasses up into his white hair, and with a lazy half-smile, his lingering eyes locked firmly on her, he adds, “Besides, don’t you like it when I get a little dangerous?”

The woman he’s addressing blushes deeply and drops her gaze to her fidgeting hands. A shy, undeniably flattered smile plays on her face, which she attempts to hide behind her notebook. That only encourages him to lean in closer and tease her, his voice dropping into a murmur. “Smile like that for me more often, and I might actually give you a serious answer.” A few of the male reporters nearby exchanged knowing glances, their pens scratching furiously across their pads.

You feel your stomach plummet. It doesn’t matter that she looked flattered or charmed—tomorrow’s headlines won’t use words like professional or charming; they will say playboy. You can already picture the edits: Gojo winking, Gojo leaning in, Gojo making another reporter blush. “F1’s biggest flirt,” “Mercedes’ man-whore.” Nothing about the car, the team, or the championship battle.

You glare at him from the far edge of the scrum, mouthing "stop”, and a few reporters catch it, instantly bursting into harder laughter.

Your thumb flies across your phone, sending a message to Mercedes’ social team channel: “DO NOT clip track-limits line unless you want FIA living in our inbox.” The social intern sends back a skull emoji and you don’t know if that’s agreement or panic.

There was a growing, almost irresistible urge inside you to march over and strangle him, except he’s already moving, pivoting effortlessly toward the next camera. Someone asks about Nanami’s growth, and suddenly he’s every PR manager’s wet dream. “Nanami’s the real deal. He’s disciplined, smooth, doesn’t waste a tenth. Mercedes is lucky to have him.” Just like that he’s handed you a reel-ready soundbite that makes the sponsor decks glow. You blink surprised, along with a cameraman who nods approvingly as if shocked to hear something usable.

You underline the quote twice in your notes, and glance up just in time to catch Gojo flicking his eyes toward you with a self-satisfied, smug look, as if saying ‘see? I can play nice when I feel like it.’

Nanami leans down to you and says low enough that it shouldn't be caught by the cameras. “You’re already making that face.”

“I’m just ready to rewrite half the weekend,” you mutter back, keeping your eyes on your phone. Your inbox is filling with subject lines: 'Satoru quote?’, ‘Can I get Satoru for 5 mins after FP2?’, ‘Is he serious about the track limit being suggestions?’

He hums in quiet amusement, but doesn’t say anything more. You silently wish he would, because sometimes a line from Nanami is the only thing that keeps you sane in this hell.

Your phone lights up again with four new notifications before you have even made it halfway through the remaining line of journalists.

IWC sponsor: Where is the Melbourne edition we sent? Why is he in that monstrosity? Mercedes HQ comms: He’s trending already. Outfit photos are everywhere. Decide: Do we own “vacation champion” or bury it? Monster Energy rep: Remind him to actually hold the can when cameras are up this time. Last year’s compliance was below contract. Random journalist DM: We heard he skipped Wednesday prep. True? Story going live at noon.

You answer the last one first: False. Landed Wednesday, attended the briefing. Please correct before publishing. You flag the watch sponsor email as low priority (you can’t pry a Cartier off him in public without a fistfight), bump the energy drink up the list (an easy photo-op later if he cooperates), and dropped a quick note into the comms chat: Spin line: confidence, relaxed, already adapted. Not vacationing—thriving.

At the next station, Gojo slides his sunglasses down on his nose to send a theatrical wink to the reporter before answering her question. “Oh, the car? Fast. Always fast. I mean, it’s Mercedes, right? You don’t need me to tell you that.”

It’s undeniably cocky, and it will clip perfectly for the team’s socials. You know the fans will eat it up, but you also know you’ll have to brace for at least a dozen emails about how he undersold the technical progress, didn’t mention the key sponsors by name and made it sound like a joke.

Nanami follows behind him and adds. “The upgrades look strong. We’re confident in the package, and we’ll use the practice sessions efficiently to maximise performance.”

You want to clone him. That sentence could sit comfortably in a textbook on PR-approved responses.

The unhinged genius balanced by the precise professional… Their dynamic is perfect, but it only works if you could cut them together in the edit. The problem, as always, is that you aren’t the one who makes the edits. It’s the gossip websites, the shady, agenda-driven reporters, and… well, the fans.

The same reporter asks another question, “Do you two balance each other out?”

“Balance? He’s the scale, I’m the chaos. Keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?” Gojo’s delivery is punctuated by another round of hearty laughter, pop of flashbulbs and pens scribbling furiously.

You hesitate. Technically, it’s a perfect soundbite, but you can already see it pasted under headlines about “uncontrollable Gojo.” Shoko warned you about dozens of similar articles last year, so you note only: use carefully.

One of the next reporters apparently woke up and chose violence, as he asks about the notorious fight with Sukuna last season. Nanami, bless his disciplined soul, cuts in instantly before his teammate can fully process the question. “We respect all the competition on the grid.”

But that, naturally, doesn’t stop Satoru from adding his piece right after. “Respect’s one word for it. Another’s fun. I like when he gets mad—it means I’m doing my job.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to stop the migraine that inevitably will come.

You mouth “enough,” your voice laced with genuine exhaustion, and he doesn’t respond, but the way his shoulders shake tells you he’s laughing silently under his breath.

A few reporters call after him, trying to squeeze one last answer as you attempt to herd him outside. He doesn’t stop, tossing a final, dazzling wink over his shoulder, leaving a chorus of chuckles in his wake.

By the time you’re in the relative safety of the media pen exit, which means inside Mercedes’ motorhome, your phone is buzzing again and has countless notifications waiting.

You ignore it for now, opening the notes tab on your tablet before you even sit down. This is where the whole weekend lives and dies: turning the mess he just left behind into something the team can work with.

The first priority is the beach line. Too light to be a scandal, but in the wrong edit it’ll look like he’s here on holiday instead of carrying Mercedes on his back and justifying his astronomical salary. You type out the fix: bury with garage content. That means a candid photo of him half-suited up in the bay, with a caption that reads like he’s been in work mode since his flight landed. A reminder for yourself to push it on Twitter and IG Stories before FP1 starts and anyone can spin his ‘beach day’ comment into apathy.

Next comes the track-limits joke. He said that with a straight face and a provocative little curve to his lips, like he’d happily redraw the entire circuit if it bought him time. You can already hear FIA comms groaning about “respecting the regulations and the integrity of the sport.” You flag it in red: monitor clip; draft holding line: joke, not serious. You hope you never have to post it, but you’d rather have it loaded and ready.

And then there's the infuriating flirting. Your stylus is flying across the tablet: Flag: flirting clip. Draft holding line: playful banter, not unprofessional. DO NOT amplify. You underline it twice, drawing a furious red box around the whole entry. If it trends, it needs to trend as harmless, charming Gojo, not another tabloid headline implying he’s unprofessional.

Scrolling back through your scattered scribbles you spot the one bright spot: the genuine way he talked about Kento. That’s the team spirit, exactly what sponsors love. You underline it twice, jotting send to Social for reel cut. If you package that footage with the right B-roll of the two of them in the garage, it’ll plays as synergy instead of chaos, which the sponsors will love.

Your pen keeps moving as you sketch the rest:

Thursday: Press conference with Sukuna and Suguru. Not optional. Draft talking points: lean on “respect,” redirect heat toward “competition makes us stronger.”

Friday: Afternoon reel with Kento. Show the team’s duality: Kento sharp and precise, Satoru wild and off-script but ultimately brilliant. If you cut it right, it’ll look intentional.

Saturday: Pre-qualifying hype. Plan: clip the best onboards, label it “Main Character Cam.” The trick is balance: keep it playfully confident, not arrogant. Need: one overtaking shot, one team-radio quip (pray he gives something usable), one “glorious Gojo grin” shot

Sunday: Race-day narrative control. Grid walk candids, pit wall BTS. Draft narratives for both outcomes:

If he wins → push “Gojo dominant but grounded.” Clip his praise of Nanami, bury his sunglasses-and-flirt act.

If he loses → emphasise charisma and resilience. The line becomes “Even off the top, he owned the weekend.”

You add an “accessories” reminder: find a way to pry Cartier off him before the press conference or invent a “watch rotation” excuse. Then get him photographed with the right watch before he meets the IWC rep, or you’ll have to personally apologise to the sponsor. Then, to put a Monster can in his hand, whenever he’s walking around the paddock.

Under your breath, a low, frustrated mutter escapes, “If he shows up with that Cartier in front of IWC signage, I’m throwing myself into the ocean.”

Nanami overhears and just quietly deadpans, “You’d better make it subtle. He’s not the type to cooperate with force.”

With a heavy sigh and a nod, you add one last thing marking it in red right away: Monitor Sukuna-Satoru narrative. Preempt escalation by releasing Nanami/Gojo joint reel. That’s your insurance policy against a verbal duel that spirals into a PR disaster.

By the time you hit save, you can feel the weight of it settling. It’s barely past noon on Thursday, and you’re already deep into full-blown damage control mode, even if the fires aren’t big yet. With Gojo, they’ll surely grow soon.

Satoru, of course, is utterly unbothered. He leans back into the plush seat he just dropped into, offering a lazy and deeply provoking sneer. “See?” he says. “Wasn’t that bad.”

You want to scream and to launch the tablet at his head.

Not much later, the first official FIA press conference of the season is playing on the tv in the corner of the Mercedes hospitality area. The first driver group is up: Todo in his black Alpine kit, vibrating with energy; Yuji beaming a blinding smile in Ferrari red; and McLaren’s Choso looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Shoko’s sprawled across one end of the sofa, sipping coffee, her eyes nevertheless glued to Todo’s animated monologue about fearlessness. “That man needs his own anime,” she says dryly, but a smirk is playing hard on her lips when he shouts about destiny arcs and how kids should never lift through Turn 9. “Preferably subtitled,” she mutters, taking another careful sip.

Nanami, polite as ever, sighs and smooths his tie. “At least he seems… enthusiastic.”

You flick your eyes to Satoru. He’s half-slumped against the corner, the headphones around his neck, scrolling through his phone like he’s not half an hour from having to face the exact same room. That Cartier is still on his wrist, and in your head you run all the possible scenarios, all the delicate, non-confrontational ways to get it off him before he walks out.

Todo is yelling again on the screen, this time flexing a considerable bicep and comparing the handling of the Alpine to a moody girlfriend. Gojo finally glances up, snorts with genuine amusement, and mutters, “If I pull that shit in my presser, you’ll spin it for me, right?”

For a moment, you consider strangling him with the lanyard around your neck. It would be quick, and perhaps justifiable. But ultimately you decide to ignore the bait, pressing your lips tight as you continue typing on your tablet.

Yuji is next up on screen. His voice is bright and animated, hands moving with every eager word. He talks about the fans, about how lucky he feels to be here, and about how much he loves this particular track already. The kid beams so hard you half expect him to sprout a tail and start wagging it.

Shoko laughs into her drink. “Golden retriever energy. Someone’s going to throw him a ball if he keeps that up.”

Gojo finally pushes his sunglasses up into his hair to watch properly, a genuine grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Bet you five bucks he calls Sukuna ‘onii-chan’ by accident before the season’s over.”

Nanami exhales through his nose, the closest he ever comes to a real laugh in acknowledgment of Satoru’s wit.

“Focus,” you hiss, then drop the folded white Mercedes team polo and the matching IWC display box onto the table right in front of Satoru, and nudge his elbow hard enough to get his attention. “On. Both. Now.”

Gojo slowly drags his gaze up, blue eyes sparkling with mischief, then flicks a look down at the items and back to you. “But Cartier’s prettier, don’t you think?” He flicks his wrist, making the light hit the polished tank watch he wasn’t paid millions of dollars to wear.

“Pretty doesn’t pay your contract fees,” you shoot back, voice dangerously level. Your jaw tightens with the strain of holding your temper. “Take it off before IWC drags me by the hair.” The sponsor emails are a daily, agonizing headache, and if he goes on camera in the opening presser wearing Cartier, they’ll crucify you before FP1 even starts.

He just grins wider, treating your absolute panic like a petty overreaction. “Relax. I’ll wear both.”

Oh no. He absolutely won’t.

“You’ll wear what you’re told to wear,” you counter brittly. You snatch the polo off the table and throw it onto his lap.

He makes a face like a teenager being told to clean his room or eat his vegetables. “Do I have to? This shirt is so… corporate.”

“Yes,” you bite back, leaning slightly closer. “Corporate pays your salary. And right now they’re also paying mine, so shut up and put it on.”

Shoko whistles softly from the other end of the couch. “Ooo, mom and dad are fighting.” She’s your boss, and if you don’t get Gojo in check, it’ll be your head rolling first, and then hers is next in line, but she still acts like the whole situation is beneath her concern.

Nanami doesn’t even spare a glance away from the screen. “One of them is acting like a child.”

Satoru smirks, entirely unbothered by the double criticism, and idly starts scrolling again. “See? They’re on my side.”

Before you can fire back, laughter ripples from the TV. Yuji has just leaned into the microphone to say a heartfelt, earnest hi to his mother, his face a portrait of bright-eyed sincerity. The cynical press room melts; the feed’s live ticker is scrolling the caption ITADORI: HI MOM.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Gojo’s thumb stilling over his phone screen. His jaw sets, a flicker of something dark crossing his face, then he forces himself to smile. You know it’s fake because he hasn't scrolled in the last five seconds. “Aw, baby brother’s stealing hearts. Cute.” His tone is saccharine, and completely untrue.

Not long after, Yuji adds, with a light shrug, “And if I do something cool enough to end up on a Gojo meme account, that’s like… bonus points.”

This time Gojo actually looks up, the real, arrogant smirk sliding back onto his face. “Bonus points? Please. That’s the whole syllabus.” He flashes the grin toward nobody in particular, just to bask in the expected adoration.

Nanami huffs quietly, like he knows exactly how intolerable and over-the-top the next hour of Satoru’s mood is about to be.

You glance down to your tablet, letting the resentment fuel your words. “Congratulations, you just got a Ferrari rookie to write your PR copy for free. Try not to break your arm patting yourself on the back.”

He huffs, but then, without lowering the phone, offers, “Trade you—watch off if you stop glaring every time I speak.”

You lift the stylus in warning, resisting the urge to throw it at his face. “If I glared every time you spoke, I wouldn’t have time to clean up the rest of your messes.”

His expression sharpens instantly as though he’s been waiting for that exact bite. “Ouch. Feisty. Just how I like my PR handlers.” He throws you an exaggerated, slow-motion wink, and it makes you want to roll your eyes hard enough to see the back of your skull. "If I knew glaring was your love language, I’d talk more just to earn it.”

Now you just want to vomit. But you absolutely won’t let him win, so you just stare at him, stylus still raised, wishing deep in your soul that homicide counted as a PR-approved crisis strategy. The worst part is you know the press would eat it up anyway—“Mercedes PR handler finally snaps”—and somehow he’d still come out looking like the charming victim.

“Put on the damn polo, Satoru,” is all you can manage without saying something that would give Shoko the grounds to fire you on the spot.

He rolls his eyes dramatically, puts down the phone, and holds the polo up by the collar, judging it. He squints at the sponsor logos stitched into the fabric and flicks the care tag with his thumb. “Mm. Polyester blend. You’re really making me sweat for the team, huh?” He stalls, draping it lazily across his lap.

You don’t know what you expected. Him just agreeing and pulling it over his head straight away? That was a fantasy. Hopefully, he can come to his senses and put it on before the presser starts, because there is no way in hell—absolutely none—you’ll be putting it on him yourself. And it’s not even a fucking polyester blend.

On screen, Choso is giving thought-through answers to the rep’s questions. He’s so calm and composed, that Nanami gestures toward the TV with a tiny, approving lift of his chin. “That’s how it should be done.”

Gojo only sprawls deeper into the couch cushions. “Boring.”

“Do us all a favor and put the shirt on before she strangles you. Mercedes can’t win this season with one driver in the ground,” Shoko lazily shoots, yet somehow her voice cuts through the air.

—

Gojo walks into the conference room and drops into the far-left seat on the couch. He’s dressed in an oversized white Mercedes tee draped perfectly over slim black trousers, a pairing that screams ‘effortless champion’.

Your stomach twists. Of course. You’d spent a frustrating half-hour shoving a polo at him like a desperate intern, only for him to wave you off. And here he is, already styled in the team kit, but his own version of it, boxy cut and probably custom tailored. He never needed you for that, and you hate that you didn’t see it coming.

The inseparable sunglasses are perched on his nose, not the dark square frames he wore this morning, but pale blue and circular ones. How many pairs of sunglasses does this man own? You mentally add ‘catalogue Satoru’s eyewear’ to the growing list of time-sinks on your tablet.

Your eyes flick to his wrist, and you notice the IWC that actually is in his contract. One small victory for you, but it doesn’t feel like a win, when you’re apparently still a step behind in the battle of wills.

From your spot at the side of the room, strategically placed near the exit but out of the direct camera line, you mutter low, gesturing subtly at your temple where the cameras won’t catch it. “Top of your head, Satoru.” He glances your way once, a sliver of cerulean visible over the pale blue frames, doesn’t budge. You repeat the gesture when you catch his eye again, but still nothing. He tips his chin at you instead with a smirk and leans back further into the couch.

Then, the tableau of the world's best drivers begins to assemble. Sukuna drops into the center of the couch in a striking Ferrari red tee and black joggers, quickly folding his arms with a look of profound, almost existential, boredom. Geto takes the far right in his navy Red Bull polo, the collar buttoned neatly to the top, looking immaculate, unbothered, and completely in control.

The symmetry is ridiculous: three world champions, three brands of menace, side by side. Gojo, the playful, beautiful chaos; Sukuna, the cold, exacting predator; and Geto, the smooth, calculating mind. You can already see the press posting shots of them together.

You gesture one last time, a desperate, sharp flick of your fingers, and finally he sighs, shifting the sunglasses lazily up into his spiked white hair. “Happy now?” he asks, but the question is directed not at you, but at the main broadcast camera, voice sugar-sweet for the reporters.

You sigh quietly, scribbling a note into your tablet: Never offer polo again.

The FIA rep leans into the mic. “We’re joined now by reigning world champion Satoru Gojo, and two previous world champions - Sukuna Ryomen and Suguru Geto. Very warm welcome to you all. Hope you had a good winter.”

The rep nods toward Gojo. “Satoru, let’s start with the champ. How are you and what sort of shape are Mercedes in as we embark on this new 24-race campaign?”

He raises the mic with a bright, disarming grin that makes your stylus hover, ready to note, redact, or spin, as every sentence he speaks is a potential headline.

“I’m great, thanks for asking. Jet lag’s a myth, by the way. You just stay awake until your body gives up, and then you’re fine—don’t quote me on that, actually, please do.” A ripple of quiet laughter moves through the front row of reporters.

You highlight the words on your tablet instantly. Great, now the FIA’s wellness team might ping me about sleep hygiene. If so, spin it: playful, harmless, make it look like energy, not recklessness. A joke about his superhuman stamina.

“As for Mercedes? We’re in solid shape. The balance of this car compared to last year… it’s just so much cleaner. The rear is stable, it actually listens when I tell it to rotate, and that gives me confidence to push early and frankly, I’d let it take me out to dinner if it could.”

You jot down: Dinner date with a car → meme fuel, could be trending by tonight, let it run, classic Gojo.

A few journalists laugh louder now. Sukuna tilts his head a fraction and it could be annoyance, could be amusement, a flicker of emotion you can’t read yet. You need more data on Ryomen to be sure.

Gojo keeps rolling, feeding the media machine. “What? Can you blame me? It looks so good in black! Anyway, you know, you hear people say winter testing is testing, right? It’s not racing—but when you spend that much time in the simulator and then back it up with actual laps in Bahrain and nothing breaks, that’s the kind of confidence you take into a long season. I’m still stretching out the jet lag, but the team? They’re ready. If there’s a weak point, I haven’t seen it yet, and trust me, I’ve been looking because I’m the one who has to explain to Mei Mei if something snaps in half.” He runs his hand through his hair, smiling wide, perfectly aware of the cameras. “So yeah—shape is good. And me? Shape’s great too. Might even say aerodynamic.”

And of course, this menace of a driver has to wink. You almost mark it as harmless bravado, until you realise it isn’t angled at the cameras or the rep. He’s looking two rows back, locking onto a female reporter who flushes instantly under the attention. Not even the same one he flirted with in the media pen this morning. For fuck’s sake, Satoru. New target already. Fantastic.

You make the note anyway under the previous one: black kit, Mei Mei joke → possible meme fuel as well. But the wink… you pray the cameras haven’t caught the exact angle. If nobody clips it, maybe it dies in the room.

