Before the Lights

The bus ride to Suzuka was quieter than Jonas expected.

Not silent, never silent with a race team — but subdued in the way people get when they already know how the day is supposed to feel. The engine hummed steadily beneath the floor, the windows fogged lightly at the edges, and the road curved through trees that looked almost unreal in the early morning light. Jonas sat a few rows from the front, one arm resting against the window, watching the scenery blur past. He wasn’t thinking about lap one. Not yet. His mind was doing smaller things, cataloguing details, noticing how Japan always felt a little too orderly for nerves like his.

A few seats ahead, Elias Hartmann was leaned sideways, half-turned in his seat, talking to one of the engineers. Elias didn’t talk much before races, but when he did, it was never forced. It was usually something ordinary, something that grounded the rest of them. “I still don’t get how this place manages traffic,” Elias was saying. “No matter what time you come through, nothing feels rushed.”

The engineer chuckled softly. “That’s because everyone’s already decided where they’re going.” Elias nodded, as if that explained everything. “Wish we could say the same.”

Jonas smiled faintly without looking away from the window. A little later, the race engineer slid into the seat beside Jonas, balancing a tablet on his knee. He didn’t turn it on right away.

“Sleep alright?” he asked. “Yeah,” Jonas said. “Woke up before the alarm.”

“That’s usually a good sign.”

“Or a bad one.”

The engineer laughed quietly. “We’ll call it neutral.”

They sat like that for a few minutes, the bus gently rocking as it followed the road. Outside, banners with the Suzuka logo flashed by, bright against the muted morning.

“You know,” the engineer said after a while, “every driver says this track feels alive. I never know what they mean.”

Jonas considered it. “It doesn’t forgive,” he said. “Other tracks let you get away with things. This one remembers.” The engineer nodded slowly, as if filing that away. “That sounds like something you only learn the hard way.”

Jonas didn’t answer.

The bus slowed as they approached the circuit, security gates opening with practiced efficiency. The moment they crossed into the paddock, the air changed. Even inside the bus, Jonas could feel it — that familiar tightening, like the day had shifted into a higher gear without asking permission. They stepped off into controlled movement. Team members peeled away toward their roles, radios crackling softly, carts rolling past with equipment stacked neatly and labeled. Suzuka revealed itself in pieces — a glimpse of grandstands, a sliver of track beyond the barriers, the faint smell of rubber already hanging in the air.

Inside the team’s area, the mood was calm but deliberate. Screens were already alive with data. Engineers clustered in small groups, not crowding, not rushing. Someone handed Jonas a bottle of water without a word. He took it, nodded his thanks. Elias joined him near the lockers, adjusting the sleeves of his race suit. “Feels strange starting so close together,” Elias said casually.

“Better than starting apart,” Jonas replied.

Elias smirked. “Depends who you ask.” They shared a brief look — not competitive, not friendly either. Something in between. Familiar.

In the strategy room, the conversation flowed easily, without a clear beginning or end. No one stood at the front. No one needed to. “If the grip drops the way it did on Friday,” one engineer said, pointing loosely at the screen, “we’ll feel it earlier than expected.”

“Especially in sector one,” another added. “The front starts to wash if you’re not careful.” Jonas leaned forward slightly. “It’s not sudden,” he said. “It creeps. You think you’ve got another lap, and then it’s already gone.”

“Which means patience,” the race engineer said, glancing around the room. “On both sides of the garage.” Elias exhaled slowly. “Suzuka doesn’t reward impatience anyway.” Someone at the back muttered, “Tell that to the guys starting behind us.” A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room, easing the edge just a fraction. They talked about weather without trusting it. About safety cars without expecting them. About tire windows without pretending they were exact science. The conversation drifted, looped back, overlapped. It felt less like planning and more like aligning — making sure everyone was thinking in the same direction.

Eventually, the room emptied in stages. Mechanics first. Then engineers. Then drivers.

Jonas changed in silence, the familiar motions steadying him. Suit. Gloves. Boots. Each step a small anchor. When he finished, he stood for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting at his sides, breathing evenly.

This was the last calm he would get.

Clara arrived early enough that the strategy room hadn’t decided what kind of day it wanted to be yet. The screens were awake, but not demanding. Timing towers scrolled quietly. Tire models sat open without anyone staring at them too hard. Engineers spoke in low, unhurried voices, the way people did when urgency hadn’t earned its place yet. A chair scraped softly as someone shifted closer to a monitor. Another adjusted the blinds, angling them just enough to kill the glare without darkening the room.

Nothing was accidental. That was the point.

Clara stood near the center table, arms folded loosely, her weight resting on one hip. She watched the data without locking onto it, letting her eyes move, letting patterns form on their own. Numbers always told the truth eventually. You just couldn’t bully them into doing it faster. Her drivers came in together a few minutes later, helmets already abandoned somewhere outside, towels slung around their necks like an afterthought. They looked loose. Comfortable. Clara knew better than to call that relaxed.

One of them dropped into a chair and rolled his shoulders. “Long runs are boring,” he said, glancing at the screen. “Which I assume means they’re good.” Clara smiled faintly. “Boring keeps you out of trouble.”

