Morning hits like a slap, ripping me out of a nightmare I don't remember signing up for. Prepare myself for the worst, I put on a bravery face and head to the paddock, already bracing for impact.

But to be honest, no amount of preparation can steady me for this. A wall of camera is already waiting for me by the time I get there. Journalists swarm the McLaren entrance. Microphones rise like metal spears trying to hit me for my Archilles' heel. Someone shouts first.
"Lando, why did you and Piastri have the same FP3 laps?"

My pulse stumbles but another voice cuts in immediately, "Who leaked the internal data?"

I try to keep walking with my head down, minimize my existence to the best I could but no use. "Are teams allowed to share and use driver-assist systems?", another one asked. Just say it straight outright and accuse us of cheating, will you?

Each question hits harder than the last. Full of accusation wrapped in confusion and innocent words, hunger disguised as professionalism. One wrong word and our careers are destroyed, it is that easy.

Oscar stays a step behind me, pale beneath the heat lamps lining the walkway. His jaw clenches so tightly I can see pulses fluttering in his temple. He doesn't speak or blink at all.

Zak came to rescue, he shoves forward like a man extinguishing a fire with his bare hands. "Back up. No comments. Move."

He forces a path through the crowd, shields us with his arm. We almost get to the door before hearing someone shouts from the back of us. "Lando, was your World Champion title won by cheating with Oscar's help? What was the arrangement inside McLaren garage?"

I freeze on the spot, unable to move. Oscar flinches besides me, just barely but I feel it. To the media, fans, or even strangers, we are not teammate or rivals. They see us as a mystery. A threat. A scandal waiting to ignite.

Zak grabs our arms tightly and drags us through the door, slamming it shut to cut off all those noises. No one says a word as we walk inside the team private meeting room on the other side of the hall, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing on us.

Someone must have drained all the warmth and air out of the room before we arrive, because that's the only possible explanation for the anxiety raising up on my chest like crazy. Andrea Stella stands at the end of the table, hands clasped behind his back. Calmed and controlled – while Zak paces like a trapped animal.

Just the four of us in that tiny meeting room. Enough to tell how serious this is.

Oscar slides into the seat beside me, his face still emotionless, showing no signs of panic. No time for sweet-talk or opening, Andrea goes straight to the problem. "The FIA might get involved. They don't need to find wrongdoing to issue penalties and that's the shittiest part of it all."

My stomach drops heavily. Oscar's knees bumping up and down, fingers tapped on the screen. How do we explain something we don't understand?

Andrea doesn't raise his voice, which makes the whole thing even scarier than I thought it could be. "An unexplained anomaly in data is treated as violation. If this persists, we face reputational damage."

Stop for a beat, he resumes, "Sponsors will question us."

Another beat, "Other teams may file formal protest."

Oscar whispers, almost audible, "But we didn't do anything. Not me, not Lando, not our team."

I think about it at the same time – word for word. And that, that scares me more than anything going on at the moment. Andrea nods in acknowledgement but doesn't change his tone.

"That doesn't matter. The list still goes on and on. What are we facing next? Full car teardown, and at this point it means we have 80% of losing both World's Champion and Constructor's title. ECU inspection. Mandatory inspecting in every single race."

I glance sideways to see Oscar is already looking at me. His look doesn't give me strength, just a late realization that we might not be able to make it this time. Andrea still goes on to destroy any of our left-over hopes.

"Teams will accuse McLaren of illegal driver assistance because when is it better than now to fully destroy your opponents? And if this continues, FIA might request you be separated with different engineers, different strategy units and no shared data."

He hesitates, but still spill out the words, "If things escalate... they may choose to suspend one of you pending review."

I feel my chest cave in, a hollow ache spreading outward in slow waves. Oscar grips the edge of his seat, knuckles whitening. And I know, with painful certainty, he's thinking exactly what I'm thinking – Take me out, not him.

Andrea finally steps towards us and occupies the seat next to Zak. "We do not have answers yet, but you must continue with qualifying."

After being told our splendid careers are dangling by a thread woven out of data we don't understand, we are sent back out to pretend like everything is fine and we're thriving for a win. Zak reminds us not to take interviews or make comments. Just drive and look forward.

Oscar's hand is in mine as we walk through the long corridor, he murmurs in my ears, voice tight, "We didn't do anything at all". I inhale sharply, because that's what I was thinking and he said it like he pulled it out straight of my head.

We walk side by side like two mirrored ghosts walking into qualifying with the entire sport watching, not having even the faintest idea of whatever is going on around.

Qualifying is supposed to narrow the world. Helmet on, visor down, one simple task ahead only. I tell myself it's easy, it'll pass soon, hands steady on the wheel, eyes locked forward. The car feels sharp, responsive, almost eager to please me.

Don't think Lando. Eyes on the track. Focus.

The lap feels good, not perfect but controlled. One easy thing I have done a million times before – brake, turn in, feed the throttle.

When I come back into the garage, silence greets me. No one cheers or sighs in relief. No one dares to look at me.

Oscar climbs out of his car, briefly exchanges a look with me. I turn away, attention got caught by data screen behind him. Just a glance, but it's enough to let me know we are doomed. Corner entry speed – too close. Throttle trace – the same rise and hesitation. Braking overlap – once, twice. Not identical, only close enough to make your skin crawl, like déjà vu in numeric form.

Oscar slips his phone into my hands. The screen has already been unlocked with WhatsApp notifications everywhere. Which is weird, because I'm the social butterfly and normally people would call me instead of him.

Alex Albon: What's going on between you and Lando? Take care of it mate. Need help?

Max Verstappen: Nice scene at the paddock today. Didn't know McLaren was doing drama now.

George Russell: FIA meeting scheduled already?

Charles Leclerc: I'm worried about you two. But hey Ferrari always needs reserve drivers, just reduce your salary a bit.

I give Oscar back his phone, telling myself I can't fall apart right here, right now. The truth sits between us, unspoken and loud – We don't know how stop whatever is going on.

The qualify ends like any other. But later, when I finally sit here all by myself, the noise fades and silence creeps back in, the uneasiness won't ever leave me alone. No matter how well we qualify, no matter how clean the laps look, no one would ever believe us.