Still, your stomach knots, because you can see clearly her flustered smile and the way her pen freezes mid-note. She’s hooked. You know he saw it too. And he’ll keep pushing, because that’s what he does when he finds an opening.

“What did you learn in testing, particularly that final day when you were in the car the whole time? Is the car a step forward over the car that finished last year?”

Satoru leans back, ankle slung over his opposite knee, relaxed like this is a Sunday brunch and not a press conference kicking off the season. On the side, you remind yourself to flag everything potentially damaging… which is, as always, every sentence he ever speaks publicly.

“Yeah, absolutely. That day was about finding out where the unknowns were. When you run long, push the tyres into the ugly thermal range, try every strategy map in the book, you find the things that don’t work before it matters. We learned the car’s cooling efficiency is better than predicted, our high-speed balance is… honestly, it’s a step change.”

Good, Satoru, stick with this tone. Please. It won’t trend, but it’ll please the board in Brackley, and that’s half your job.

You’re underlining cooling efficiency and step change on your tablet, because that’s the language sponsors can easily reuse in their messaging. This is the version of Gojo you wish you could work with on a daily basis—measured, technical, and not giving the tabloids an easy meme. Though, the truth is, if he was like Kento, you wouldn’t be needed at all.

“Last year,” he continues with that easy confidence, “we were chasing understeer on corner entry at tracks like this one, which cost us in qualifying. That’s gone now. It’s point-and-shoot in a way I haven’t had in a few years.”

The room is quiet except for keyboards and camera shutters, every word getting picked clean. Satoru doesn’t slow down. “So is it a step forward? Let’s just say I’m not worried about defending the title—I’m worried about how bored I’ll get if no one pushes me hard enough, so keep up boys.”

Your pulse kicks. Not worried about defending → red flag. Bored → potential spin. Half the articles will love the bravado, but the other half will mark it up as arrogance or poor sportsmanship. Either way, you’ll be the one trying to rewrite the narrative later.

He flashes the FIA rep a grin. “Anyway, it’s stable, predictable, and I’ve got this thing where if I trust the car, I can do a lot with it. And after that last day? I trust it. We’ll find out how much this weekend, obviously, because testing is testing, but… I’m optimistic.”

You exhale. Optimistic lands perfectly. A safe, champion’s word.

Then he adds, the needle in the thread, “Plus, I got more seat time than anyone else that day, so I feel like I’m already ahead. Except maybe Sukuna here; he’s got that whole ‘staring down telemetry until it fears him’ thing going.”

Your eyes flick automatically to the driver next to him. Sukuna hasn’t moved much since the start of the presser, but there’s the faintest shake of his head followed by a twitch at his mouth, a flash of something that might be a smirk, though it’s gone before you’re sure. A few reporters catch it, cameras firing faster.

Gojo beams wider, pouncing on the reaction. “See? That’s the look. Terrifying, right?”

You jot: If needed, spin: rivalry playful, not toxic. Competitive spirit between top drivers. But in truth, you don’t know if you read Sukuna correctly at all. Cold? Respect? With him, it’s impossible to tell. The man is a void.

The rep lets out a polite chuckle, and continues, “Are you expecting a tighter season this year compared to last?”

Satoru doesn’t miss a beat, keeping the mic loose in his hand like he’s already playing the room. “Tighter? Yeah. I mean, look who I’m sitting with. You’ve got the Devil over here—” he tips his chin toward Sukuna, voice lilting just enough to sound like banter.

Your stylus froze mid-note on the tablet screen. Oh god. Straight for the jugular. The title isn’t new; the media christened the Ferrari driver 'The Devil' years ago for his ruthless on-track demeanor, but hearing it flung out in the first presser of the season makes your stomach clench into a tight knot. Half the room will spin it as respect for, the other half will package it as outright hostility and the first shots fired in a new title fight. Which narrative sticks depends entirely on your PR spin later, and critically, on how Gojo acts and speaks for the rest of it.

You let your gaze settle on the Ferrari’s driver. Sukuna shifts the mic in his hand, the knuckles flexing once against it. For the briefest fraction of a second, his mouth almost twitches into something—was it a smirk? Annoyance? Amusement? Again, you can’t tell before it vanishes, leaving his expression as blankly intense as before. Personally, you haven’t even met the man; your job is to manage Gojo, not his rivals. Still, you have to log everything. You scribbled a quick, urgent note: consult with Shoko on Sukuna.

Gojo, oblivious to the panic he induced, pressed on, amplifying the drama. "—and Geto, who makes every strategic meeting feel like a chess game. No easy wins this year, but that’s the fun, right? I live for that. And let’s be honest, nothing’s easy when you’ve got Sukuna staring at you in the mirrors. At least it makes everything interesting.”

At last, Sukuna raises the mic. His tone is dry but unmistakably sharp, “You’re assuming you’ll be ahead for me to be in your mirrors.” The retort is perfectly timed to earn a genuine wave of laughter across the room, even making the FIA representative chuckle along.

“Good, healthy competition is always appreciated!” the FIA rep chirps, seizing the moment to pivot away from the tension. Good. The 'banter' angle is saved. We can run with that.

But since nothing is ever too easy in this paddock, Sukuna tilts his head and mutters, just loud enough for the front row of reporters, the ones with the most aggressive microphones, to hear the clear cynicism in his tone. "Sure it is."

The stylus halts again, pressing too hard against the glass. Risk??? Could skew toxic if clipped alone. Prep spin: rivals, not enemies.

“Okay then, on that note, let’s move on to you, Sukuna.” Ryomen shifts slightly, turning his head towards the rep to signal he’s listening now. “Ferrari have brought an aggressive floor concept this year. Do you believe it’s enough to put you back on top after losing the title?”

As the representative smoothly pivots the spotlight toward Ferrari, you adjust your stylus but keep your eyes glued to Gojo out of habit. This is Sukuna’s question, but anything he says that even suggests toward your driver is your responsibility to log. Gojo leans back deeper into the couch and you catch the faintest twitch of his mouth, like he’s waiting for something.

Ryomen leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his posture radiating a quiet, focused intensity that contrasts sharply with Gojo's sprawling ease. “You don’t design a floor like that unless you expect it to deliver something big.” His gaze flicks to the back of the room where Uraume stands, before returning to the front. “We’ve changed the profile to keep the flow attached in situations where last year we were losing stability, and the difference in Bahrain testing was clear. The car stopped arguing with me. That’s all I needed.” He sits back again, resting one arm across his thigh. “Whether it’s enough to put us on top? That’s on execution—strategy, pit stops, me keeping it on track, all of it. I’m not here to speculate about hypotheticals. We’ll find out Sunday. Or Saturday, if someone gets bold in quali.”

The reporters scribble again, a few nodding like they’re hearing exactly what they expected.

You don’t even have to look up from your notes to know the reporters are loving the reply. It’s technical, thought-through, perfectly pitched to manage expectations while projecting confidence. Exactly the sort you’d kill for from your own driver.

Gojo tilts his head slightly like he’s bored, but you know him well enough by now to clock the subtle, almost rhythmic bounce of his heel against the carpet.

“Any reliability concerns still lingering from last year?”

“Not worth talking about. New power unit spec’s solid, cooling issues are handled. The only thing that breaks now is if someone drops the car,” he replies with a cold dismissal. His jaw flexes once, and his eyes cut sharply to a reporter in the third row who clearly muttered something off-mic. “And if that happens, we fix it and move on. You don’t win by worrying about ghosts from last year.” He shrugs, making the whole question seem trivial. “We’re ready.”

You can practically hear the keyboards clattering already: We’re ready. It’s crisp, quotable, and dominant.

Out of the corner of your eye, Gojo flashes that too-quick grin at the same reporter he winked at earlier and your stylus stills. The woman is now very obviously flustered, fumbling her pen against her notebook. You have to bite back a groan of pure frustration. Of course, he’d use his new "toy" to keep himself amused and engaged during Sukuna’s answers.

“You’ve won two titles before and came close last year. What’s your mindset this season—are you focused on the championship, or taking it race by race?”

Sukuna’s mouth twitches like he’s suppressing a true smirk this time. “You don’t win championships on Thursday in Australia. You win them by doing the job one weekend at a time, one session at a time, and stacking points until nobody can catch you.” He adjusts his grip on the mic, thumb flicking once across the side. “My job is to drive, push the car as far as it can go, and then push it further the next lap. If that means wins, good. If it means podiums, fine. But you don’t think about Abu Dhabi in March. You win Melbourne first, then talk about the rest.”

Your stylus taps against the tablet, perfectly in time with the cadence of his voice. You aren’t Ferrari PR, but even you can recognise the rhythm: this was what world-class professionalism and focus sounded like. Meanwhile, Gojo exhales a short, sharp laugh under his breath—whether at Sukuna’s flawless delivery or just because he knows how much harder he’s making your job by contrast, you don’t know. You keep watching him, as he sends another charming, distracting grin to the female reporter, making your eyes roll.

“Very well said, thank you Sukuna.” The rep nods, moving on smoothly, and turns his head to the right slightly, facing Geto. “Suguru, Red Bull had one of the fastest straight‑line packages in pre‑season. How confident are you that you can challenge for the title this year?”

A hushed voice at your shoulder makes you jump. “Careful,” Shoko murmurs tiredly. You forgot she was there too. “Those two used to be best friends.”

Your stylus freezes mid-note. Used to be? The context hits you with the force of a high-speed crash.

Shoko doesn’t elaborate, just gestures with a nod at them for you to listen, leaving you staring at the stage with your pulse skittering. If they’ve got history you need to be ready for every word they throw at each other. And the worst, most irritating part is, judging by Gojo’s annoyingly confident grin, he knows exactly how much you are sweating over the whole situation.

“Confident enough to know we’re in the fight. The car’s fast. We’ve got efficiency and power, and when it’s working, it’s lethal—”

Both Sukuna and Satoru smirk faintly. While Sukuna’s expression remains completely unreadable, Gojo’s is sharpened, and you catch the quick flick of his gaze toward Geto, not the reporter who asked the question. You are still deciding if you completely imagined it when Suguru continues.

”—We’ve been in contention before, we know what’s required, and the car gives us a shot at it. If we execute, we’re right there.”

“You’ve worked with a lot of different teammates over the years. How is it working with Toji Zenin, and how does that dynamic shape your season goals?”

A muscle in Geto’s jaw tightens so delicately it’s almost impossible to catch if you’re not sitting next to him on the couch. “Toji is fast, no question. Our communication isn’t always seamless, but when we align, we’re competitive. The team knows how to manage us both. We have different approaches, but the goal is the same: win. As long as both cars finish where they should, that’s all that matters.”

Suguru’s delivery is incredibly diplomatic and polished. To anyone else in the room, it sounds like just a standard answer the PR handlers rehearse with their drivers for weeks ahead of time. You’ve drafted the same language yourself, more times than you’d care to admit. If the words sounded dull and flat on paper, they sound even more so next to Sukuna’s blunt pragmatism and Gojo’s tendency toward improv theatre routine.

Suguru’s delivery is diplomatic and to anyone else in the room it’s just a polished team answer the PR handlers rehearse with their drivers for weeks. You’ve drafted the same language yourself, more times than you’d care to admit. If it sounded sterile on paper, it sounds even more so next to Sukuna’s blunt pragmatism and Gojo’s improv theatre routine.

But now you’re watching with Shoko’s warning in your ears, and suddenly the tightness in his jaw and the neutral tone feel loaded. You glance sideways just in time to see Sukuna raise one skeptical eyebrow, and this time, the meaning is obvious: he clearly thinks the answer is sanitised to hell and back.

Sartoru notices Sukuna’s reaction too, shifting and waiting for the punchline. You grip the stylus in your hand so hard your knuckles begin to ache with the strain. His fingers drum a little too sharp a rhythm against his knee, and the realisation dawns on you: if their history is tangled and complex, then even the most sterile answer can hit like shrapnel.

“Thank you, Suguru. Let’s now open this to the floor and as was the case last year we will start with the broadcasters…” the FIA representative turns towards the cameras and reporters.

The first journalist introduces himself and asks his question, “Viaplay here, Sukuna, Suguru, Satoru, lovely to see you all again, and good luck for the weekend. Satoru, I’m going to turn to you. We all saw your name trending after pre‑season testing. How do you balance your personality off track with the need to focus on delivering results on track?”

Gojo responds with a bright, easy laugh into the mic, relaxed and casual as if the question has been lobbed by an old friend. “You say ‘balance’ like I have one. Look, fans get energy from us. If I give them a laugh and still stick it on pole, that’s balance enough. If I ever start P20, then you can complain,” reporters laugh lightly, rolling their eyes with a fond skepticism as if starting from the last position would ever be even possible for him.

Your stylus drags across the tablet: If I start P20 → meme fuel, harmless.

“I like to have fun, I like stirring things up online, but when I’m in the car, it’s serious. The thing is, you don’t have to pick between personality and performance. You just have to know where the line is and not cross it during a flying lap. The rest of the time? Be human. Because if you’re a robot, nobody cares. We’re in the entertainment business as much as we’re in racing, whether anyone likes it or not. And honestly? If people are still talking about my visor trick two weeks later and not about someone’s front wing falling off, I call that good PR.”

So far, the situation is completely salvageable. It is undeniably cocky, but it plays well to his brand. You know you can spin this easily into a personality and performance.

Satoru wouldn’t truly be himself, however, if he didn’t feel the need to add the cherry on top, “I’m just that Entertainment Package everyone needs. Sorry, Handler.”

I told him not to say it, and off course he did. The sound of the word Handler makes your teeth clench together, the term making you feel acutely like you are corralling an unruly dog, not managing a reigning world champion. You come to the unwelcome conclusion that he still genuinely doesn’t know your name, or perhaps he does, but simply chooses to be an asshole.

Every single camera in the room catches his sharp smile when he looks directly at you, and worse, the entire room erupts in laughter. To them, it’s charming banter, a bit of lighthearted fun. To you, it feels like an obituary being written for your professional credibility. Your stylus digs so hard into the tablet’s surface you are genuinely surprised the screen doesn’t immediately crack under the pressure.

“Don’t let it show, he gets worse if you look like he poked right,” Shoko mutters quietly at your side, and you instantly force your face into a neutral mask, typing in all caps onto the tablet: TRIAGE → SPIN TO PLAYFUL. PERSONALITY + PERFORMANCE. It is the only way out of this PR nightmare.

Sukuna side-eyes Satoru with something that registers as a mix between amusement and professional dismay, if you are reading his subtle expression correctly. “You forgot to mention how humble you are.”

It is the unexpected lifeline you didn't even ask for but desperately needed. By framing Satoru’s comment as two rivals trading light jabs, Sukuna effectively diffuses the worst of it, and you can physically feel your lungs unclench with relief. You almost want to go up to him after and thank him.

“I’m working on it.” Gojo winks playfully, and you wish with all your might it was aimed at Sukuna, out of all people, or even at you, but it’s directed at that same female reporter in the front row, who still blushes profusely every single time she looks up from her notes.

Perfect. Not only am I spinning ‘Entertainment Package,’ now I’ve got a live-action romcom unfolding in the press row. Kill me before Shanghai.

The next reporter speaks to the mic, “Sky Sports F1, Suguru, Satoru said during the testing press conference that Red Bull’s car could ‘win races with half the room behind the wheel.’ Do you have a response to that?”

Of course they’d drag that line back up.

Geto turns his head slowly toward Gojo, voice perfectly even. “If he thinks it’s that easy, he’s welcome to try. I’ve seen plenty of quick cars lose because the driver thought the car was going to do the work for them. Our car’s fast, yes. But it doesn’t drive itself.” He crosses his arms. “The last time I checked, the stopwatch doesn’t care about opinions—it only cares about execution. So no, I don’t feel the need to clap back. I’ll let the results speak.”

You jot furiously: Comms line → if clipped: “Healthy banter, no feud.” But the note feels dishonest even as you write it because the palpable tension between them doesn’t feel healthy at all. If anyone splices this footage with old clips of them laughing together as teammates, you are completely fucked.

You suddenly realise that he isn't truly answering Sky Sports; he is answering Satoru. Every word he speaks sounds like it has been rehearsed for years, and he has simply been waiting patiently for the perfect opening.

Gojo grins back at him with that infuriating tilt of his head and says smoothly, “Oh, I’d love to try, but I don’t think navy’s my color anymore, so I’m good.”

Your heart sinks heavily in your chest. That’s not just rivalry, that’s an ex digging at an ex, even if the “ex” is just a former teammate. It sounds intensely personal. The room doesn’t need any specific context to hear the bite, and you can already see the captions writing themselves for the online articles: old friends, old wounds.

Your stylus hovers hesitantly, then you force yourself to clear the last frantic line you wrote and replace it immediately with a more urgent note: Prep comms line. Frame as rivalry, not feud. Do not let this spiral into “ex-teammates drama.”

Ryomen’s muttered, bored-sounding “Children” buys you a brief breath of cover, a ripple of laughter quickly spreading from the front row of reporters, but it does absolutely nothing to stop the cold, clammy sweat running down your spine.

A quiet shift at your shoulder makes you glance back, and Shoko gives you the laziest, most pointed told you so look in the history of condescending gazes.

“Motorsport, good to see you, everyone. How do each of you feel about being labelled the ‘Holy Trio’ rivalry this year?”

Gojo’s lips curve into a wide, bright smile immediately, and he raises the mic in his hand like the word 'rivalry' has been crafted specifically for him and him alone. His body slides loose, balanced between casual and in-control, and you already feel the familiar coil of nervous tension tightening in your chest. Don’t go too far. Please.

“Holy? That’s generous. I don’t think any of us belong in a church. Definitely sure no one’s calling him holy,” he says, jerking a playful thumb toward Sukuna. The press laughs, Sukuna actually chuckles once, and your stylus scribbles frantically: light, playful, keep it framed as harmless.

“But sure, call it whatever you want, it’s catchy. Rivalry? Good. Rivalries mean ratings, ratings mean more fans, and more fans mean I get tagged in more memes. Everyone wins. I’m good with it.”

Your stylus scratches. Meme fuel again. Will trend. Contain it.

“It makes it sound like we’re supposed to start holding hands before lights out,” Sukuna drawls. He sits like he’s completely uninterested in the conversation, but the compelling tone of his voice actually makes the entire room lean forward to listen. “Let me save you the trouble: we’re not. Rivalries are cute for TV, but on track? I don’t race hashtags, I race drivers. Gojo had his year, good for him, but things flip quickly in this sport and… I’m here to take it back.”

Your throat tightens when Sukuna doesn’t attempt to soften it. It sounds like a cold, hard threat dressed up as a simple statement of fact. You note down quickly: headline risk → ambition, not hostility. Emphasise confidence.

“Take it back? That’s assuming you can keep it this time, big guy. Last I checked, I still have the crown.” Gojo’s voice sounds simultaneously too bright and too smug, and the familiar smirk blooming confidently on his face makes you want to sink completely into the floor out of sheer professional anxiety.

“Enjoy it while it lasts. Those things have a habit of changing owners fast—you should know, I took it from you before. Twice.”

The whole room erupts with a loud, surprised “ooh,” and reporters laugh like excited schoolkids hearing a juicy piece of gossip. You nearly crush your stylus in your fist. God, they’re feeding it. Your entire document is by now full of frantic scribbles and notes, but this doesn’t stop you from adding one more: Don’t headline it toxic. Rivalry = competitive spark.

Gojo’s grin widens even further, and he leans into the microphone as though he is enjoying this far too much. “Guess I’ll see you at Turn 1, then. Don’t blink.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sukuna fires back instantly, smirking faintly.

“Maybe we should get matching shirts?” Satoru jokes casually, pointing between himself and Ryomen.

You nearly choke on your own breath. Oh my god, stop. Stop.

“Jesus. I get why you’re both single.” Geto finally looks toward the other drivers, cutting them off with a cold voice, then turns his gaze back to the waiting reporters. “To answer your question: labels don’t matter. We race, that’s it.”

Gojo clutches dramatically at his chest in mock theatrics. “Ouch! That’s so personal.” The bright, surprised laugh he throws over the comment makes cameras click rapid-fire, and what’s truly weird is that he actually sounds genuinely surprised by the jab.

“Funny thing to say for a guy who can’t even keep a teammate on speaking terms.” Sukuna’s low, rumbling chuckle follows quickly, aiming his jab solely and directly at Suguru, whose only reply is a slow, dismissive eye roll and the familiar tightening of his jaw.

Satoru clearly enjoys having someone new to taunt Geto with, and the triumphant smirk blooms widely on his face when Ryomen tilts his head toward him and mutters conspiratorially, “…Does he always sound like that?”

