CM Racing Headquarters – Oxford, United Kingdom

A gray, overcast morning. Early spring. The air tastes of rain and engine oil.

The black McLaren GT pulls into the cracked tarmac of CM Racing's private lot with a low, gravelly growl, the kind that turns heads even before the engine cuts. The gate has already opened for you. Someone has been watching the feed, waiting.

The building itself is a modest, glass-paneled facility surrounded by rusting shipping containers, half-covered tarps, and tool crates that have been rained on more times than anyone could count. This isn't Ferrari's Maranello or Red Bull's techno-palace. This is a team on life support, one that has bled for three seasons straight and still wears its wounds out in the open.

You step out of the car slowly, a duffel bag slung over your shoulder. A black leather jacket shields you from the chill, and a faded cap rests low on your brow, casting a shadow over your eyes - sharp and restless. The kind of eyes that don't scan the world... they read it. Every bolt, every screw, every ounce of pressure in the air.

You pause just outside the entrance. Look up at the sign above the glass doors: "CM Racing Technologies." The white lettering is chipped. A few letters are starting to peel.

You exhale slowly.

What the hell am I doing back here? is the first thought.

You can already smell the oil, the burnt brake pads, the faint trace of energy drink from an old sponsor that has probably pulled out last week.

Inside, the reception area is silent. A single receptionist offers a startled nod when she sees you, recognition flickering across her face, but she doesn't say a word. Everyone has seen the news. The press conference. The video Jaden posted that ended with: "He's coming home."

The sound of footsteps echoes through the hallway, someone approaching fast, maybe from the technical offices. But you ignore it for now. You take in the surroundings with a racer's eye. To the left: a trophy case. Empty.

To the right: a whiteboard marked with lap sectors, half-erased, with someone's notes scribbled in red marker: "DRAG TOO HIGH – DRS NON-FUNCTIONAL – KATE TO FIX."

You chuckle under your breath. This was never going to be easy.

Then comes a voice behind you, American, confident, worn smooth like an old steering wheel.

"Thought I'd find you here before anyone else did."

You turn around.

Jaden Williams, sharp suit, slicked-back hair, and regret behind his eyes. He looks older, but not slower. The kind of man who wears pressure like a tailored jacket. His hands are in his pockets, but tension curls in his shoulders.

"It's been... what? Twenty-two years? You haven't aged a damn day. Still walk like you're chasing pole."

You don't smile. Not yet. Not here.

Your eyes drift past Jaden, toward the heart of the building. Toward the room that holds the simulator. The garage. The telemetry labs. The cockpit.

"Probably looking for where the car is, right?"

Jaden's jaw tightens.

"Being brought out now. Kate wants to walk you through the upgrades herself even though she does not approve that you're our new driver, she's stubborn like that. You'll be glad she's still on our side though."

"They're not all happy you're here, you know. Colombo thinks it's PR bullshit. The kid, George, says you're just a 'vibe hire.'"

"I didn't bring me here to be liked, you know that."

Jaden smiles, just faintly.

"I brought you here to win."

And there it is. The sentence that pulls every cell in your body into focus. The reason you left the house. The reason you stand here again, boots echoing on tile, walking back into the fire like it never left you.

You drop your duffel by the wall and begin walking down the corridor. Past the walls lined with old concept art. Past the busted coffee machine humming like it might explode. Past the rookie driver's racing gloves hanging carelessly on a doorknob.

Every step forward feels like stepping back in time.

This isn't a comeback. This is unfinished business.

Behind the double doors at the end of the corridor... is the garage. And behind that garage... is the car. Your car.

Let it begin.