Satoru clearly enjoys having an ally in taunting Geto, and the smirk blooms on his face when Ryomen tilts his head toward him, muttering, “...Does he always sound like that?”

“Worse when he’s trying to be interesting,” Gojo deadpans.

A few scattered reporters laugh, one audibly choking back a surprised noise of amusement. Geto simply folds his hands in his lap and stares straight ahead, completely detached, while the other two exchange a quick, loaded glance that clearly reads: yeah, I don’t like this guy either.

For Gojo, it’s a small victory, his grin sharpening with the unmistakable satisfaction of finding a partner who bites back at Suguru with the same pointed wit that he enjoys. The rivalry might sell brilliantly as a simple ice-and-fire dynamic on paper, but sitting here, watching them, you can see it for what it truly is: Gojo relishing the game, enjoying the rare moment of having someone on his exact wavelength.

You don’t know whether to be relieved or horrified—relieved that he seems so completely at ease, horrified that the banter makes it impossible to tell if this is genuine hostility or just theater he’s thriving in. Your chest tightens with the instinct to draft a damage-control line about “healthy rivalries,” but the longer you watch, the more you start to realise he doesn’t want it softened. He wants this friction to exist, because it makes him shine.

The moderator hurries to the next question, but the amusement lingers across Satoru’s face like he’s already hoping the next reporter tees him up for round two.

“The Roar, Sukuna, hello, um, Ferrari’s decision to pair you with your rookie brother has raised eyebrows. Some suggest you were part of that decision to keep control of the garage, and others say it’s because the team can’t trust you with an experienced teammate anymore after last year’s… uh, ‘outbursts.’ Is this about building a team around you, or protecting the team from you?”

“…oh, fuck me,” he mutters under his breath. His microphone is safely in his lap, but the sound is still enough to make you nearly choke on your air. It is a horrifying, split-second calculation: If Ferrari blows up, it’s their problem. If Satoru opens his mouth, it becomes yours. Besides that, Shoko also informed you earlier how expensive the swearing can be during FIA pressers.

Ryomen, however, gives Gojo zero attention. He leans forward, his eyes locking onto the reporter with an intensity that is almost physical. His grip on the microphone tightens perceptibly, as if he genuinely considers crushing the expensive piece of equipment.

“You’ve got some balls, I’ll give you that,” Sukuna’s voice is quiet, dangerously calm, which somehow makes the atmosphere exponentially worse. “And you’re also tired of writing real stories, huh? You stroll in here and call my brother a prop, my team scared of me, and my career one bad temper tantrum away from collapse, like that’s clever journalism. Newsflash: it’s not. That’s a guy desperate for clicks because his editor’s too lazy to send him to an actual story.”

The room explodes with shutter clicks. You’re already scribbling PR triage – Ferrari explosion in bold red across your tablet. It isn’t your fire, but you know it will be the second Satoru so much as allow a smirk to cross his face.

“Here’s how this works,” Sukuna continues, his voice a low, chilling rumble that makes you shudder internally. “Yuji got his seat because he’s fast, because he earned it, because Ferrari wanted him.” He tilts his head slightly, a small, audible crack comes from his neck, while his voice maintains its arctic chill. “I don’t make those calls. I don’t have to. You think I need politics to keep my job? I’ve got two championships, tens of wins, and now you’re sitting here asking if I’m a threat to my own team? Pathetic.”

Your nails dig small half-moons into the case of your tablet. For a terrifying, drawn-out second, you anticipate Gojo leaning into his own mic, feeding the fire with one of his presumptuous quips, and dragging Mercedes deep into Ferrari’s self-made pit. Instead, for once, he remains still, watching Sukuna with a detached curiosity, like someone observing a lit fuse.

“I didn’t get any of that from smiling pretty at press conferences. I got it by winning. That scares you, doesn’t it? Because you can’t twist winning into some ‘garage power struggle’ headline no matter how much you want to.”

Murmurs ripple through the rows. You can almost hear the front page forming: Sukuna Snaps Again. All you can do is offer a silent prayer that he will cut his statement short, because every word he utters is another nail in Ferrari’s coffin and another terrifying risk that Gojo will decide to clown his way into your own.

A reporter two rows back actually coughs out a laugh before catching themselves, and a ripple of murmurs spreads through the room. Gojo glances sideways at Sukuna, eyebrows raised like he’s watching someone take the safety off a loaded weapon.

The representative’s hand twitches upwards with the mic like he might intervene, but he doesn’t get a chance to.

“So let’s make this crystal clear: you don’t talk about my family like they’re props, and you don’t talk about me like I’m one bad day away from being replaced. You don’t have that right. Next time you try to drag someone through the mud to make your job easier—make sure it isn’t my family, or I’ll give you a quote that’ll make this one look like a bedtime story.”

The silence is thick. One reporter lowers their hand, another slowly shuts their laptop, while someone whispers “Jesus Christ” off‑mic. You’re two seconds away from a coronary.

“And I thought I was the PR nightmare,” Gojo mutters into his mic, the volume low enough that it feels like a private, cynical joke aimed only at the people on the couch.

Relief hits hard, but it doesn’t last. You know this will get clipped side by side later, Ferrari’s number one mid-eruption and Mercedes’ reigning champion smirking I thought I was the PR nightmare. Even silence isn’t safe when it comes packaged with his grin.

It’s still getting tagged in your document: Mercedes stayed professional while others unraveled. It’s the only lifeline you’ve got. If Ferrari wants to implode on camera, fine. At least your driver didn’t hand them the match. For once.

“...Moving on. BBC?” FIA rep asks, before the journalist can actually escalate.

“Yeah, right… so… Satoru, you and Suguru were seen as inseparable back in your Red Bull days, and now you don’t even speak. Can you explain what happened?”

Oh, what the fuck?! Seriously?!

Gojo exhales sharply, a sound like an irritated hiss, and then flashes that crooked half-smile you’ve already learned is his internal gauge for how much chaos to drop into your lap.

“Ah, the classics. Sometimes people grow apart, sometimes things happen, and sometimes people just can’t work together anymore. That’s all you’re getting from me. If someone’s worried about my social circle? Don’t. I’m busy winning races, so I don’t have time for therapy sessions in here.”

You have to clench your jaw to remind yourself not to visibly wince. If Ferrari’s meltdown was one thing, this is worse, because the second Gojo opens his mouth, it’s your inbox that fills with crisis pings. You type furiously: Prep comms line → frame as professional focus. NO soap opera.

“What’s with fishing for clickbaits today?” Geto’s reply is icy, dismissing the entire line of questioning. “No comment from me either.”

The tension is so thick, that when Sukuna tilts his head, looking between the two of them with something bordering on disbelief, and then cuts in, you nearly sag with relief. His voice is flat, annoyed, and finally aimed at the journalists instead of his fellow drivers. “Seriously, is there a bet going on? First you drag my brother into it, now you’re asking for a Red Bull reunion special?” He shakes his head slowly in frustration.

A few scattered nervous chuckles break out. One reporter mutters, “This press conference’s going in the highlight reel.”

Gojo leans back, appearing light and utterly relaxed, his signature grin tugging even wider, as if this entire spectacle is merely an amusing sport for him. “It always does.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling the dull throb of an oncoming migraine. Of course, he finds amusement in the middle of a disaster. You are already drafting the internal spin: spin → Gojo cool under pressure while rivals bristled.

The tight knot in your gut isn’t because of Geto’s barbed reply—it is entirely due to Sukuna’s earlier words. His entire response to the earlier question feels like a carefully loaded warning to the entire press corps. There is only one thing you are absolutely sure of at this point: you never, ever want to find yourself on Ryomen’s bad side.

You force yourself to type: clip → Gojo cool under pressure while rivals bristled, because if there’s blowback, you need anything.

The ESPN reporter, clearly experienced, offers a soft-ball. “Sukuna, I have a normal one, don’t worry.” The journalist chuckles, used to these situations already. “Ferrari had some early‑session issues in Bahrain testing before your new chief engineer intervened. How confident are you that the team’s internal changes fixed last year’s weaknesses?”

“Confident. We made changes because we needed to and you saw the result: problem came up, it got handled, we didn’t lose track time, and the car did what we needed after that.” Ryomen shrugs, his voice even and composed again, the dangerous edge hidden, masked by cool professionalism that somehow makes his earlier fury feel even more calculated. He taps the mic lightly with one knuckle and leans back into the couch again. “That’s what fixing weaknesses looks like: not patching symptoms, but changing how the whole team works so those weaknesses don’t show up in the first place.”

If the last question left a crater, this one’s the cover story Ferrari will want replayed. You’re almost annoyed by how easy he makes it look. One clean, professional answer and Ferrari’s comms team can clip it for every channel, while you’re already bracing yourself for whatever fresh disaster Satoru decides to gift you next.

While the room nods along, you catch Satoru’s grin tilting at the toy he found earlier. There’s a flash of teeth and the faintest arch of an eyebrow, that could pass off as harmless charm if anyone called him on it. The problem is, you know it isn’t harmless. He has clearly decided she is his personal entertainment for this presser, and from the way her pen hesitates mid-scribble before she quickly ducks her head, she’s head over heels.

“Canal+, Suguru, one more for you. Congratulations on your eighth anniversary of your debut in F2. What advice would you give debutante you?”

“Thank you. Well, work harder, trust less, ignore the noise and people who mistake noise for talent.”

Gojo’s smirk falters for a noticeable moment, long enough for anyone watching closely to notice. You catch, from the corner of your eye, the subtle tightening of his jaw and his fingers beginning to drum a slow, rhythmic pattern against the microphone. He looks like he might actually let the comment pass, and with all your being, you desperately hope he will. Just don’t Satoru, please let us finish this hell. But then the grin snaps back, now laced with a way more dangerous bite to it.

“Damn. Maybe I should pay you rent for how much I’m living in there,” he says lightly, but the underlying edge is impossible to miss, before pointing to his rival's head. “Seems like it’s getting serious.”

Geto doesn’t miss a beat, rolling his eyes with a low, dismissive snarl. “You can stop proving my point any time now.”

You scribble eighth anniversary, advice = barbed in your notes, already hearing how headlines will frame this as old wounds resurfacing. Across the couch, Sukuna watches the exchange, absolutely unreadable to you.

You’d come in braced for headlines and hashtags, but what’s playing out on that couch isn’t just a standard media event. It is history, deep-seated grudges, and a volatile, personal narrative that could easily snowball and crush an entire season if you aren’t fast enough to spin it. You’ve never felt more out of your depth in your entire life, unconsciously tapping your stylus against the side of your tablet the only outlet for your spiking anxiety.

The press conference wraps and the FIA rep thanks everyone, cueing the shuffle of chairs and the hiss of shutters as photographers lunge for final shots. Drivers stand, mics thump back onto the couch, and you edge closer to the exit path, ready to drag Satoru out before he decides to improvise again.

However, the female reporter Gojo’s been eyeing the whole time, slips forward from the second row with a notebook clutched to her chest and badge swinging on its lanyard. She moves quickly, like she knows she has seconds before the scrum pushes her out, and holds out a business card pinched neatly between two fingers.

“In case you ever want a quote clarified directly,” she says, smiling with just enough tilt to pass as professional.

Satoru doesn’t waste a second, leaning toward her and dropping his voice into that velvet tone he saves for when he knows someone’s already halfway hooked. The easy smile appearing on his face makes her blush again.

“Direct’s always better, isn’t it?” His fingers brush hers as he plucks the card, before tucking it into the pocket of those slim black trousers like it’s a relic worth more than every sponsor logo he was contractually obliged to be showcasing. He sends her a wink, before excusing himself.

You’re not surprised. You are, however, completely unsurprised that this kind of "off-script" move is going to turn into a social media storm when some overeager tabloid runs GOJO FLIRTS HIS WAY OUT OF PRESSER.

As he reaches your side, Satoru glances sideways at you, sunglasses already sliding back down the bridge of his nose in a move practiced a thousand times. “Relax, Handler. Just making sure the press feels… cared for. You don’t have to be jealous.” Another wink, this one angled exclusively for your eyes, sharp and proprietary.

You’re at the spot when he glances sideways at you, sunglasses already sliding back down the bridge of his nose. “Relax, Handler. Just making sure the press feels… cared for. You don’t have to be jealous.” Another wink, this one angled so only you catch it.

Turning your head, you see the woman still standing there, fixed in place, looking like she’d just won the lottery. And he didn’t even call her yet.

You scribble the note down before you even realise you’re moving: Find out who she is. Prep response. Fucking kill me now.

You’ve barely left the presser room when the notification pings across your phone—a Mercedes comms team tag on Slack, urgent.

Mercedes comms team: Heads up—Autosport push: Gojo: ‘Track limits are suggestions.’ Mercedes comms team: Motorsport.com just posted ‘Gojo admits rules don’t apply to him.’ Mercedes comms team: Sky blog mirroring. X clipping the ‘cheating’ word.

There are already clips circulating, cut perfectly to make it sound like he confessed to cheating. You don’t even get the luxury of time—you’re way behind, and damage control starts now.

Fantastic.

Gojo, back in his sunglasses, is still chatting animatedly with a couple of staffers. Shoko’s lingering at his side with crossed arms, clearly unimpressed with the topic of the conversation. You catch her eye, tilt your phone toward her, and as she looks down at her own device, she exhales a long, weary sigh, the sound of someone who had been fully expecting this all along. “Of course.”

Quickly approaching them, you hook two fingers into Satoru’s sleeve mid-stride, ignoring his lazy, surprised protest, and march him straight onto the paddock asphalt. “Motorhome. Now.” Shoko follows you both wordlessly with a very irritated expression on her face.

Gojo purposefully drags his feet a little behind you, clearly finding the whole spectacle highly amusing. “Someone’s in a mood,” he teases, drawing out the words just to test your already non-existent patience. “Did my fanclub crash the servers again? Another sponsor crying because I winked at the wrong camera? Tell them to send tissues, I’ll autograph them.”

Inside the motorhome, you drop your tablet onto the table in front of him hard enough that it echoes. “This,” you bite out. “This is the problem.”

The headline stares back in bold print. Gojo barely leans down to glance at it, then bursts out laughing. He flops into the nearest chair with legs spread wide, spinning the lanyard he just took out of his pocket on his finger.

“Relax,” he says, grinning like it’s all harmless. “They know I was joking.”

“No, they don’t,” you snap, leaning over the table. “Half the grid’s fanbase doesn’t parse irony and FIA stewards sure as hell don’t. You handed them a headline that reads like a confession, Satoru. A confession.”

Shoko slides into the seat across from him, already flicking through tabs on her laptop. She doesn’t bother sugar-coating: “She’s right. It’s everywhere. X, TikTok, even Reuters picked it up.”

Gojo leans back, stretching his arms behind his head, a picture of insouciant defiance. “Good. Let them write. Means they’re not talking about Ferrari, which works for us, honey. You should thank me.”

“Don’t call me that.” Shoko doesn’t even look up, but the sharp bite in her tone is unmistakable.

“C’mon, sweetheart—”

“I said no.”

You blink between them, momentarily thrown. There’s something here that’s too well-worn to be truly hostile. Shoko’s exasperated, yes, but she’s not dismissing him with the blunt ruthlessness she reserved for most things, and he’s baiting her more softly than the relentless needle he directed at you. It unsettles you more than you’d admit.

Before you can dwell on it, the door opens. Nanami steps in, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from the heat outside. He takes one look at Gojo sprawled in the chair, then the headline blazing on your tablet. “Do I want to know?”

“Cheating headline,” Shoko supplies, deadpan.

Kento exhales through his nose, lowering himself into the empty chair. “Of course. You realise FIA will take this literally?”

“Not my problem,” Gojo says lightly, sending a snide, challenging smile across the table directly at you. “Unless Handler here wants to make it my problem.”

Your pen nearly snaps in your grip. “Do you ever think about anyone but yourself?”

His grin widens. “All the time. Right now I’m thinking about you. Specifically about how red your face gets when you’re pissed. Very cute.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably fast, unbelievably popular, unbelievably fine—pick your adjective, boss. They all work.”

Shoko finally looks up, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Can you not flirt with the woman trying to stop you from getting a race ban?”

He smirks at her, then shifts his full attention and that dangerous, iridescent blue gaze back onto you. “What, can’t multitask? I’m great at multitasking. Ask anyone who’s ever—”

“That’s enough.” Nanami cuts in firmly, aware where his teammate was going with it. “If you’re done trying to be funny, we should discuss strategy before FIA does it for us.”

Gojo tips his head back, exhaling loudly in a clear, theatrical display of boredom. “Fine. Let’s play pretend. What’s the grand PR plan? Slap me on the wrist in a statement? Cry on camera? Hold up a little sign that says ‘please like me’? Make me promise to be a good boy?” He drops his voice deliberately low on the last phrase, aimed at you like a loaded weapon. “I assure you, Handler, I can be a very good boy.”

Gojo tips his head back, exhaling loudly. “Fine. Let’s play pretend. What’s the grand PR plan? Slap me on the wrist in a statement? Cry on camera? Hold up a little sign that says ‘please like me’? Make me promise to be a good boy?” He drops his voice deliberately low at the last part, aimed at you like a weapon. “I assure you, Handler, I can be a very good boy.”

He’s baiting you, clearly enjoying himself, leaning forward and watching you with those curious blue eyes.

The worst part is, he managed to throw you off balance, just slightly, with that comment. But you manage to meet his gaze, pointing the flat edge of your stylus at him like a knife. “The plan is: you stop digging holes for me to fill. You stop thinking you’re untouchable, because the moment FIA decides you’re a liability, no championship saves you. You’re talented, not invincible.”

It’s infuriating how easily he brushes it off with a laugh, leaning further across the table, suddenly being way too close. “Oh, sweetheart, I love it when you threaten me. Keep going.”

Shoko groans dramatically, slamming her laptop shut, but her tone is softer and weary, and in a strange way, almost protective of… him? “Every time I think you’ve hit peak intolerable, you find a new ceiling. I’ll phrase it like this, Gojo. If you get yourself penalised for stupidity, you’re not just hurting yourself—you’re hurting me, the team, and every single person working in that garage. You owe them better.”

“There’s no FIA email yet,” you begin before the driver can answer with another comment of his as you need the whole group back at the topic at hand. “I want to get ahead with a clarification before they decide we’re making a mockery of the regulations.”

“Clarify that I’m aerodynamic and charming. Done,” Satoru chirps happily, puffing his chest out.

Ignoring him, you flip your tablet so they can see your notes: the quote, the circled word cheating and the timestamp. “The word is what’s driving it. We can spin ‘push the limits.’ We cannot spin ‘cheating’ if they decide to get righteous.”

Satoru drums fingers on the tabletop, the grin inching back. “If I’d actually cheated, I wouldn’t tell a room full of cameras.”

“I know that,” you meet his eyes tiredly, your exhaustion showing through, “but the internet doesn’t. And the Stewarding group has zero sense of humor. Here’s the plan.”

Shoko nods. “Go.”

“Step one: I’m emailing FIA Comms and Race Control with a proactive clarification, not apology.” You’re typing the subject line and reading it out loud “‘Clarification on Gojo press conference phrasing—intent around racing ‘to the limit,’ not beyond.’ The body will cite relevant sporting code language about enforcing track limits and our respect for it. The aim is to make ‘suggestions’ read as colloquial, not literal.”

There’s a second nod from your boss, which you translate as approved.

Gojo, however, leans forward suddenly, sliding his elbows onto the table, his entire frame pushing into your space until the air between you is uncomfortably warm. The smile up close seems sharper, but now it’s close enough that you feel a bit uneasy. He doesn’t interrupt, but deliberately crowds you, like he knows exactly how much harder it makes to keep your voice steady.

“Step two: social triage.” You cough mid-sentence to cover the catch in your throat, and his brow arches, humming like he’s scored a point.

“We push a short clip from the answer where he says, ‘When I’m in the car, it’s serious. You just have to know where the line is and not cross it during a flying lap.’ That frames the intent. We pair it with a caption about ‘racing on the limit, never over it.’ We do not quote the spicy line.”

“Boring,” Satoru mutters, but for once, not actively fighting you.

“Step three: sponsor reassurance. IWC already loved the wrist shots—thank you for finally wearing it—so I’ll forward them the clip and our line, plus a still of you in full team kit we will do right after this meeting. That cools them before they ping Shoko.”

You stop for a few seconds to take a deep breath, steady your heartbeat and continue, “Then there’s the flirting. I’ll keep that off the board for now. There’s no clip of the exchange, just stills. If it bubbles, we call it ‘engaging with media’—which it technically was. But I’m flagging the reporter to our list. If she pitches ‘exclusive access’ via back‑channel, it routes through me.”

Satoru tips his head in obvious amusement. “You that jealous, Handler?”

“I’m employed, Gojo. Which is why we’re adding step four: boundaries. You do not say ‘cheating’ on a microphone again. And stop directing winks at individual reporters. Camera, fine. The room? Fine. One person? It puts us squarely on the back foot.”

He considers you for a long time and for a ridiculous moment, you’re hopeful he might actually agree just this once. “Counter‑offer: I wink at two people so nobody feels special.”

“Try me,” you say, and even you can hear how thin your patience is.

“Satoru. Listen.” Shoko starts. “She’s not killing your brand; she’s keeping you fast. You want to keep playing the showman, you need oxygen. And oxygen is… not having to spend your Friday morning with the stewards over a headline you fed them.”

He pivots that smile to her, and it looks lighter, somehow more affectionate. “You always manage to make tyranny sound reasonable.”

“Because I’m right.” Shoko stands up, stretching the tension from her shoulders. “Draft your FIA note,” she tells you. “I’ll ping Legal to bless the language. Satoru, look contrite at least once so she doesn’t die from stress.”

He turns back toward you, and for a startling moment, the theatrical tease drops completely. His expression is suddenly serious. “Hey. I know what I said. I also know what I meant. Make it sound like the second thing.”

“That’s literally my job,” you answer, your fingers already flying across the screen, typing the urgent subject line.

You read the draft out loud as you write, keeping it crisp and formal:

To FIA Comms / Race Control —

Following today’s media conference, a clip has circulated of S. Gojo using the phrase “track limits are suggestions.” We want to clarify intent: Mr. Gojo was referring colloquially to pushing to the limit, not exceeding it. He has consistently supported enforcement of track limits and respects stewarding decisions. For avoidance of doubt: Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS F1 Team competes within the Sporting Regulations; any phrasing to the contrary was rhetorical. Happy to provide full context if needed.

Shoko leans over your shoulder, makes one change—“for avoidance of doubt” to “for absolute clarity”—and nods. “Send to legal. I already informed them to wait for it.” You do.

Your tablet pings again—Merc Comms has prepped three cut‑downs around his “be human vs robot” answer. You scan, approve two, kill one with “too cheeky for tonight,” and tack on the caption: ‘Personality and performance. On the limit, never over it.’

“Alright,” you say, calming down for the first time in fifteen minutes. “Next: internal line for the race preview. We seed ‘excited to get the season started, confidence high, focus on execution.’ We do not reference Red Bull, we do not reference Ferrari. No gasoline on anybody else’s fire.”

“Can I reference the beach?” Satoru asks, voice laced with mischief..

“No,” you and Shoko say together.

Without losing the shameless grin, he rolls his eyes heavenward. “You two are truly cute when you synchronise like that. I feel so managed.”

Nanami’s gaze flicks to him. “Stop giving them heart attacks, Satoru.”

“I’m trying, Kento,” Gojo says with mock sincerity, putting a hand over his heart. It’s just… my face.”

Shoko’s phone buzzes ten minutes later and she scans the screen. “FIA answered our legal: ‘Thank you for the clarification.’ No further action at this time.” She drops the phone, gives you a slow, approving look. “You bought us daylight.”

The relief that hits you is embarrassingly physical. You press your palms to the tabletop to steady them, when you feel the inevitable migraine finally appearing now that the adrenaline rush is over.

“Okay. Then here’s the last item.” You slide the IWC content plan across to Satoru you prepared before. It’s very simple and painless stuff: a 10‑second locker‑room wrist check after FP1, a grid walk wave with the watch visible, a still on Stories. “Three deliverables. Easy. Please don’t improvise. And walk around the paddock with Monster can, please.”

He skims the sheet, his eyes moving fast, and nods once. “Fine.”

“‘Fine’?” you echo suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. His compliance is always a red flag.

“Fine,” he repeats, but you just can’t find it in yourself to believe him, not for a second. He’s toying with me again, isn’t he?

Shoko stands and her chair scrapes the floor with an irritating sound. “Break. Thirty minutes. Then we run the Friday schedule.” She gives you a side look so small it’s almost nothing, which from Shoko is basically a hug. “Good work.”

Nanami files out with a curt nod that acknowledges your competence. Shoko’s trailing him, already pulling a lighter out as they head for a smoke break. Satoru lingers a second longer, tapping the tabletop with two knuckles, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

“You know…” His voice drops, softer than it has any right to be. He stands up, walks around the table, and leans over, boxing you in between the confines of his arms and the chair. The heat of his body is suddenly a suffocating presence, and the soft, minty air of his breath brushes your cheek. “If you glare like that any harder, Legal’s going to put it in the risk register.”

You force your eyes down to the tablet, focusing on the dark screen, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flinching or even acknowledging the proximity. “Don’t ever make me write to the FIA first again.”

He angles his head, studying you up close, blue eyes catching every flicker of light, every minuscule tension in your expression, noting every crack in your composure. “No promises, Handler.”

Your stomach tightens when he doesn’t fucking move back, lingering there just to push you closer to flinching. “My name’s not Handler.”

That earns you a low, resonant chuckle, stripped of his usual public-facing charm. It’s just for you. One hand shifts just enough that his knuckles graze the table beside your forearm, and even though he doesn’t technically touch you, it still makes the space feel impossibly small. Then, finally, he pulls back, dragging his arms lightly against the wood before they lift away. He leans down just enough to murmur the final blow directly into your ear, “I’ll learn it when it becomes worth remembering.”

Two quick knuckle taps on the wood, then he’s gone, leaving the door swinging shut and the air suddenly cold, making you finally shudder. Asshole.

For a moment you exist, pulse too high, the cold biting your skin. You let your head drop onto the table, pressing the mounting migraine pain away until the tremor fades, then straighten your spine, and force yourself to breathe slowly and evenly.

You hate that he gets under your skin this easily, hate even more that he knows it, and that he pushes harder just to watch you flinch. He meant every word, and that’s what unsettles you most. Still, if he thinks he can shove you out like the others, he’s wrong. You need this job—your career depends on it. So you’ll stay, and if staying proves anything, it’s that his game doesn’t work on you.

And the best way to make that true is to pull the tablet back and bury yourself in work. You start with building tomorrow’s comms grid, because the season hasn’t even started and you’re already a day behind. The plan is simple and not-so-simple at the same time: making the mess invisible and winning loud.

—

Friday, 14th of March 2025

Shoko walks you into the comms room in the garage with the same half-bored vibe she brings everywhere else, already digging for her lighter like she’d rather be outside. She drops a spare headset into your hands and nudges you toward one of the folding chairs lined against the wall. The room hums loudly with overlapping voices, overwhelming you from the very start.

“Before you ask—no, you don’t get a button,” she says, matter-of-fact, tugging her own headset into place. “PR isn’t wired into pit wall. Your headset’s listen-only, so don’t bother hunting for a way to talk back. You sit, you hear everything, you make notes. That’s it.”

You fumble with the headset, the soft hiss of open comms filling your ears as soon as you slot it on, and the world narrows instantly: Gojo’s voice sharp in one channel, Nanami’s measured on the other, the engineers cutting in clean.

Shoko tips her chin toward the board showing both car numbers. “Left channel’s your headache, right channel’s the one you wish we had two of. You’ll figure out which is which fast.” She doesn’t have to explain further—you already know. “If he says something stupid, and he will, your only weapon is what you write down.”

Nanami’s smooth and steady voice comes first. “Front end feels a touch heavy on entry. Balance otherwise manageable.” You jot it down. If you clipped his comms right now and shipped them to sponsors, it would read like a business memo.

Then comes the other feed. “Ooooh—look at that! Ferrari breakdancing at fourteen. Somebody clip that, it’s art.” The casual snort after it tells you all you need to know: he’s already looking for a laugh. “Oh shit, that was Sukuna,” he adds and it’s followed by the loud, slightly distorted chuckle.

Of course he’s still poking that bear. You glance instinctively at Shoko, who scribbles something with her pen already, so you quickly follow her lead, noting down the timestamp, his words, and a note: clip → crisis (mocking rival). Your boss’ side glance tells you she’s silently betting on Sukuna hearing about it by dinner. “Welcome to Free Practice,” she says instead and you exhale loudly.

The channel crackles again a few laps later, when yellow flags blink across the timing screen. The engineer informs, “Telemetry issue, McLaren will rejoin shortly,” quickly followed by a mockery tone of Satoru’s voice, “McLaren again? Someone check if they unplugged their Wi-Fi router.” He hums, satisfied with his own joke.

Each time his voice spikes sharp in your ears, your stomach drops like you’re the one strapped into the car about to spin. Your stylus presses a little harder against the tablet than you intend. That one’s funny, but if it airs raw you’re dead in another headline cycle. You jot a note: spin: lighthearted ribbing, not malicious.

“Front end washes out on entry, but rear’s stable through traction. Mid-corner needs more bite,” Satoru's voice comes through comms again, while you’re tapping your foot waiting for a yellow flag to clear.

Finally. Actual feedback. You actually jot it down verbatim in your notes as it’s one of the few times he’s clean and precise without fluff. It goes straight into the sponsor-friendly column with USABLE in all caps, and you sigh with relief. If he did this more often, my job would be a vacation.

Traffic builds into the final sector and Gojo’s irritation bleeds straight into your ears. “Move it, grandpa,” he whines. “Who’s in that Aston for fuck’s sake?” The engineer says it’s Noritoshi. “I’ll buy him the mirror if it helps noticing the traffic he causes.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, bracing for the comms team in Brackley to start tagging it already.

Your leg won’t stop bouncing under the desk, so fast the chair vibrates. It’s like trying to get rid of the stress through motion.

Nanami’s voice cuts back in, calm as ever, giving precise corner-by-corner data. “Turn six exit traction improving after flap change. No further comments.” You can’t stop yourself from muttering, “I want to marry this man.”

Shoko hears it and smirks faintly without looking up from her own notes. “Careful. Don’t let Satoru hear you say that.”

When the lead driver says, “The halo cam better be catching my good side right now,” your pen stills, then you drag it across the page with more force than you mean to.

You groan under her breath, type Meme. Not usable, and pray the clip doesn’t blow up on TikTok before you can bury it under a garage reel.

Not long after, he speaks again, “Rear’s wiggly mid-corner. Not in a bad way. More like… she’s flirting with me. I’ll allow it,” and you slam your pen down, already hearing the fans chopping the audio over TikTok thirst edits. Of course he managed to sexualise tire grip. Of course he did.

“Car balance feels neutral. Rear traction manageable. Brakes consistent,” the steady voice of Nanami brings you back to normal as you scribble it down with a red heart beside it.

Comms crack again, but no one says anything for a long moment. Only then you hear soft humming and it sounds very similarly to… Judas by Lady Gaga? What the fuck?

“It’s Gojo,” Shoko laughs, seeing your confusement. That makes you actually freeze, waiting to see if he’s about to sing lyrics next. When he doesn’t, you let your shoulders drop. Not catastrophic. Yet.

By the seventh line of Gojo’s rambling, your handwriting has gone jagged, the tip of the stylus squeaking with each tap like you’re trying to etch your panic into the glass.

Gojo’s distorted laughter can be heard over the comms again when Toji’s car spins on track, “Hey, Handler, you writing this down? ‘Mercedes dodges spinning bull.’ Catchy headline.”

You grip the stylus harder than you mean to, biting down on your lip before you can hiss a reply he won’t hear anyway. Your notes page is already a disaster of frantic circles and triple underlines, and this one just gets a giant scrawl of bait across the margin.

Five laps later, his tone spikes. “Debris on exit fourteen—what the fuck are we doing here, turning this into a slalom course?!” The word fuck echoes right into your ear, makes you flinch. Your hand jerks toward the mic like you could physically cut the feed, before you remember comms is one-way. You can’t stop him or do anything except watch the waveform spike and pray FOM doesn’t package that one into the world’s angriest highlights reel. Gojo exhales loud enough to fuzz the mic, and continues, “Someone sweep the track before I test suspension in ways you don’t want.”

That one makes you pause, lips pressing thin. Anger sells, but FIA hates when a driver even hints track management’s incompetent. Your pen scrawls: swearing + safety complaint + FIA incompetency = crisis??

Halfway through FP2, your thumb cramps so hard around the stylus you have to shake it out under the desk, hoping Shoko doesn’t notice.

“Grip’s there. Car feels good. You guys did solid work,” Nanami says and you want to seriously hug that man, but then you realise it wasn’t actually his voice. It was Gojo? Your stylus nearly slips, as you weren’t prepared for something that clean. You underline it three times, put a star next to it, and draft a caption: Mercedes dialed in, champion approved.

Everything would be perfect, if he didn’t follow that amazing comment with “Engine sounds sexy today. Don’t change the playlist.” How do they even expect you to spin ‘engine porn’ into a sponsor-friendly tweet? You sink more into your seat, and raise your tablet to hide your face behind it, your thoughts racing to find a spin right away. ‘Driver praising performance, enjoying session,’ you finally write down. Pure fiction, but survivable.

When FP2 ends, you pull the headset off with relief, ears still ringing from the constant feed. The tablet in your lap is littered with frantic arrows, underlines, and “fix this” stars. Shoko calmly puts hers beside you, the document on screen is full of neat columns, which looks more like meeting minutes instead of listening to Gojo improvise himself into trouble.

“Alright,” she says, flicking her lighter but not sparking it, “compare notes.”

You flip yours around, showing where you’ve circled Ferrari breakdancing three times. “This one’s bad.”

“Mocking rivals.” Shoko nods, then zooms her notes where she’s marked it with one thin underline. “Not that bad. They all do it. Half the press room will laugh. File under ‘banter.’ Don’t waste energy spinning. However, calling Sukuna by name could get clipped at him mocking rival’s mistake, which isn’t a crisis, but more of a bait. Media loves turning a joke into a feud, especially if it’s related to Sukuna. So… it kinda lands in this weird gray zone.”

You bite your lip, then point to the McLaren joke. “And this? Wi-Fi router?”

“That one’s fine,” she says without hesitation. “If Atsuya Kusakabe wants to cry about Satoru joking, let him. It’s harmless. Don’t burn calories on harmless.”

You hesitate, then jab your stylus at the next line you wrote: halo cam catching my good side. “I put this as meme-fuel, but it’s still… not great?”

Shoko actually laughs. “Not great? It’s perfect. Clips like that? Sponsors eat it up. The fans plaster his face everywhere, the team reposts with a cheeky caption, everyone wins. You don’t bury it, you push it.”

Your stomach twists a little, having it flagged as a liability. “I wrote down ‘meme, not usable’.”

“Yeah,” she smirks, “rookie mistake. Don’t worry, you’ll make a hundred more before the season’s over. With him, some of the best PR is what looks like PR disaster bait. Learn to separate the two.”

Then you scroll down to the tire-grip comment, where you underlined sexualizing handling?? crisis?? four times. “This one—”

“Spin for data,” Shoko interrupts. “He said rear’s wiggly mid-corner. That’s what we cut, that’s what we post. Everything else, fans will clip on their own anyway. Don’t fight it, you’ll never sanitise the internet. Just make sure the official channel looks clean.”

“Okay, okay,” you run your hands over your face on the verge of crying. “What about ‘Mercedes dodges spinning bull’?”

Shoko glances at your tablet when you shove it toward her, the margin nearly torn through from how hard you pressed the stylus. “Relax. That one’s bait, not a crisis. He’s not accusing Toji of being incompetent, he’s just headline-fishing. Half the grid makes those digs when someone spins. It’ll get a laugh, maybe a meme, nothing more.” Her tone is flat, but she tips her pen once in the air to underline the caveat, “If he’d called Toji by name again, or implied the spin was dangerous, then we’d have a problem. As it is? File under ‘banter.’ Don’t waste your time on it.”

You scroll down to the next line in your notes: debris rant. Your handwriting looks almost manic, circling 'safety complaint’ three times. “This one—This one’s bad. Really bad.”

Shoko actually stops. It’s the first time all afternoon she doesn’t answer right away, flicking her thumb against the lighter like she’s buying herself a second. “Closer,” she says finally without the lazy edge in her tone. “That one toes the line. FIA hates when a driver sounds like they’re calling them incompetent. If someone wants to make trouble, that’s the clip they’ll use. That’s the liability.”

Your stomach sinks, but she holds up a hand before you spiral further. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not suspension-hearing bad, but it’s the line that makes comms start drafting emails before FIA asks them to. That’s why you flag it, prep a ‘clarification’ angle, and be ready if someone clips it. File under: potential crisis. Not a full one, but don’t lose track of it either.”

You nod, quickly wiring it down. You knew it felt bad, but hearing her flag it so seriously confirms it. Still, when she’s this level-headed and your page looks like a bloodbath of red circles and exclamation points, it’s hard not to feel like your crisis radar is tuned to nuclear while hers is tuned to… reality.

Nextly, you zoom in on a different red zone in your scribbles and flip the tablet so she can see the words engine porn?? crisis?? circled three times. “This one’s… impossible. How the hell am I supposed to sanitise that?”

Shoko actually laughs. “You don’t. That’s just him being an idiot. Fans will meme it to hell, and if you try to bury it, they’ll dig harder. File it under ‘stupid, not lethal.’”

You exhale slowly, pressing your palms over your face again. Compared to her calm, your page looks like someone documenting a crime scene. “So basically… I’m over-flagging?”

“You’re panicking,” she corrects. “Which is fair. He’s designed to make you panic, but you’ll get the hang of it.” She tucks her pen into her pocket, finally sparking her lighter. “And if you don’t, well—at least it’s entertaining for me.”

When you still don’t look convinced she explains, “Here’s the difference. Meme fuel? Fine, let it run—car flirting with him, halo cam, lunch jokes, I don’t care. But if he even hints that rules are optional, drags a sponsor, gets political, religious, criticises the FIA or takes a shot at another driver by name? That’s liability. That’s when you prep statements before FIA or comms start calling.”

You note down everything cleanly in the top of your document and draw a red box around and title it “rules of survival”. With your eyes closed you lock your tablet and you just breathe for a long moment. Even chaos has some rules, apparently.

—

The Mercedes media crew has turned one corner of the motorhome into a makeshift studio, setting up two chairs, soft lighting and a backdrop slapped with sponsor logos. Satoru looks like he was born for this, lounging in his seat with a mic clipped to his collar. Nanami sits beside him with one knee over the other, looking like a still from a sponsor shoot.

You stand just out of frame with a tablet, running through instructions as the camera crew gets the gear ready. “Alright, two truths and a lie. Each of you give three statements, then the other guesses which one’s fake. Then we switch” Satoru lights up so much, you have to cut it short. “Just please don’t say anything that we’ll have to cut, okay? You can’t win here, it’s up to me what goes.”

He rewards you with a roll of his eyes, though a smirk betrays his amusement, and grumbles. "Fine. You're no fun.”

When the cameraman gives the thumbs up that the footage is rolling. “Alright,” you prompt, “Two Truths and a Lie. First round, Satoru.”

Gojo calmly adjusted his signature round glasses, fixing his gaze on his teammate. “Easy. One: I once jumped into the Monaco harbour fully clothed after quali. Two: I once gave a helmet to a fan. And three: I’ve never once sped on a normal road.” He then delicately steeples his fingers, adopting the posture of a lawyer presenting a major court case. “Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.”

Nanami stares at him, his brow furrowing in a genuinely thoughtful manner, a reaction that somehow felt more unnerving than a simple chuckle. “The lie,” he says dryly, “is that you’ve never sped on a normal road.”

The PR strategist deep within your core violently seizes up. Your hands tighten around the edge of the tablet in horror. Your brain instantly begins to cycle through six PR scenarios. That’s a confession either way and you’ll have to cut it. First question and already it’s going bad.

To your utter surprise, Satoru throws his head back and lets out a boisterous laugh. “Wrong! That one, my dear Kento, is completely true.”

Kento tilted his head, his expression shifting to pure skepticism. “You’re telling me you have never once exceeded a posted speed limit?”

“Never,” Gojo declares brightly, leaning into the camera with impeccable form. “Not when there's a speed limit sign clearly in view. It’s a matter of respect for the game, you know? Save that speed for the track.” He flashes a ridiculously goofy grin toward the lens.

“Then the helmet is a lie,” Nanami sighs, though he still looked unconvinced by the explanation.

“Bingo!” Satoru points a finger-gun triumphantly at his teammate, which earns a shared chuckle from the crew positioned just beyond the lights. “I’ve given away gloves a few times, but never a helmet.”

Nanami leans back, a visible release of tension in his shoulders, and you mirror his slow, silent exhale. “You make this so much more exhausting than it needs to be,” he muttered.

You quickly scribble a note in the margin of your notes: respect for rules, save it for the track. Perhaps this won’t be a total loss after all.

Nanami doesn’t shift much in his chair, but his delivery is dry enough to make the cameraman glance up mid-shot, clearly unsure if the driver is being serious.

“One: I’ve run a full marathon. Two: I’ve never once read an article about myself. Three: I once fell asleep during a strategy briefing.”

Satoru’s eyes instantly widen with an expression of exaggerated, mock betrayal. “You? Fall asleep in a meeting? Impossible. That’s my trademark move.”

Your stylus hovers over the screen. That one’s safe, safe, safe, you mentally reassure yourself.

“No, wait—the lie is number two, the articles.”

Kento’s brow twitches. “…No. That one is true.”

“Wait, you’re seriously saying you’ve never read an article about yourself?” Gojo leans into his personal space, ready to launch a full cross-examination. “Not even the massive ones with your name in bold, like, ‘Nanami puts Mercedes back in the fight’ or ‘Nanami, The Coolest Man In F1’—”

His teammate casually shrugs his shoulders. Satoru immediately throws his hands up in defeat. “So the sleeping thing is the fake one?”

“Yes,” Nanami replies calmly. “I fell asleep during a strategy briefing in Brazil last season. You were just so engrossed in your own strategy that you didn’t notice.”

That earns a genuine burst of laughter from the entire crew, even Shoko quietly chuckling beside you. The lead driver sits back, gaping as if his entire worldview had just been fundamentally rewritten. “You? In a briefing? You’re supposed to be the adult here.”

Kento only allows himself a small, knowing smile directed straight toward the camera. “Everyone has their limits.”

Before Satoru can pivot back to the camera, the delightful, almost childish grin creeps back across his face. “Cold. Brutal. He got me.”

You underline self-drag in your notes, then add in the margin: fans will love him even more for this, then scribble: clip. Post with caption: ‘Even Kento sometimes naps.’ You’re guessing it’s going to viral in ten minutes after posting, it’s sponsor-friendly. Basically a win.

“Me again!” Gojo claps his hands together. “I’ve kissed a reporter, I’ve driven one-handed at 300kph, and I’ve never been fined by the FIA.”

The stylus in your hand nearly snaps in two under the sudden pressure. Oh for fuck’s sake—

Nanami lets out a slow sigh, leaning just enough to level a meaningful look at him. “…The lie is obvious.”

Gojo tilts his head, looking at Nanami with utterly feigned disbelief. “Which one, Kento? Be specific.”

The crew chuckles, you can already hear it snowballing in your head: fan edits, TikToks, a thousand captions you’ll have to get ahead of before the sponsor team does. Engagement gold, personal hell. You’re already drafting three versions of a caption depending on what blows up first.

Nanami shakes his head. “The FIA fine.”

Satoru slaps his knee with a triumphant sound like he’s been caught in the best way possible, laughter echoing loud in the motorhome. “See? He knows me.”

You’re scribbling viral, danger, cut?? across your page, while Shoko, leaning closer, whispers with an amused glint in her eye, “Leave it in. Trust me, it’s gold.”

Kento clears his throat, regaining the crew’s focus. “One: I’ve never sworn on comms. Two: I once broke my hand punching a wall after a go-karting race. Three: I’ve read ‘War and Peace’ twice.”

Gojo actually pauses, a genuine furrow in his brow, tipping his head like he was staring at some unsolvable riddle. “Okay, hold on a second. The swearing one can’t possibly be true. You have a mouth like a sailor, I’ve heard you.”

A twitching smile creeps on Nanami’s face, but he’s trying very hard to not let it show. “Not on comms.”

The crew, and you, laughs, and your pen writes fast across the tablet. Fans will eat that contrast alive: gentleman on radio, menace off it.

Gojo narrows his eyes, zeroing in. “Fine. Then the karting story’s fake. No way on earth you’ve ever punched a wall in your life. You’d break the wall, not your hand.”

This, finally, makes Nanami laugh out loud, a rich, full sound. “That one is true as well. It was a boxing fracture and I had to wear a cast for six weeks. And yes, it cost me a regional final.”

You nearly drop your tablet. Holy shit. Nanami punched a wall? You can vividly picture the sponsor team choking on their espresso shots if that detail made it through the final edit.

Gojo sits back, looking genuinely blindsided, then explodes into a laughter that quickly blends with his teammate’s. “You? You?! You’re the calm one!”

Nanami smoothly adjusts his cufflinks, acting as if he hadn’t just confessed to an act of teenage mayhem. “I was fourteen and it was a mistake. I learned a valuable lesson in temper control.”

You scribble in bold letters do not cut—humanises him, fans will love even as your brain’s still spinning from the sheer image of the ultra-composed Kento Nanami in a rage.

“Hell, Nanamin, I don’t recognise you at all. If we keep playing, we’re gonna see a completely different version of you,” Gojo teases, then points a triumphant finger at him. “That leaves only one possibility, then. War and Peace. Twice. I guess no one is that boring.”

“Correct,” Kento confirms, still visibly amused by the level of everyone’s reaction. “I’ve never had the patience for it.”

You smile despite yourself, making a final note: Kento Nanami: calm on comms, chaos at fourteen, and absolutely not a Tolstoy guy.

“Beautiful,” Satoru mutters to himself with pure delight, but the camera catches it. “Hidden rage. My teammate’s secretly a berserker. I absolutely love it.” He chuckles again, leans towards the camera with lips curled into a broad, infectious smile. “So basically, the lesson we’ve learned today is: I’m perfect, and Kento’s secretly terrifying.”

Nanami only exhales slowly through his nose in response. “…Cut that, please.”

From behind the camera and the tablet, you answer with a light laugh, “Oh, absolutely not cutting that.”

—

Later that evening, your phone buzzes with a file from the media crew. You open it, scroll through the raw cut and your fingers tighten when Gojo leans into the camera with that grin, declaring himself perfect and Nanami secretly terrifying. You sigh, but the laugh you gave in the background made it into the clip, and to your horror, it works. It reads natural, or warm, even.

However, the two truths Satoru gave about kissing a reporter and driving one-handed at 300kph make you second guess the entire set. If you cut those, there’s not enough game left and the reel collapses. If you leave them in, they’re the easiest bait in the world. All it takes is one snip by a tabloid, one bad headline, and you’ll be the one cleaning it up while the sponsors breathe down your neck. Still, Shoko’s been in this business longer than you, and if she says leave it, you do.

Against your better judgment, you draft the caption: Kento Nanami: secretly terrifying since karting. Satoru Gojo: perfect (just ask him). Two halves of Mercedes: brilliance in every form. #TruthOrLie #MercedesUnplugged #DrivenByPerformance and send it to comms team and Shoko for a sign off.

An hour after it goes live, the clip’s already exploding. Fans are making side-by-side edits, sponsors are tagging it with their logos, and Mercedes’ social accounts are full of notifications of “Nanami Berserker Arc” jokes. You lock the screen and put the tablet aside before you spiral. The worst part is—it’s engagement gold. Still, you can’t stop your stomach from knotting as you write the next line in your planner: pray he never actually goes off-script like that live.

You’re half-asleep and curled up in the hotel bed, doomscrolling your private instagram, when a notification shows at the top of your screen. It’s a text message from your problem child himself.

Satoru Gojo: [screenshot of the reel] Satoru Gojo: Didn’t cut it. Figures you like me reckless.

Your thumbs tap the screen, drafting a dozen responses: Fuck off, It’s my job, Don’t flatter yourself, before you delete them all and settle for leaving him on read.

Two minutes later there’s another ping from him:

Satoru Gojo: Read receipts on? Dangerous. Guess you like being caught. 💘

You slam the phone face down and groan into the blanket, because tomorrow’s another round, and if he keeps this up you’re not sure whether you’ll burn out first or actually kill him.

—

Saturday, 15th of March 2025

FP3 comes and goes without incident. You’re on one-way comms, listening to the drivers. Gojo’s comms stay (mostly) clean, Nanami’s are textbook and professional as always, and the biggest drama is a short yellow flag that cuts one of their laps, making Satoru groan, “Yellow flag simulator, love that,” before humming into the mic like it’s background music. Nanami’s updates stay clean and professional as always, your stylus logging him as the gold standard without even thinking. By the time the session ends, you’ve got nothing urgent flagged, which is almost disorienting after two days of crisis drills, so you file the session under “mercifully uneventful” and turn your focus straight to qualifying prep.

—

Q1 opens and the garage around you moves like clockwork, but for you it’s chaos in miniature. You’ve got your headset on, listening for him to drop another landmine mid-lap, so you can flag it before it snowballs. At the same time your tablet is split into three open notes: “If pole,” “If front row,” “If disaster.” Each one has a first draft caption, sponsor mentions carefully slotted in, and a half-finished line that you keep crossing out because you don’t trust him to behave enough to leave it.

“Car feels alive. Perfect.” His confident voice cuts clear and that one actually makes your stylus twitch with relief. Good. Usable. You can work with that.

Then he adds, “Almost too easy. Might drive it one-handed just for fun.” The crew in the garage snickers like they’ve heard it all before, and your notes page fills with red circles and three underlines. You feel your blood pressure spike. Not usable, potential liability if clipped, especially after the reel.

Nanami’s voice comes a moment later, “Front end loaded, but balance is stable. No complaints.” You don’t even hesitate, scribbling marry this man before you erase it and rewrite: Gold standard. Always usable.

A vibration in your pocket distracts you. It’s a Slack ping from the social team: If pole, need quote in 10 mins max for grid graphics. You swipe it away before your pulse can climb further. You don’t even know if he’s making it to pole yet.

You’re already tweaking the “If front row” caption when the last‑corner mess hits. You look up to the screen on the wall and see a bunch of cars at the entry to Turn 14, half of them bailing pre‑line to open gaps. His voice knifes through the channel, tight for once: “Traffic in 14. Who’s parking it there?”

“Saw debris on the racing line. Recommend sweep before Q2,” Nanami’s crisp and professional voice comes through soon after.

Halfway through revising the “If pole” caption again, Gojo asks, “By the way, Handler—what’s for lunch in the garage today?” He’s laughing again, which probably means the clip’s going to be clipped soon if FOM releases it. You pinch the bridge of your nose and type: Meme-fuel. Leave, but don’t use. You still hate it. And him for all it matters.

The last three minutes of the session blur together in lap deltas and crossed-out sponsor lines. He takes P1 comfortably, Nanami gets P6, and you’re still deciding which caption doesn’t make you want to throw up when the checkered flag falls.

By the time the cars roll back in, you’ve got three drafts ready, a few red flags scrawled in your notes, and a creeping suspicion that the real battle here isn’t him getting the pole—it’s keeping you sane.

After a quick break, Q2 starts, and Satoru’s voice cuts through once or twice with a half-assed grumble about traffic in the last sector, then a sarcastic “oh, good, this idiot just cut me off” when another car ruins a push lap, but none of it’s worth more than a margin note. Nanami’s updates are so clean you start writing his phrases down like they’re pre-approved copy.

When they’re quiet, you keep your eyes on the document open in your lap.

If pole, you’ve already circled dominance five times, like you’re trying to hypnotise yourself into believing the word will come true. Around it, you’ve scribbled statement: perfect start, car and driver in total sync. Even if he puts it a tenth clear, you’ll be hammering those phrases into every caption and sponsor clip.

If front row, the language is softer: strong foundation, eyes on Turn 1, confident in race pace. You jot pressure stays on Ferrari/Red Bull, then change Red Bull to Alpine, after Todo finished Q1 in P2, underline it twice, a polite way of saying “not our problem yet.” You hate how careful this column feels, trying to feel optimistic without actually admitting second place is second place.

The last column is the one that makes your stomach tighten. Disaster. You’ve written setback ≠ season in block capitals, then race pace is where it counts underneath. You roll your eyes at learning from quali, eyes forward, because it’s corporate nothing, but you still log it in case you need a parachute. The phrase you don’t want to use but know you’ll need is already there too: resilient start, nothing broken. You underline it twice, more for yourself than the press, and then drag the stylus hard enough that the screen squeaks. After a long look at it, you add one more line If crash: immediate push of Nanami clip, balance narrative, deflect attention.

Sometimes it feels like half this job is inventing ways to say “don’t panic” in public without admitting you’re panicking in private.

Every time Satoru’s voice cuts through the headset, you brace for something you’ll need to wedge into one of those columns, but he doesn’t bite hard this time. It’s the session itself that passes without crisis. By the time the flag drops, both drivers are safely through, and the grid of ifs you’ve spent the past ten minutes working on looks sharper than anything you’ve written after listening to Gojo.

—

Q3 starts like a war and you put your tablet away, focusing completely on the screens in the garage. From sector to sector, purple flashes next to Sukuna’s name, then instantly Gojo takes it back. The splits flip red-to-green every corner, and from where you’re standing at the back of the garage, it feels less like qualifying than a title fight staged nine months too early.

Onboard, Satoru’s fingertips twitch against the wheel when the Mercedes snaps right-left through Turns 1 and 2. The suspension bottoms as sparks clip across the tarmac and he brutally snaps the throttle open early, but the rear stays stable. His breath is steady, while he’s calculating margins even while forcing the pace. Sector one delta goes purple. Fastest time yet.

The Mercedes pit wall leans forward, Gojo’s race engineer’s hand chops air with every split he reads off. You catch Shoko beside you smirking at the screens, muttering something about “that’ll look good in the sponsor deck.”

Gojo’s voice cuts through comms, stripped of the theatrics: “Front biting clean. She’s hooked.” No jokes this time, so you wake the tablet and write quickly driving serious = spin positive, but it barely matters, because the sector overlay already flashes purple again. Sukuna answers in sector two, Ferrari brute-forcing two tenths through Turns 9 and 10.

In the cockpit, Satoru snaps the throttle open like he’s trying to break it and the car twitches under him before it claws straight. “Come on, come on,” he mutters to himself without turning on his mic. Not everything His knuckles are pale under the gloves when the car twitches, but a sharp flex in his arms locks it back down.

You hold your breath, hearing race engineers inform both the drivers about deltas and sector times. If he keeps P1 it makes your job way easier, so your eyes are locked to the timing tower, because it’s easier to follow. Online sports websites on your second screen already frame it in real time: Gojo vs Sukuna for the pole and you half expect to see a reckless genius vs the devil chasing soon, which is the narrative you’ll have to tame later.

The final lap takes everything the car has left. Satoru brakes late, wheel shudders in his hands and ABS hammers through the pedal. His shoulders are pressed hard into the belts as the Mercedes writhes across the kerbs. For a second the rear squirms and threatens to slide, but he keeps the throttle pinned and the car runs straight again, riding the edge of grip all the way out. He doesn’t lift the throttle until the line, engine note peaking sharp enough to cut through the onboard mic.

When he’s across the line, the screen freezes and the garage goes silent for a second, then updates: P1 by 0.047. Satoru Gojo just got his first pole of the 2025 season. You sigh with relief, when the crew around you erupts in loud celebration.

Your stylus squeaks across glass as you fire a message to the comms team: clip S3 camera. Post with Six Eyes tag. Don’t show weave into T13.

—

You wedge yourself into the side wall of the media room, balancing the tablet in one hand and waiting for the inevitable moment when Satoru says something that will have you rewriting captions at midnight.

For twenty minutes, it’s steady enough. Sukuna sits in the middle, still zipped into a scarlet suit, giving a rather clipped and cold answer, when suddenly Todo hijacks the session, booming into his mic as if the FIA moderator isn’t seated a metre away. “You were weaving down to 13. Don’t tell me that wasn’t blocking—”

“It’s called defending,” Satoru grins back like this is better than any trophy. “And you can try again tomorrow if you like. I’ll even wave you by.”

“Gojo—just fight me tomorrow, yeah?!”

The room titters, and Gojo sits up instantly, puts elbows on his knees, turning to Alpine’s driver. “A fistfight? Hell yeah, I’ve been waiting for that invitation. But listen, buddy—if we’re doing this, I get to pick the venue. Cage match, bare knuckles, loser buys the first round.”

The FIA moderator cuts in, reminding them it’s a press conference, not a UFC promo. Your stylus digs so hard into the tablet that the screen squeaks: Violence jokes = spin playful. Emphasise rivalry, not threat/feud. Fortunately most of the press is laughing, which seems to be a good sign.

The moderator, desperate to pull them back on track, opens the floor and the first question comes from The Roar. “We haven’t had a wet race here since 2010, and what a race that was. Question to all three of you—how much of an unknown is it going into tomorrow without much recent representative running in wet conditions here?”

Aoi practically launches his mic from his knees up to his face and slaps it, like he’s making sure it’s on before he speaks. “Listen, this track? People call it a street circuit, say it’s got long straights, but those aren’t straights. They’re curves that trick you, make you think you should lift. And if you lift—bam! You’re already beaten. Albert Park punishes cowards.”

He laughs way too loud for the room. “And this is Melbourne! My city! Weather changes three times before lunch. I’ve run this place wet, I’ve slid through corners with rain in my eyes. Not in an F1 car, sure, but you don’t forget how it feels when this track’s alive under you. It talks back. It asks you if you’ve got the soul to survive it.” He points a finger towards himself and continues, “And I do. I feel it in my soul! Every corner here is a test of courage. If it rains tomorrow, then good—rain is destiny. The fans came here for a battle and I’ll give it to them.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to contain a burst of laughter, and lean closer to Nobara, Alpine’s PR, standing nearby. She looks like she is actively contemplating the ethics of a tactical retreat.

“I have no idea how you deal with… all this—” you mutter, waving a hand vaguely in Todo’s direction, “—but… good luck, I guess?”

The woman only groans quietly. “Thanks. Gonna need as much of it as I can.”

Satoru, naturally, doesn’t wait for the moderator to hand him the floor. The instant the Alpine driver lowers his mic, Gojo swings his own up with that trademark lazy arrogance. “See, I love this,” he drawls. “Aoi’s over here cutting a movie trailer, Sukuna’s waiting to threaten somebody, and I get the fun part. For me? I don’t really care if it’s wet, dry, or snowing kangaroos. The car feels good, I feel good, and the unknowns just make it more fun. If it rains, it rains. Grip’s grip. Some of us know how to find it no matter what.”

Your stylus freezes, hovering uselessly halfway to the screen. Snowing kangaroos. Of course. Only Satoru can say something so stupid in a serious post-quali presser. You can picture the memes breeding like rabbits—no, like kangaroos—before the race even starts. Please, at least let them be funny.

This involuntary thought makes you blink hard and tilt your head. Yesterday, a comment like that would have been flagged instantly as a PR risk. Now, you are hoping the memes will deliver? Shit, maybe I actually am learning when to let his chaos breathe?

He winks towards the front row and you quickly scan, anxious he’s flirting with some reporter again, but fortunately, the familiar face from yesterday isn’t there. “We’ve all done wet laps before—it’s never the same twice. The line changes lap to lap, sometimes corner to corner. The trick’s reading it before anyone else does. If it happens, I’ll enjoy it. If it doesn’t, I’ll still enjoy it.” That infuriating expression is plastered on his face when he lowers the mic, like he’s half-amused by Todo’s theatrics and half-ready to one-up them with his own brand of arrogant calm.

Borderline cocky, but safe. You allow yourself one long exhale after seeing that sometimes he can walk the line without tripping over it. If only it stayed this easy.

Sukuna takes his time, raising his mic only when the room quiets down a bit. His voice, following Gojo and Todo’s loud declarations, seems colder. “Unknowns don’t bother me. It’s the same track, same corners, just less grip. You adapt or you lose. Conditions only decide how much margin you’ve got to play with. Execution doesn’t change for me. Put the car where it needs to be, no matter what’s on the surface.”

He pauses, running a hand through his pink hair twice slowly, drawing the cameras. “And the rain doesn’t care if you’re a rookie or a champion, it strips everything back to control and guts. And if you can’t handle that, you don’t belong here. Simple.”

The moderator thanks them, signaling the end, and the room erupts into the usual flurry of camera shutters and reporters half-shouting over one another as the session wraps. No fires, no crisis emails waiting to ambush you, just kangaroo jokes to brace for online. For once, you’ll call that a win.

—

Later that evening, the low, insistent buzzing of your work phone starts before you even manage to kick your shoes off in your hotel room. Socials are on fire. Clips of Gojo saying “Snowing kangaroos” were instantly cut into meme edits, overlaying stock footage of kangaroos hopping through thunderstorms. Captions range from the flattering to the absurd: “When your defending champ’s also a stand-up comic” or “Grip’s grip (??) but make it iconic.”

You scroll through them, a tired smile touching your lips. You deliberately choose the silliest kangaroo edit you can find and share it on Mercedes’ instagram stories with the caption underneath: “Forecast uncertain, but Satoru’s ready 🦘🌧 #AustralianGP #DrivenByPerformance.” It’s perfectly harmless and a high-engagement move. The official account laughing at the memes shows humanity and fans will love that.

Continuing to review the flurry of Mercedes-related notifications, your thumb hovers over a clip of Gojo with that grin, saying, “Grip’s grip. Some of us know how to find it.” That’s cocky, maybe even arrogant, and you hesitate, knowing it can be flipped into reckless with the wrong headline, but sponsors will love the unshakable confidence angle, so you swallow the unease and share it with a caption: “Confidence level: maximum. #AustralianGP #DrivenByPerformance.”

Considering the potential for Gojo-level disaster, this was actually a pretty good day.

—

Sunday, 16th of March 2025Race day

The chill of the impending rain is already a visceral presence in the paddock, the air thick with the smell of damp asphalt and high-octane fuel. A quick glance at your watch confirms the urgent timeline: 14:02. Fifty-eight minutes until the race begins. And you don’t need much, just two minutes. Two minutes with Gojo to forcefully staple the pre-approved talking points onto his chaotic brain.

You push through the automatic door and into the motorhome's corridor, navigating around the camera crew frantically setting up a live hit. The hospitality desk hostess looks up as the door hissed shut behind you. “Gojo?” you simply ask without stopping.

“Was here twenty minutes ago,” the hostess replies, though her apologetic tone is entirely useless.

Back into the chaos of the paddock you go, weaving past celebrities and tech billionaires who pose like they own the place. You spot a Mercedes mechanic brushing past with a massive stack of tyre blankets and manage to intercept him near the garage entrance.

“Seen Gojo?”

“Physio. Maybe. Or tyres,” he says, which was the opposite of helpful. ‘Physio’ can mean anywhere from the actual physio room to the back of a hospitality suite. ‘Tyres’ is infinitely worse, meaning Satoru is likely holding court with the Pirelli technical team, not out of professional curiosity, but purely for the twisted joy of watching your eye twitch.

Walking straight to the pit wall, you tap the shoulder of James, Satoru’s race engineer. “Where is Gojo?”

“Hydrating,” James answers flatly, eyes glued to his monitors.

“That’s what he says when he’s bothering people,” Shoko chimes in from her seat nearby, not raising her eyes from her phone. When you don’t move, rigid with impatience, she finally slides you a glance. “Breathe, he’ll be where he needs to be.”

“On my nerves?”

“On the grid,” she deadpans, before offering a genuine tip. “Try again: physio room.”

Cutting through the garage feels like swimming against a tide. Mechanics are head-down, performing final, obsessive checks on the car. A front jack lays abandoned on the floor, and a large, black boom mic from Formula One Management hovers near the halo, like a vulture patiently awaiting drama. The hospitality corridor is now completely full of VIP lanyards, multiplying like spores. You hear a syrupy voice ask, "can we grab Satoru for a quick selfie," and you automatically blurt out, “After the race,” without breaking stride.

The physio room is two doors down, and of course, he is there. Satoru’s in his fireproofs, the sleeves roped and tied around his waist, the heat-resistant material clinging to his chest. A thick resistance band is anchored to a railing and looped around his hand. His trainer counts the reps as Satoru drives his forearms out to the side, stretching the band against its formidable pull. He’s laughing at something the physio is showing him on his phone even as he works out, like it’s the easiest thing in the world for him.

“Handler,” he acknowledges, his voice a smooth rumble, without peeling his eyes from the screen. He can probably smell your blood pressure from a kilometre away.

“Two minutes,” you say, stepping in, “and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Promises, promises.” He drops the band, wipes a hand across the back of his neck and finally looks at you. His infuriatingly blue eyes, typically hidden behind tinted lenses, are bright and amused. “Make it one.”

You hold up the tablet and read fast. You have to blitz him; any pause’d be turned into a game. “If you win: control, precision, Mercedes’ preparation. If you don’t: fight, resilience, the season is long. No blaming the car, no throwing the team under the bus, and no freelancing with your own lines. I don’t care if the rain makes you poetic, sponsors don’t pay for poetry.”

A smile breaks out on his face, flashing his gleaming teeth. He tips his head, ready to argue. Before he can open his mouth, you jab the stylus sharply at his chest. “Three words you need drilled into your skull: control, execution, resilience. Repeat them back to me.”

The trainer, sensing the change in atmosphere, quietly excuses himself. Satoru leans in, close enough to read the tablet and for you to feel the heat off his skin. “You want me to be good? Say please.”

“Say it back, Satoru.”

His eyes sparkle with pure mischief and he tilts his head, pretending to weigh the gravity of the request.. “Hmm. Nah. Doesn’t sound like me.”

Your jaw tightened to a painful degree. “It’s not optional.”

“Everything’s optional if you’re charming enough.” He draped the towel over his broad shoulders, leaning back against the wall, fully relaxed. Then the driver smirks, like he’s got all the time in the world, before finally reciting, “Confidence. Exaggeration. Resistance.”

Your mouth snaps shut. “That’s not—”

“Shhh,” he cuts you off, widening that cocky smile, “it’s basically the same thing. Just with a little more flair.”

Your stylus hovers like you might stab him with it. “This isn’t a game. If you freelance again and a sponsor calls before lights out—”

He cuts you off yet again, voice dropping to an almost dangerous purr. “Then you’ll bail me out. You always do.”

The sheer certainty in his tone makes your stomach twist. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he says way too softly for the tiny room, tapping the side of your tablet with one long finger, “are fun when you’re mad. Don’t worry, Handler. I’ll give you plenty to spin.”

“Just… behave and keep it boring, okay?” You manage to ask. There’s nothing you want more in life than to wrap your hands around his throat and strangle him.

“Relax. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” Shoko says from the doorway. She must have followed, because she’s leaning on the frame with her coffee. He slants her a look that’s almost fond and she lifts her chin in warning, but a small smile ghosts across her face. “No improvisation on the grid.”

“Aye aye, captain.” He reaches past you to grab his balaclava, shoulder brushing your arm like he means to crowd you for the sport of watching you not flinch. To your credit, you don’t.

You can’t shake this weird feeling off. He pushes you every time and never bends, while for her he does, even if only by millimetre, and you catch yourself thinking: what’s going on between the two of them?

Kento passes you in the hall on your way back out, suited up. “All good?” he asks, and somehow it doesn’t feel patronising.

“Define ‘good,’” you reply, noticing the death grip you had on your stylus.

He notices it, too, and offers you the unopened bottle he’s carrying. “Electrolytes. You look dehydrated.”

You take it before you can remember you’re supposed to be the professional. “Thank you,” you manage. He nods once and moves on, and you write a silent love letter to his existence in your head.

By 14:25, mechanics roll the cars out into the lane; the engines roar and the sound echoes through your ribcage. Over comms the countdowns start: installation laps, systems check, temps and pressures. You and Shoko fall in behind the last trolley, the whole operation flowing toward daylight.

Out on the starting straight, it’s chaos with a safety certificate. VIPs and journalists weave through cables and wheel guns. A TV presenter in a navy blazer points a mic at Satoru as he climbs from the car after his out‑lap.

“Two words?” the presenter calls. “How’s the grip? Excited for the race?”

Satoru looks right down the lens and gives you half of a heart attack. “Found it,” he laughs loudly. “Yeah, the out-lap was quite slippery, so anything can happen today and it’s exciting.” He taps the halo once and walks, and you push the mic out of your way with a tight “after the race” smile.

A VIP group squeezes in for a photo with both drivers. Kento lines up without being asked, folding arms neatly behind his back. Satoru noses his way into the centre, slings an arm behind Nanami’s shoulders, and to your surprise keeps it within the lines: big grin, thumbs‑up, one polite joke about “hope you brought sunblock,” and the sponsors look happy.

“National anthem in five,” someone yells. You, absolutely professionally, herd Satoru by the elbow toward his mark as cameras start craning for their wide shot. He doesn’t shake you off, but he leans down just enough to say, for you alone, “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

“You’re tolerable when you listen,” you fire back, before you walk away from the shot, while he laughs, low and pleased.

When the anthem plays, Satoru looks straight ahead, not even bothering to look respectful and you can clearly see he’s bored. Next to him Aoi stands with both a hand on his heart, singing the anthem with the vocalist. When it ends, the last of the VIPs are shooed off the grid and suddenly it’s only necessary people, machines and the smell of hot brakes.

“Five minutes,” a marshal barks. You snap your headset down over your ears and the rest of the world compresses to radio and engine note.

Before you run off to the pit wall, you lean closer to Satoru. “Post race brief, last time,” you say, quicker than you can think. “Control, execution, resilience. No improvising. Please.”

There’s a pause and through the visor, he angles his head like he’s smiling. “Oh, I like it when you beg.”

You flatten a hand on the halo pretending it’s his throat and you’re thinking about squeezing. “Don’t test me today.”

His voice comes softened by radio after a few seconds. “Copy.”

It knocks you off balance for a half‑second, how much you needed that one word.

“Final checks complete,” someone calls in your ear. “Car to start.”

Satoru slides his gloves on. Mercedes official photographer lifts the lens just as the world champion drops into the cockpit with his hands braced on the halo and visor tilted down in that practiced angle that looks cinematic even in a drizzle.

“Clear the grid!” the marshal shouts.

You step back, looking over your shoulder and notice Shoko says something to Kento, before she jogs towards you. Both of you retreat behind the barrier with the rest of the crew.

The cars shudder when the engines fire one by one and the sound rips straight through your bones.

Less than two minutes later, the photos upload into the shared drive you’ve got open on your tablet. Bless cameras with Wi-Fi modules—you don’t even have to chase it.

You scroll through the batch, until you land on the one you wanted. It’s perfect. You tap download, throw it into the post creator, and tap the side of the tablet anxiously staring at the caption box.

Is it too much? Two kangaroo jokes in two days? You exhale hard through your nose, type fast before you can second-guess yourself: Forecast: rain, still waiting on the kangaroos 🦘🌧 Team’s strapped in #AustralianGP #DrivenByPerformance”

One press of the thumb and it’s live. Hopefully it will get as much engagement as the story you shared yesterday.

“Formation lap in sixty,” Ijichi calls over the comms.

Moving your gaze to Gojo, you can see him pulling the belts tighter and for once you can’t read his expression when he’s hidden behind the half closed visor.

Shoko bumps your shoulder. “Welcome to Sunday.”

You swallow, plant your feet behind the pit wall screens, and watch your problem child become your problem child, but fast. Lights in five.

The garage tenses as the formation lap rolls out. Rain hangs over Albert Park, heavy enough that the spray already makes the lenses blur. You track Gojo on one of the garage’s TVs, following the car as he warms the tires, until suddenly the Racing Bulls snaps sideways out of turn 2 right into the barrier. On the other screen, the timing feed flashes incident sector one.

“Red flag on formation lap,” James says into the comms. “Hold station. Safety Car collecting.”

“Formation lap and someone’s already gone?” Gojo’s laughter bursts down the channel. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

The stress starts to eat you from the inside. Formation laps aren’t supposed to look like this, they’re a parade after all. A way for the driver to warm up the tyres. If they can’t handle turn 2 at warm-up speed, how the hell do we survive 57 laps? You tighten your grip on the tablet, nails biting into the case hard enough you’re afraid it’ll crack.

Around you the garage buzzes with engineers comparing deltas and tire data, but all you can hear is his laughter still echoing through the channel like he thinks this is comedy. The first lap has not even started and he’s already baiting. You pinch yourself in the arm, before you say something out loud in front of half the crew.

“Formation aborted,” the race director’s message scrolls across your monitors. “Restart ten minutes, 3:15pm.”

“Distance is shortened by one lap. 57 laps. Rain expected at 3:25, 20 minutes,” Ijichi informs on shared comms both drivers and entire crew.

When the lights finally go out, nineteen cars launch, but your eyes track only two. Gojo starts with Sukuna’s Ferrari immediately in his mirrors and the two of them are so close into Turn 1 on the video feed you feel your lungs lock. For half a second the red nose drifts across the black, before they separate again, still side by side through the exit.

“Sukuna’s on you,” James warns.

“I’ve got it,” Gojo fires back, voice clipped this time and the grin stripped away.

Before you can exhale, the feed flashes yellow at Turn 6 when Inumaki’s Alpine slams into the wall. Soon after, the sector three doubles down as Williams spins into the barrier at the final corner.

“Safety Car, Safety Car. Positive delta. Stay out,” James calls.

“Lap one and it’s a graveyard,” Gojos mutters, but when he laughs loudly the sound is still distorted and not nearly as fun in your ear as it’ll sound on TV.

Your stylus digs hard into the margin. He’s right. This is only lap one.

The cars snake behind the Safety Car, and you leave the garage to watch as they funnel through the pit lane. The marshals and cranes are already swarming the two wrecks left stranded on track. For all the chaos, the race hasn’t even begun, and you can feel the tension in your chest like a band pulled too tight.

“Through the pit lane, through the pit lane,” James reminds over Gojo’s channel. “Delta positive, keep the gaps.”

“Copy,” Gojo says, too bright for the circumstance. “So basically it’s a parade, but wetter.”

Your stylus digs into your palm. Please, for once, just say nothing.

“Brakes holding temperature. Tires within window,” Nanami’s voice filters in from the parallel channel.

“Copy, understood,” Ben replies calmly, and you almost want to applaud the man for sounding unbothered with the whole ordeal.

Gojo, naturally, can’t resist throwing in the joke. “Car in front’s crawling. If I have to babysit throttle like this, someone owes me lunch.”

James exhales into the mic, hiding the obvious chuckle he must have let out before keying the channel. “Focus on your own car, Satoru. Tires and brakes need temp.”

“Relax, I’m warming them,” Gojo shoots back, weaving aggressively on the replay feed. He throws in a short burst of throttle, the car fishtailing enough to make your stomach flip. “See? Toasty.”

You rub your thumb hard against your knee, grounding yourself. Even from here, you can feel adrenaline and it tastes bitter at the back of your throat. It’s frustrating that even when he’s a menace, you still feel the fear as sharp as anyone in the garage.

Ijichi’s voice comes through again, low and precise on the shared channel. “Race control advises Safety Car until sector three is clear. No estimate yet.”

Six laps go by as drivers are stuck behind the Aston Martin Safety Car, and all you can think is that every second Gojo spends talking feels like a fuse hissing shorter.

Each time Kento speaks it’s only necessary data, like “Fuel delta stable. Tires holding. Gap stable.”

“Tires bored out of their minds.” On the contrary, Satoru jokes around to lighten the mood. You’re not sure whose besides his own, but James seems to have fun, so at least there’s that.

You press your hands against your temples, muttering under your breath so softly no one can hear, “Restart can’t come fast enough.”

The Safety Car releases the cars in Lap 8. “Green,” James barks and for the first time all day you actually hold your breath as seventeen cars fan across the main straight, but your eyes are locked on the first three.

Gojo’s reply is sharp for once. “Copy.” The grin you’ve learned to hear in his voice is gone.

The spray hits like a curtain when the Safety Car ducks away, and Satoru’s world narrows to two mirrors and a twitching steering wheel. Sukuna’s Ferrari is glued to him, a scarlet smear looming larger every time he drags the car through turns. He holds the throttle open longer than sense allows, tires spitting sheets of water that blur the boards flashing by at nearly 300kph. Every nerve in his arms is lit, fighting to feel the grip before it disappears on the wet tarmac, and in the mirror he can see the red nose dip in. He shifts, snaps the wheel left-right and holds the slide. If he hesitates Sukuna eats him alive, and behind that, Aoi’s McLaren is waiting to join in the fun.

Sukuna’s Ferrari looms in his mirrors, so close the onboard camera practically fills with scarlet. The live feed shows the two of them side by side through the braking zone, wet lines threading razor-thin margins. Your stomach knots when the nose of the Ferrari twitches inside, but Gojo shuts the door with brutal precision, holding the racing line.

“Gap to Sukuna behind: 0.6,” James warns.

“You don’t say,” Satoru snaps back, wheel vibrating in his hands. “Tell him to buy me dinner first.” Your eyes roll involuntarily at his stupid commentary, but it lets you breathe easier at the same time. If he’s still joking, it means he’s still in control.

Nanami’s voice cuts steadily through his own channel, “Front grip good, balance acceptable considering inters.”

“Copy,” Ben answers.

A few laps after, Sukuna’s still on him, water plume exploding as both cars slide across the painted kerbs, and you feel the air in your lungs stutter. The Ferrari tries again, nose diving in at the braking zone, and James warns, “Defend but don’t compromise traction.”

“Compromise is for marriages,” Satoru fires back, throwing the car deep and somehow sticking it.

Your hand shakes around the stylus as you try to contain the laughter again. He sounds like he’s playing games, and not throwing the car from turn to turn at unreal speeds. It’s absurd, reckless, and somehow reassuring all at once.

Luckily all he says till now is something that will sound funny when broadcasted and doesn’t pose risk to the team or the sponsors. You’re trying to ease in with panicking about his every word, following Shoko’s advice and you must admit that you’re starting to see that the harmless jokes really don’t threaten the team.

A ping flashes on the big TV: Cars 13, 4, and 20 under investigation for potential infringement during Safety Car procedure—driving unnecessarily slowly. You jot it down automatically, because if penalties land, headlines change. Toji, Geto, and a Williams, three names that could potentially gift your driver cleaner air. Another variable you’ll need to track, because if Satoru gets asked about it later, the only acceptable answer is the one you’re already preparing for him.

During Lap 14 James’ voice comes over the comms. “Rain probability up, Satoru. About lap twenty.”

Gojo’s reply is edged, but not panicked when he pushes the mic button. “Copy. Let the clouds know I’m busy until then.”

Ben relays it too for Nanami, “Rain window lap twenty. 1.2 to Geto ahead.”

“Understood,” Nanami answers simply, slowly closing in on Red Bull’s driver.

By the time the cars reach lap 17, the clouds have thickened enough that even the cameras keep flicking between radar overlays and on-track action. James is calm in your ear, “Rain probability climbing.” The warning goes out to the second car as well, followed by Ben confirming with Kento that he’s still just over one second off Geto.

“Rain up,” Satoru informs through comms. “Was really hoping for those kangaroos though.”

Is he going to milk the same joke throughout the whole weekend?! The garage crew is going to laugh about it in every debrief until Abu Dhabi. That means you’ll never hear the end of it.

“Copy, we see it on radar. Expecting it to build next two to three laps. Monitor balance and keep grip feedback coming.”

The timing tower flickers as Aoi goes purple in the middle sector, and you don’t even need the numbers to see why. On the replay, Ferrari slides through Turn 11, the rear stepping wider than it should. Sukuna catches it, but the correction costs him just enough speed to let Todo’s Alpine dive straight in without hesitation, and takes the position at the exit.

The roar that erupts from the grandstand rattles the TV mics and can be heard over the race commentary, “Aoi Todo, Melbourne’s own, into P2!” The sound carries all the way to the garage, vibrating in your chest and in the floor under your shoes. For a heartbeat, even you almost want to cheer feeling that energy.

“Ferrari dropped,” James delivers it like a weather report. “Todo through to P2. 1.5 to you.”

Satoru’s smiling under his helmet as he sideeyes the mirrors to see the action behind him. “Copy,” he pauses, driving through Turn 13. Then, he adds, “Tell Todo not to get too comfortable.”

You don’t even need to see his face to know how it’ll play on TV: Gojo welcomes the fight. And somehow, against your better judgment, you realise it might actually work in your favor.

By lap 20 the race feels steady again, though your stomach twists with every update that pings in from race control: light rain confirmed in sectors one and two, intensity building but not yet enough to trigger a switch by the engineers.

On the board Kento’s numbers flash green. Ben’s voice cuts calm through his channel, “DRS enabled. 0.9 to Geto. Use mode seven, available this straight.”

Nanami doesn’t need more than that, snapping the flap open as soon as he enters the DRS zone and the Mercedes gains speed, while the Red Bull twitches ahead. Watching on the screen, you don’t see any twitches in Kento’s car as he slides past his opponent in Turn 3.

Good job, Kento. That looked so effortless!

He shoots a clipped, “Position gained,” as if he’d only ticked off a box on a checklist.

The garage reacts in its own language: a couple of fist bumps, a few people clapping, a low “yes” breathed out by the tire performance engineer. With these conditions the garage isn’t ready to celebrate the small winds yet.

“Clean overtake, Kento. Well done,” Ben proudly says. “Gap ahead: 2.2 to Choso.”

James is feeding Gojo sector deltas in clipped bursts in Lap 26, “+0.8, hold pace. Balance holding? Radar shows drops five minutes out.”

“Grip’s still there,” Satoru answers steadily, though his wheel twitches against the bumps at Turn 9. “Tyres singing but not screaming.” His tone is calm, but you can feel the storm brewing in the gaps between the numbers as Aoi’s not far behind, Sukuna falling back four seconds, and Choso only two behind him.

Three laps later, Alpine’s closing relentlessly to P1. “Stay on plan,” James says a little sharper now, like he knows whose he’s trying to hold back. “Gap 1.4 to Aoi behind.” On the timing tower you watch it narrow: 1.2, 1.0, 0.9…

James’ voice cuts over the channel, “Gap four tenths. Balance holding?”

“Still there,” Satoru replies sharply. “Rear moving, but I can play with it.”

Onboard, the Alpine fills his mirrors, its DRS flaps wide open as they launch down the pit straight into Turn 1. For a second your stomach lurches as Aoi jinks left, wheels edging toward overlap.

“You’re not getting through,” Gojo snaps without turning on the mic, braking late enough that your breath catches watching it on the replay. The Mercedes shudders, but he manages to hold the inside line. Aoi stays glued through the corner, trying the cutback, but Satoru plants the throttle early and claws back a car’s length. Sector delta flips green by a tenth.

The crew around you leans forward watching the feed as every screen displays the ongoing fight. Your stylus hovers above your tablet, useless, as if notes could matter when two cars are scraping fractions off each other at 280kph.

By the next lap, the Alpine’s still in DRS, and the feed shows blue and white ghosting Satoru’s gearbox as they hammer toward Turn 9. “Gap two tenths,” James warns.

Gojo mutters under his breath to himself as he’s watching Todo trying to get him from the outside. “He’s not getting it here.”

On the feed, he brakes impossibly late, making the car twitch so violently you swear the rear’s about to break loose. Aoi dives anyway, nose alongside at entry, and the two machines slide side by side through the curve, water pluming in silver sheets.

You realise you’ve stopped breathing.

At the exit, by some impossible knife-edge margin, Gojo claws back ahead before the next straight and manages to widen the gap between them.

“Gap stable,” James says.

“He should try harder,” Satoru chuckles, but he doesn’t sound amused.

Your pulse is wrecked, stylus digging a dent into your palm, but the garage erupts with cheers and release of a collective breath no one realised they were holding.

By lap 34 you manage to calm down, but not for long as the monitors flare yellow. One second Hiromi’s Aston is carving through sector two, the next it’s slewing sideways into the barrier at Turn 10, sparks and carbon scattering across the wet tarmac.

“Yellow, yellow. Safety Car deployed,” James confirms immediately, steady but fast.

Your headset is a storm of voices: race control pings, strategy calls, Ben on Nanami’s channel already weighing pit options. The delta tower on the big screen reshuffles as the field compresses.

“Box this lap. Box, box,” James says, and

Satoru’s voice cuts back almost too calm. “Copy. What’s the play?”

“Hards. Track temp’s dropping but intermediates won’t last if rain stays light. Delta gap’s safe.”

Nanami’s voice feeds your other ear, “Box.”

Ben informs, “Hard tyres. Mode four out-lap, watch for traffic.”

The garage roars into motion around you, tire warmers flying, jacks snapping into position. You’re pressed against the wall with your tablet as the pit lane camera flicks to chaos—McLaren double-stacking, Alpine running their crew into position, Ferrari gambling on mediums.

The feed locks onto Gojo’s Mercedes driving through pit entry, engine bouncing against the limiter. He slams to a stop on the marks, tyres swapped in less than three seconds, and he launches into the pit lane with a bark of wheelspin that makes your heart stop until James calls, “Release good. You’re net P1, track position intact.”

Nanami’s pit is as flawless on the replay, though his stop is a heartbeat slower but still sharp. He slots back out net P5, ahead of Geto and clear of traffic. Ben’s quiet satisfaction hums in your ear, “Good stop. Keep it clean. Gap to Choso three seconds.”

“Good job everyone,” Ijichi's voice comes through comms after both cars are back on track.

The Safety Car’s still out there, but you’re only focused on the tyre choice. If Ferrari’s gamble on mediums pays off, you’ll have to come up with an explanation on why Mercedes didn’t match their brave call. If it doesn’t, you’ll survive another day.

‘Mercedes chose control over chaos’—the line you have in your notes will read hollow if red cars storm back past on softer tyres, but at least you have something.

The Safety Car peels away at the end of lap 41, its lights cutting out as the pack snakes through the final corner. When green flags wave again, Satoru punches the throttle out of Turn 14, Mercedes kicking up a spray as he crosses the line first, Aoi follows, Sukuna lurks closely behind with Choso tight on his diffuser, Nanami in fifth. The track is still slick enough that for you every twitch looks like it might snowball into disaster.

When Gojo asks for the gap, James fires back immediately, “Gap 1.2 to Todo.”

“Copy. He’s not getting through.” Satoru flicks gears as if daring the Alpine to even try.

From your seat in the garage you can hear the engines scream across the pit straight and see the timing tower split flash green, then Sukuna steals purple on sector one, then sector two. It seems the mediums are really paying off for Ferrari. When Ryomen passes the finish line on that lap, he holds the fastest lap for now.

James’ voice comes across the headset, “Sukuna closing on Aoi.”

Ryomen forces the Ferrari late on the brakes into Turn 8, sliding half a metre past the grip line but somehow catching it. He rides the curb on exit and slings the car forward, opening DRS down the short straight.

Todo’s hards are no match as Sukuna levels the car with his, and the red slides on inside the corner. The cameras catch it in perfect profile—the reigning champion’s old rival sweeping wide into second, hunting the lead again.

Your pulse spikes despite yourself. You know the headlines are already writing themselves: Gojo under fire, Sukuna back in striking distance.

James cuts in steady, “Satoru, gap behind 1.5. Ryomen now P2.”

“Copy,” Satoru answers, voice low but edged. “Guess the devil wants to dance.”

As the drops return on lap 45, radios light up across the feed informing on imminent rain and track going greasy again. The lead drivers dive for the pit lane almost in unison as all engineers call box, Mercedes, Ferrari, Alpine and McLaren all rolling in.

Satoru slides to a stop on the marks, crew swarming to change the hards to green-walled intermediates in 2.71 seconds. He’s gone again and Sukuna is released almost beside him, Ferrari nailing his stop, but the pit exit gives Mercedes just enough space to keep track position.

“Exit clear. Box executed clean,” James says into the mic.

Satoru snorts, shifting up through gears, but to your surprise doesn’t say anything.

From the garage screens you watch the entire field shuffle back into order: Gojo still P1, Ryomen P2, Todo right behind them, then Choso, Nanami, Geto. The first sheen of rain starts cutting across the cameras—not heavy, but enough that every braking zone looks like a dare.

Between laps 46 and 55, the fight settles into its most dangerous rhythm. Both front-runners are on the limit, but the stopwatch shows Ryomen inching closer every time the tower updates. From 2.1 seconds to 1.9, from 1.9 to 1.7. With every update your fingers curl tighter on the stylus. By lap 55, it’s under a second, the dreaded DRS detection line looming.

In your headset, James’ tone tightens. “Satoru, Ryomen now point-nine. DRS enabled.” Gojo’s silence feels heavier than the endless chatter. It looks like he’s finally locked in now. If only that meant I could breathe again.

And on the tower, the gap flashes green.

The Ferrari’s red nose fills more of the rear-view broadcast every frame. You can feel the tension in the garage even before the timing tower updates again.

Onboard, Satoru’s breathing cuts quickly through the mic when he keys it by accident. The wheel twitches under his hands through Turn 9, tyres slicing a damp line, spray clouding the mirrors. The rear wiggles but he keeps it pinned, refusing to lift even as the car straddles the kerb. Sector two delta stays green.

“DRS open for car behind,” James warns in his ear. “Defend smart, Satoru. Don't over-push it.”

The Ferrari surges closer down in Turn 10 and its wing opens on a straight, shrinking the delta quickly. Six tenths, four, three. Spray blinds the cameras, but the GPS trace doesn’t lie and Sukuna’s alongside Satoru by Turn 11 with the nose edging past and engine screaming at the limiter.

In Gojo’s cockpit, there’s a sharp exhale, then the violent jab of the wheel to block the inside, Mercedes holding the racing line by inches. He keeps the car straight when the inters snap sideways on traction.

“Not today, Ryomen,” he mutters to himself.

Everyone in the garage, beside the engineers on the pit wall, is completely silent and it looks like at least half of the crew holds their breath. Your knees bounce quickly as your gaze is pinned to the broadcast.

The DRS detection point looms again before Turn 13. Satoru knows exactly what’s coming as the rearview shows nothing but scarlet. He flicks the strat rotary, tightening deployment and engine whines sharper.

He throws the Mercedes in deep, tyres hissing as they skim the painted line. Sukuna’s Ferrari bites harder mid-corner, the gap down to half a second. On the main straight of the last lap, the wing slot opens and the Ferrari is gaining fast.

“Gap 0.3,” James fires quickly.

Half of the crew is on the pit lane, most climbed onto the railings to see them run past the pit wall. You jog to them, but too late to actually catch them side by side, then turn to the side and Ferrari’s crew is out too.

Inside the car, Gojo mutters fast, “One more lap. One more lap.” He rides every kerb, pinning the throttle in places most would lift. In turn 9 the rear almost goes, but he saves it with a violent correction and Sukuna stays locked at three-tenths, waiting for the tiniest crack in Satoru’s defense.

Back in the garage, your eyes blur between the sector splits and the live feed, chasing purple numbers like they might disappear if you blink. 57 laps and somehow this one feels the longest. As you follow them through every corner, your chest is too tight to let air in properly.

James’ voice cuts through. “You’re good. Keep it tidy.”

When Gojo flicks through the chicane, your own shoulders twitch like you’re unconsciously trying to follow the line with him. Ridiculous, but your body doesn’t know the difference anymore.

Sukuna throws everything into turn 13, but this time Satoru brakes even later, ABS hammering through the pedal. Mercedes twitches but holds, clinging to the line by threads and Ferrari can’t squeeze through.

Out of Turn 14, on the final straight, Satoru keeps his foot welded flat. The chequered flag waves him across the line.

Satoru Gojo wins the Australian Grand Prix by 0.712 seconds. His voice bursts through comms, ragged and giddy at the same time, “That’s it! That’s how you fucking do it! Pole and win, baby!” It’s followed by his loud, distorted by comms, laugh.

The garage and pit lane erupt, engineers pounding the desk, mechanics throwing arms around each other. You’re still frozen, standing close to railings, pulse shaking your hands. You don’t remember the last time you weren’t holding your tablet, but now you’re here without it.

Only when James says, “P1 confirmed. Well done, Satoru,” does it really land—your first race weekend ended with the win. If this is just the opener, how the hell are you supposed to last a season?

Holy fuck. I never imagined watching a race could feel like surviving one.

You’re swept with the tide of white and black uniforms running out of the garage. Your headset digs into your neck as you tug it off, shoved forward in the crush down pit lane, past barriers and cameras until you’re pressed against the fence at parc fermé.

The roar for Mercedes is deafening when Satoru swings the car into P1. The silver nosecone is spattered with grime, streaked with rubber, and somehow that makes it look even more invincible. He kills the engine, pulls the wheel free, and climbs out effortlessly, drenched in sweat and rain. The cheers roll over you in waves as the crew surges forward, clapping his back, grabbing at his arms, crushing him in a sea of black and teal.

Nanami pulls in just a few stalls down, P5, and though his reception is quieter, it’s no less proud. He climbs out and a cluster of engineers meet him with handshakes and steady pats on the shoulder. He gives a small nod, like he’s half wishing he could already disappear in the motorhome.

You’re pinned at the side of the team wall when Satoru rips off his helmet, peels down the balaclava, and unzips his suit to his waist. The compression shirt beneath clings tight to his body and with his towering height, his smile flashes above the chaos, impossible to miss. He grabs the first crewmember in reach, spins them around, slaps their helmet, and shouts something lost to the noise.

This is the part of the job you can’t and won’t spin or stage. It’s raw, loud and beautifully human. You think you should be drafting captions already, framing this in sponsor language, but all you can do is watch, while your heart’s racing like you were in the cockpit too. Besides, your tablet’s nowhere in sight and your hands are shaking too hard anyway.

Then he lifts his head toward the fence line. For one second you’re sure his eyes find you through the blur of bodies. The grin is still there, but it tilts sharper when he sees you empty-handed. He tips his chin in the smallest flick, like a challenge you can’t quite read and before you can decide what it means, FIA staff pull him away toward the cool-down room.

On the way, he throws an arm casually around Shoko’s shoulders, steering her through the crowd. You expect her to roll her eyes and shove him off, but she doesn’t. Instead she only adjusts beneath him. There’s the faintest smile tugging at her mouth when he leans down and says, too pleased with himself and loud enough for everyone around to catch, “Told you I’d deliver, honey.”

Shoko shoots back without missing a beat, “Told you to stop calling me that,” but there’s no bite in it. The smile stays, and the crew around them laughs like it’s a routine they’ve seen a hundred times.

You freeze. They’ve heard it before. He says it often enough that it’s a thing. She denies it, sure, but not in a way that makes him stop. And before you can stop yourself, your brain fills in the blanks: Oh god. He’s sleeping with her.

By the time they reach the door, he finally lets her go. He winks at her once, before disappearing inside.

—

You watch the cool-down room play out on the FIA feed back in the Mercedes motorhome. It always feels a little voyeuristic with the cameras bolted into the corners and microphones catching every word whether the drivers want to or not.

It’s nothing more than a small room with black sofa, a mini-fridge, and a flatscreen mounted on the wall. The roar from the podium crowd outside is heard faintly through the walls, being a constant reminder of the stage waiting just above them.

Satoru doesn’t so much sit as he flops onto the sofa, an undershirt plastered to his chest, grinning as if the fifty-seven laps were just a warm-up jog. He tears the cap off a bottle of water with his teeth, drains it, and sighs deeply in satisfaction.

“Ahhh, I was right,” Gojo drawls, tossing the empty bottle aside. “Melbourne absolutely loves me.” He turns toward the Ferrari's driver who just steps through the doorway. “Sector two, Sukuna. You thought you had me. Admit it, come on.”

The stylus freezes halfway to the tablet as you watch the feed. Great. First minute in the cool-down room and he’s already trying to start another feud.

Ryomen drops into the seat beside him. His face tattoos glister faintly underneath sweat as he unscrews the cap of his own bottle, downs in quick, guttural gulps, then wipes his jaw with the back of his hand.

“You just got lucky,” Sukuna finally retorts

Gojo tips his head back and lets out a bark of laughter that’s loud enough to make the small room echo. “Lucky? Sunshine, please. You were flat-out, DRS-open, and you still couldn’t touch me. That’s not luck, that’s talent.”

Your heart spikes like you just got a mail ping from a sponsor. God, please let that line die in the room and not on X.

Before Sukuna can respond, Todo barges in louder than both, clutching a water bottle like a microphone he was about to give a fiery speech into.

“It was destiny!” he booms, dropping onto the couch with a thud that makes the nearby side table rattle. “My soul told me I’d be here today. P3 in Australia, brothers! My people, my home, my soul—This is fate!”

You burst into a laugh. Without question, the fans will have edits of this before the podium’s even over. In moments like this you understand why Alpine’s socials are always the most liked ones. Sure, Nobara’s hands are full with Todo, but damn, sometimes Aoi really delivers PR gold.

Ryomen glances in his direction with a blank stare, the same look he’d give a lunatic spouting nonsense. Gojo, however, shakes his head and says, “Good job, Aoi. Nothing beats getting podium in front of your crowd, doesn't it?”

The simple praise instantly shatters Todo's boisterous composure. He spins abruptly to face Satoru, his eyes wide and already glistening with tears.

On the flatscreen, the replay of the race start flashes up, showing the chaos of Turn 1, the scarlet and the black centimeters from a catastrophic collision. Ferrari twitches wide, a shower of sparks briefly lighting up the tarmac as Sukuna drags the car back before touching Mercedes. The bottle in Sukuna’s hand begins to turn slowly, his grip tightening as condensation drips onto his knee, but his eyes are fixed on the monitor.

Gojo casually tips his head toward the screen. “Close one. For a second there, I thought we’d be side-by-side in the gravel.”

Sukuna takes a few sips of his water, his gaze unwavering from the replay. “If I wanted you off the track, I wouldn’t have missed.”

Aoi lets out a sharp, joyous bark of laughter, slapping the back of the sofa with enough force to nearly propel Gojo forward. “My brother thrives on the knife’s edge! That’s why we’re the same!”

The replay cuts to Lap 17, highlighting the crucial moment of Ferrari’s wide run at Turn 11, and the ensuing flash of Alpine lunging through the gap and snatching second place. Todo points at the screen like a proud, validated child. “Right there! That’s poetry! Did you feel it? Brotherhood through battle!”

“Felt you in the way,” Ryomen deadpans, the dry tone masking a simmering frustration.

Gojo, sprawled deeper into the cushions, has his attention now entirely on Sukuna rather than the monitor. “So serious,” he comments lightly. “You get P2, the crowd is screaming your name, and you still look like you lost.”

“Second is losing,” Sukuna shoots back.

In the motorhome, your pen stalls mid-note as for a second you wonder what it must be like to live inside a head where P2 feels like failure.

Todo looks between the two of them, almost vibrating with the sheer intensity of his emotions. “I saw you in front of me, and Satoru just ahead, and I thought—this is it. The three of us, rivals bound by the gods of horsepower and the fierce love of competition! We are brothers!”

Gojo smirked sideways at the Ferrari’s driver, elbow propped comfortably on the back of the couch. “Guess you’ve got a new fan club president.”

“Not president. Brother. You’re both my brothers,” Aoi corrects him immediately, his tone firm, a slight edge of offense in his voice that their bond is being minimised.

You can already picture the edits forming—Todo screaming about brotherhood, Gojo leaning back with that cheeky smile, Sukuna glowering like he’s seconds from homicide. Nothing’s more frustrating than how instinctively your brain is cutting it into clips.

“Kill me,” Sukuna mutters into his bottle, tightening his grip on the bottle, before taking another sip.

Gojo’s grin sharpens, morphing into something mischievous and very much provocative. “Nah, I’m enjoying this far too much. Look at him—he just wants to hold hands on the podium.”

“Exactly!” Todo roars, undeterred. “This energy! This is why we race!”

Todo punctuates his statement by slapping both their shoulders with enough booming force to make Ryomen’s water bottle clatter sideways. Sukuna retrieves it with a glare that usually preceded swift homicide. Satoru, however, merely throws his head back and laughs harder, deliberately leaning further into Sukuna’s personal space like he’s daring the Ferrari driver to snap.

“Careful, big guy,” Gojo drawls, stage-whispering for the cameras inside the room. “Smile too hard and people might actually think you like me.”

Sukuna snorts. “Don’t push it, Gojo.”

The next replay rolls onto the screen. This time it’s the overtake attempt during the last lap, where Ferrari pulls alongside Mercedes down the curved straight, lunges late on the brakes into Turn 9, but Gojo holds the inside line with impossible tenacity. The red car overshot by a hair, losing the crucial exit speed, and the black streak of the Mercedes pulls clear.

Satoru points at the screen with a new water bottle he snatched from the fridge, grinning so wide it looked genuinely painful on his face. “That. Right there. Look at it—wings open, nose to nose. Sexy, isn’t it?”

Ryomen’s eyes narrow at the replay like he could mentally incinerate it out of existence. “You braked like a complete idiot.”

“Like a winner, you mean,” Gojo fired back instantly, unruffled. “Tell you what—next time, try not to leave me space. Might actually make it interesting.”

Sukuna exhales slowly through his nose, a sound close enough to a laugh that Gojo’s smile broadens if that’s even possible. “Next time, I’ll put you in the wall.” His tone is dry.

Satoru chuckles, loud and unbothered as if that’s the best, most thrilling plan he’s ever heard. “Can’t wait, Sukuna.”

Your shoulder tense immediately and you think, There’s no spinning that if it goes wide. They’re both impossible, before you realise with the pen still frozen in your hand: this doesn’t need saving. This is the show. Sukuna shutting things down and Gojo turning everything into fuel is not a scandal waiting to break. It’s the currency F1 runs on. And the more you try to “fix” it, the more you’ll look like you don’t understand the product you’re supposed to be protecting, so you set the stylus down and just let the cameras do their work.

—

The podium ceremony always feels more like a stage production than an authentic celebration. The anthem drags long enough that Sukuna looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, Todo is vibrating like he’s single-handedly won the championship and Gojo sways beside him, like his national anthem is a private, amusing joke. He has that unbearable, for you, grin that he always has plastered when the reporters are around. On the other side of the top step, Todo Aoi doesn’t bother hiding his excitement. He’s buzzing, every pore soaking in the roar of his home crowd, basking in the light as if he won the race.

For a terrifying second you expect him to wink at the camera, but at least he keeps it in.

When the champagne bottles are handed over, he looks deceptively calm and you barely have time to think please don’t spray a sponsor before Satoru rips the foil, thumbs the cork with a flick, and unleashes the first torrent. Instead of turning it on the crowd, or to your relief sponsors, he angles it straight at Sukuna, mercilessly soaking him chest-down in sticky fizz.

The audio mix catches the crowd’s eruption of excitement. Sukuna just tilts his head, glaring sharp enough at Satoru to make the cameras scramble for close-ups. Fantastic. First race, and he’s soaking Ferrari’s number one on live broadcast. Champagne drenches his suit, dripping off the tattoos and sluicing down the lines of his collar. He finally mutters something low enough the mic almost misses it, and you scramble to catch the subtitle on screen: Still can’t aim for shit.

He looks really annoyed saying that, so you just really hope that this is part of the show, and you won’t have to deal with Ryomen trying to fix it.

The fans erupt in laughter and Satoru just throws his head back in his usual fashion, grinning like he’s in on a joke no one else would ever truly grasp. Todo, fueled by the moment, hollers his approval and promptly returns fire, spraying Gojo in return until the two of them are locked in a champagne crossfire, suds soaking the podium floor. Sukuna lifts his own bottle but makes no move to pop the cork. To the broadcast cameras it reads as contempt for the spectacle.

Then Aoi takes the chaos a step further, kicking one of his racing boots off, raising it in hand and pouring champagne into it while the moderator tries and fails to keep order. “For Melbourne!” he bellows, voice booming, and tilts it back, frothing liquid spilling down his chin as he drinks. His home crowd goes absolutely wild, their collective roar rolls through the track. Gojo, still dripping wet, claps him enthusiastically on the back as if it was the highlight of the entire Grand Prix weekend.

The screen feed cuts to him laughing, drenched in champagne with hair plastered to his forehead and you know full well every meme account in the world already has this in their drafts. At least this time they’re the engagement Mercedes likes, that makes itself without you needing to step in.

Sukuna shakes his head once, seemingly disdain, then sets his bottle down unopened and steps off first, leaving Gojo and Todo to their antics. You exhale hard, thumb poised over your notes. First race. First win. First mess. I’ve made it. And now, I’ve got a whole season of this ahead.

—

The FIA conference room is packed with reporters squeezed shoulder to shoulder, cameras stacked along the back row and microphones angled toward the stage. Satoru sits in the middle of the couch with Sukuna on his left and Aoi on his right. All of the drivers are in their race suits half unzipped, team jackets and caps on their drenched hair.

“A very warm welcome everybody to the top three finishers of the FIA Formula 1 Australian Grand Prix. In third place, Aoi Todo. In second place, Sukuna Ryomen. And taking the 35th win in his Formula 1 career and his first here in Australia, our winner, Satoru Gojo.” the FIA moderator starts. “Satoru, very well done to you. Lots of pressure, lots of weather throughout the race, yet you executed everything perfectly. Just how satisfying was this win?”

“Satisfying’s not the word,” he says, grinning wide. “Anyone can win when the sun’s out and the track’s dry. But this? Starting with a red flag, cars in the wall before lap one, spray so heavy you can’t see your own front wing? That’s where the real fun is. That’s what I like: when it’s chaos, when everyone’s skating and you get to see who can actually drive instead of who just memorised their delta charts. Makes better TV anyway. And pole and the win in the bag? That’s the perfect opener. Couldn’t script it better if you tried.”

You bite back the urge to put your head in your hands when you hear the ending. The one you really hate. He said it with that easy smile, but you know how it’ll read when it hits the wrong clip: that he likes the chaos, that he welcomes half the grid skating around like it’s a demolition derby, that he thinks “better TV” is worth drivers crashing.

Sponsors will hear liability no matter if he wrapped his words in his usual charm, so you flag this line, with an annotation, spin to thrilling spectacle, NOT unsafe chaos before FIA sends a complaint. You tap the end of your stylus on your chin, deep in thoughts, and you scribble below, Reframe it as him wanting F1 to always feel alive and fans on the edge of their seats, not promoting reckless driving.

The worst part is you gave him the benefit of the doubt before. You really thought that maybe he’d behave, but he really had to fuck everything up with just one answer.

The room chuckles like he’s just told the best joke of the day. Satoru leans back, utterly unbothered, while you feel the cold sweat running down your spine already.

“And what were your thoughts? You seemed so calm the whole way through the race. You had a delayed start from pole position, you had Sukuna behind you, Aoi behind you, Sukuna again at the end. And then there was this threat of rain coming under the Safety Car. How much is that playing on your mind when you've just got to keep it on a difficult race track as well? How do you keep calm? How do you keep the communication so good?”

Satoru leans back like the word calm amuses him. He drags one of his hands over the back of his neck when he answers, “Calm’s relative. You don’t really get calm at 300 kph on slick painted kerbs. You get focus… and I play it like a game. Cars flying into barriers before the lights even go out? Cool, level up. Safety Car for half the race? Fine, that’s just an endurance round. Todo breathing down my neck in the middle? Boss fight. Sukuna looming in the mirrors at the end? Final boss. The trick’s not thinking about the chaos, but enjoying it. I keep the comms light because if you sound like you’re drowning, you already are. And James knows how to talk me down if I’m pushing too hard. That’s the balance. He says ‘don’t over-push,’ and I laugh, and we both know I’m still gonna push anyway. But it works.”

The reporters’ laughter that rolls through the room makes you squeeze your pen tighter. If sponsors could hear what he’s really saying instead of what they think he’s saying…

The only hope you have is that this will be clipped into memes instead of glorifying recklessness. That’s the angle you plan on taking anyway.

“No one was ever going to make this one easy for you. The last laps—Sukuna is on your tail. You've got James on the radio saying, "Don't over-push it." You've got the Ferrari just there. How do you deal with that pressure?”

Your lead driver tips his head back like he’s savoring the question. “Look, I wouldn’t call it yoga in there, but pressure’s the best part. You’ve got to enjoy it or it eats you alive. Clean air is boring, and you’re just hot-lapping with company. But when it’s rain, spray, tires sliding, another car’s nose practically climbing into your cockpit—that’s when you find out what you’re made of. Some guys freeze up. I don’t. I like it when the line’s moving under you, when the car’s dancing. That’s the thrill, and honestly? That’s what makes the sport worth watching.”

Satoru, for the love of everything, just stop talking!

The moderator, either oblivious or delighted by the reaction in the room, pivots.

“Alright, very well done to you. Sukuna, let's come to you now. You ran Satoru very close at the end. What were you thinking? Just one more lap?”

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, just short of a laugh, but his voice stays flat. “One lap, two laps, it doesn’t matter. Thinking doesn’t change the line in front of you. I was in striking distance already. He defended hard, credit for that, but there was no margin. I don’t waste time on ifs. If I needed more laps to pass him, then I didn’t deserve the win today. Simple.”

After a pause, he adds with that dry edge that makes you uncomfortable, “But next time, if the gap opens even a fraction, he won’t hold me off.”

Half the press scribbles furiously and someone in the crowd goes oooh, which makes Satoru grin wider. Perfect soundbite, terrifying in tone.

“Very well said. Now talk us through the call to choose mediums because that looked like a split-second decision. Everyone else went for hards, yet Ferrari went the other way.”

“Everyone defaulted to hards because it looked safe. Safe doesn’t win. Track temp was dropping but not enough to kill the mediums if you managed them. We knew the rain was light and scattered, meaning no need to waste laps on tyres that never switch on properly. Mediums gave me the grip I needed to attack, especially on restart. It wasn’t a gamble. It was math. You trust the data, you trust your feel, and you commit. That’s racing.”

You jot the word mediums in the margin with a heavy hand, pulse kicking like you’re back in the garage watching the gamble unfold. For a moment during the race you’d thought Ferrari’s risk would hang you out to dry in the debrief, but Sukuna only made it to P2. Relief loosens in your chest now, knowing there’s no damage done.

“And Sukuna, when you think where you and the team were at the start of the weekend on Friday after practice, how satisfying is this P2?”

As if the question offends him, his eyes narrow at the moderator. “Satisfying?” He repeats the word like it’s foreign. “No. Second place isn’t satisfying, it’s losing. You don’t remember who finished P2 five years ago, or even last year. No one cares. But,” he stops as if to consider his words, then continues, “when you start Friday with the perfect conditions and end Sunday glued to the back of Satoru’s gearbox in the wet, it tells you two things: the car’s got pace and balance, and I can wring it out when it matters. That part, maybe, is worth taking home.”

The room doesn’t quite know how to take it at first and a ripple of laughter breaks out, then a murmur of pens scratching faster across notepads as the phrasing sinks in. A couple of photographers lean in, like they’ve just caught the headline moment. Second place isn’t satisfying, it’s losing. It’s the kind of line that will run in every recap, but half the reporters expected him to bite someone’s head off and he gave them something measured.

Could’ve phrased it differently, but all in all he always gives answers I wish Gojo could, too.

The moderator nods briskly. “Alright, very well done to you. Thank you for that. Aoi, let's come to you now. A podium to start the year. I’m exhausted, having watched the race. How do you feel having driven that one, and on home soil too?

Todo snatches the mic up like he’s been waiting for it. “It feels like destiny!” His voice booms so loud half the reporters flinch in their seats. “Third place at home isn’t just a podium—it’s proof the soul of racing lives here, in Melbourne! You could feel it, couldn’t you? In the stands, in the air, every time the car danced through the rain. This is what it means to fight with heart. You don’t win or lose today, you show courage.”

He slaps his thigh hard enough that the sound carries into the mics. “My soul told me I had to deliver for my people, and today I did! Satoru fought like a warrior, Sukuna fought like a curse, and I—I was chosen to share the stage with them. And standing on that box, hearing my city roar my name? That’s worth as much as a trophy. That’s Melbourne!”

The press row chuckles, shaking their heads in unison, some scribbling, some staring like they aren’t sure if they’re meant to applaud. You hear someone behind you mutter, does he know it’s only P3?

The moderator tries to go back to the actual interview, “That looked like some of the toughest conditions I’ve ever seen – a crash before the start of the race, a delayed start, crashes under safety car. How do you keep it on the island in conditions like that?”

Todo laughs so loud the mic crackles, then jabs a finger dramatically toward the crowd of reporters. “Because Albert Park isn’t just a track, it’s a spirit test! Those straights that aren’t straights whisper to you—lift and you’ve already lost. Rain? Perfect! Rain is destiny’s way of asking, ‘Do you have courage, Aoi Todo?’ And I answered: yes! You dance with the car, you trust your soul. The others saw danger, I saw a challenge made for me. Sukuna, my brother—” he gestures wildly toward the Ferrari driver, who just closes his eyes in defeat, “—thrives on the knife’s edge and that’s why I thrive too. Melbourne gave me rain, gave me a fight, gave me this podium. You don’t survive that by playing safe, you survive it by living with everything you’ve got!”

By the time Todo is concluding his philosophical journey, he is practically half off the couch, his arms casting invisible spells in the air. The cameras eat it up, reporters leaning forward for the spectacle even as their notes look baffled. The laughter is open this time, even from the journalists, and you’re glad about it. The more they’re looking at Todo’s theatrics, the less they’re pulling quotes out of Gojo’s mouth.

The open-floor segment that follows is surprisingly uneventful. A handful of local reporters toss easy questions about the conditions, about overtakes, about how Melbourne compares to other circuits. Aoi answers with the same fire he’s been burning through all session, Sukuna cuts his replies short enough to kill the follow-ups, and Satoru—well, he can’t resist lacing his answers with smirks and throwaway one-liners, but none of them are dangerous enough to earn a mark in your notes.

By the time the moderator tries to wrap though, Todo is in full voice, practically shaking the couch the drivers sit on as he talks about the “soul of racing.” The room laughs when he declares that finishing third here feels like winning, and Gojo, who’s never one to let a spotlight pass, raises his mic with a grin and adds, “Not sure P3 counts as winning, but I’ll let you keep it this time, man.”

Not sure if I should be proud of him for giving the man a compliment or frustrated that he has to have the last word all the time.

Todo claps like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, while Sukuna doesn’t so much as twitch a muscle. The moderator tries to say something, but Aoi cuts in, this time pointing at your lead driver. “I told you, he’s my brother-in-arms! We fight, we race, we bleed together—”

“Don’t,” Sukuna says flatly into his mic, stopping him before he can finish the declaration. The crowd laughs anyway, but you catch the edge in Sukuna’s voice.

Satoru, of course, can’t resist twisting the knife. “You heard him. Family bonding. Next week we’re doing matching tattoos.”

“Good luck keeping up with this circus you’ve just volunteered to be part of,” Sukuna replies, low and quick enough that half the room misses it, but the half that catches it roars.

Todo beams, eyes shining with a sudden, overwhelming emotion. Four long years of racing the same circuits as the Ferrari driver, and now, finally, he feels recognised. He truly acts as if he’s just been knighted—never mind that Ryomen hadn't actually agreed to anything. Aoi looks like he’s been chosen for some divine quest, and the absurdity of it makes a sharp chuckle burst out of you.

Satoru’s laugh nearly drowns out the moderator entirely, and Sukuna leans back, already finished with the exchange.

By the time the moderator finally calls the press conference off, Satoru is lounging like he’s had the best evening of his life, and—Shit. I completely forgot—your notes yank you back to reality. The scrawl you underlined twice in red, Better TV, stares back at you and your mind panics. How is it possible their antics made me forget about that? The laughter in the room fades in your ears as you’re already bracing for the backlash you know is coming.

You don’t even remember moving, just that suddenly you’re following the reporters spilling into the corridor with the tablet clutched to your chest. You catch him in the media corridor as he slides back his sunglasses onto his face as if the presser never happened. Cameras are still rolling, but you step in close enough that he can hear you over the noise.

“What the fuck, Gojo?” you hiss under your breath.

He grins like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day. “Yeah, I can’t wait for the memes either.”

You shoved your tablet hard against your chest to keep from jabbing him with it. “No. ‘Better TV when drivers slide around’... do you want a sponsor to call me before dinner?”

Satoru only shrugs, leaning just enough to brush past you, his shoulder casually knocking against yours. “Relax, Handler. You’ll spin it. You always do.”

That patronizing dismissal makes your pulse spike. “You don’t get it,” you snap, but you force your voice even lower because there were still reporters hovering nearby. “This isn’t funny when they start writing emails with your quotes in bold. If one pulls out—”

“Then Mei Mei makes another one pay double to replace them,” he cuts you off with a lazy wave, already walking backwards toward the paddock. “Everyone wins. Except you, but hey, that’s your fun, right?”

The annoying smirk he throws before turning his back completely makes you want to hurl the tablet after him or to at least shatter it against the floor. Instead, you tuck the device under your arm and run both hands over your face, exhaling a long, ragged breath. Fucking asshole.

Your heel lifts, ready to step after him and continue the argument, but you make yourself stop. Chasing him now would give him exactly what he wants. So you stand there, nails biting into your palm, swallowing the bitter fact that he gets to walk away untouched while you’re the one whose job will be on the line by morning.

No matter how much you want to strangle him, he’s not wrong about one thing: tomorrow, it will be your problem.

—

By the time you’re on the Mercedes jet bound for Europe, the cabin lights are dimmed so most of the seats are cast in blue shadows. Mei Mei has claimed the forward row with her brother hovering beside her with a laptop open, both of them already buried in numbers that look suspiciously like sponsor ledgers and market reports.

Shoko has stretched herself diagonally across two seats with a blanket up to her chin, dead to the world as if the presser never happened. The team photographer is buried in memory cards, flicking through shots from parc fermé and the podium on his camera screen, tagging the few that’ll go public before sunrise.

Nanami sits two rows up, tapping through race notes on his dimmed laptop and the glow of the screen’s catching sharp in his glasses. Your problem child is sprawled sideways with his knees in the aisle and sunglasses still on even though it’s pitch black outside, watching a movie.

You’ve managed to secure the sanctuary of the back row, a small consolation prize for being the one tasked with perpetually mitigating his chaos. To kill time and distract yourself, you scroll through your personal Instagram account.

The memes, of course, are impossible to escape. The entire F1 fan community has clearly spent the last four hours in a collective fever dream of digital satire. One of the top-trending posts makes you almost choke. It’s a side-by-side splice: Gojo, grinning that wide, unholy, chaos-itself grin from the presser, next to Todo, shouting about destiny with the intensity of a zealot. The caption is devastatingly accurate: “Two sides of the same unhinged coin.” You clamp a hand over your mouth, biting the laugh back before it can slip out and break the jet’s silence.

A small, internal voice of professional dread screams at you. You are, in a sense, paid to hate this. This is the exact kind of viral, non-sanctioned content that makes your work inbox filled with urgent, all-caps panic emails at 2 a.m.

But privately? You’re weak. It’s funny. Really funny. For once, it isn't a career-ending headline or a full-blown crisis you have to clean up; it’s just the raw, ridiculous, absurd, unpolished side of the sport that you actually loved before your whole life became dedicated to keeping that exact kind of chaos bottled up.

Your friends back home don’t follow every press conference or every lap time, but they will get this. They’ll send you waves of laughing emojis, and for a second, it feels genuinely good to just be in on the joke instead of the one tasked with cleaning it up.

This is your personal account that only your close circle knows about. It’s a carefully curated feed of travel photos, stupid food edits, and random musings. There’s no name, no face, no identifying team logo, nothing that could trace it back to you. It’s still technically public, but the odds of anyone connecting the dots between a random account and Satoru feel infinitesimally small. You should be in the clear.

Besides, it’s not like you’re endorsing Gojo being Gojo. It’s you admitting that he is, objectively, entertaining as hell when you don’t have to foot the bill.

Still, as your finger hovers over the 'share' button, a wave of cold sobriety hits. When you finally hit it and watch the little progress bar circle itself into existence, you can only think, I’m done for if he ever finds this.

The first act of rebellion makes the rest easy. The dam has broken and you share one after the other. Kangaroo memes, an image of Gojo smirking beside Sukuna’s permanent scowl, overlaid with the caption Family Bonding Special—Buy One, Get One Free. Another one is Todo’s intense declaration captioned When the group project is due at midnight and only one person did the work.

Your personal favourite is a clip of Sukuna simply saying, “Don’t.” You post it with the caption, “Me when Gojo opens his mouth in the pressers.”

Within minutes your DMs light up with laughing emojis, screenshots and questions from your friends back home you can’t answer and your mood drops.

LMAO you’re living the dream 🤣 Imagine being paid to scroll memes, I’m jealous. Bet you’ve got the best seat in the house for all that chaos 👀 Wait, do you actually sit in the room for this stuff?? Bet he’s actually super chill off camera tho, right? 👂 spill. Omg do you get free paddock passes too 👀👀 hook me up!

You just stare at the messages, because what are you supposed to say? That this job sucks? That you hate every minute of it? That you’re not laughing with the circus, you’re cleaning up after it? That your so-called “promotion” is nothing more than babysitting a man-child who thinks setting fires is entertainment? That he’s a fucking asshole, and half the time it feels like he makes your life miserable on purpose? The NDA keeps your mouth shut, so the only option would be to lie. And tonight, you don’t even have the energy for that, so all you can send is a couple of emojis back.

You lock your phone, and set it face-down on the armrest. Out the window, the sky is nothing but black except for the red strobe of the wingtip light. Memes are harmless until they’re not. And even here, halfway back to Europe with half the team asleep around you, you sit awake with the sick certainty that by morning, the wrong ones will be everywhere.

post-session debrief: okay, how do we feeling about the race results? expected? not really? also can you tell todo is my favourite driver in the grid?

Mercedes POV - Gojo storyline: ← Pit Stop · Australian GP · Pit Stop →

Change the car: get into Ferrari with Sukuna for Australian GP

Masterlist · Glossary · Race results

taglist: @indiewritesxoxo @ilovebeansyay @linny-bloggs @hayashiix @graphic0rn @adettee @1901arryn

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