“Trouble’s more fun,” the other driver muttered, leaning back against the table. “Fun doesn’t score points,” Clara said. “At least not the kind that matter.” That earned a few quiet chuckles from around the room. They talked without anyone really taking the lead. About how the car felt over a stint. About how Suzuka had a way of making confidence feel temporary. Someone mentioned the crosswind near Spoon. Someone else joked that Turn One had been ruining weekends since before any of them were born.

Clara listened, occasionally stepping in when the conversation drifted too far into speculation. “Let’s not plan three safety cars before we’ve seen one,” she said dryly at one point. “Suzuka already has enough opinions without us adding more.”

One of the drivers grinned. “You’re no fun today.”

“I’m plenty fun,” Clara replied. “Just not on race mornings.”

An engineer leaned forward slightly, tapping the timing screen with a knuckle. “Their 2nd lead car’s starting just behind us.” Clara’s eyes settled on the number, her expression unchanged. She let the silence sit for a beat longer than necessary. “He’s decisive,” she said finally. “That’s not a flaw. But it does mean he’ll show his hand early.”

“So we squeeze him?” someone offered.

Clara shook her head. “No squeezing. We let him move first. If he commits, we take what he leaves.” One of the drivers nodded slowly. “He hates not being the one choosing.”

“That’s not hatred,” Clara said. “That’s habit. And habits are predictable.” The room settled again, the plan aligning without anyone needing to announce it. No raised voices. No grand statements. Just a shared understanding taking shape. A few minutes later, Clara closed her notebook. For a brief second, the faint sketch of Suzuka’s layout was visible, curves traced from memory, not precision — before the cover snapped shut.

“Alright,” she said, pushing off the table. “Everything that needs deciding has been decided. The rest we handle as it comes.” One of the drivers stood and adjusted his suit. “That’s your way of saying ‘don’t do anything stupid,’ right?”

Clara met his eyes. “You say that like it’s optional.”

He laughed and headed toward the garage.

Clara followed more slowly. Outside, the sound of engines warming rolled through the paddock, low and layered, like distant thunder that hadn’t decided whether it meant rain yet. She paused just before stepping fully into the noise, letting it settle around her. Days like this always felt calm in the moment.

They never were, once you looked back.

By the time Jonas reached the grid, the world had narrowed into something manageable. Not quiet but contained. The roar of the crowd blurred into a low, constant hum, like the ocean heard from far enough away that it no longer demanded attention. Individual voices disappeared. What remained was atmosphere. Pressure without edges.

Mechanics flowed around him in familiar patterns, movements refined by repetition rather than urgency. Tire blankets came off smoothly, one corner at a time, folded and handed away without anyone needing to ask. A mechanic tapped the front wing lightly, more out of habit than necessity. Another crouched near the rear tire, eyes sharp, hands steady. The car sat exactly where it belonged — P5 — angled just slightly toward the racing line, its nose pointed toward Turn One like it already knew where it wanted to go. Jonas always noticed that angle. It wasn’t intentional, not really, but it felt symbolic anyway.

Ahead of him, Elias’ car occupied P4.

Jonas could see the back of Elias’ helmet as he settled in, shoulders shifting once as if loosening tension that had nowhere else to go. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t need to. Awareness didn’t require eye contact anymore. The engineer’s voice slid into Jonas’ headset, calm in a way that only came from long familiarity.

“Clutch bite is where we expect it. Temps are good. Everything’s clean.”

No checklist tone. No dramatics. Just grounding.

Jonas responded with a soft acknowledgment, more a habit than a necessity. His eyes stayed forward, fixed somewhere beyond the lights, beyond the first corner, beyond anything that could still be changed. Above them, the broadcast commentary carried across the grid, polished and practiced, filling the air without intruding.

“Welcome back to Suzuka,” the lead commentator said, voice warm with anticipation. “A circuit that rewards bravery but punishes impatience — and today, we’ve got a grid that promises both.”

“Absolutely,” the second voice followed. “It’s a tightly packed midfield, and all eyes are on rows two and three. Elias Hartmann and Jonas Kingston line up fourth and fifth, teammates but rivals when the lights go out.”

“They’ve been separated by tenths all weekend,” the first added. “Different approaches, same pace. And into Turn One here, that could get interesting very quickly.”

Jonas registered his name the same way he registered engine vibrations — present, but not personal. Commentary wasn’t pressure. It was weather. Something that existed whether he acknowledged it or not. Around him, engines rose in pitch, idling higher now, less patient. The sound vibrated through the seat and into his ribs, a physical presence rather than noise. Heat shimmered above the asphalt, distorting the view just enough to make the grid feel unreal, like a memory already forming. The smell was familiar and grounding, fuel, hot rubber, a hint of oil. Jonas took it in without thinking. He always did. It was part of the ritual.

A mechanic leaned in briefly, voice muffled through the helmet. “Have a good one.” Jonas gave a small nod. Not dramatic. Not ceremonial. Just acknowledgment between people who had done this together too many times to make a thing of it. As the mechanic stepped away, Jonas adjusted his grip on the wheel, rolling his wrists once, feeling the resistance settle exactly where it always did. The car responded the way it should. Solid. Ready. Honest.

Everything that could be prepared was prepared.

Everything that could be said had already been said — on buses, in meeting rooms, over data traces and half-finished jokes meant to keep nerves from getting ideas. The grid cleared slowly. People stepped back. Space opened. The first red light illuminated above the track. Then another. And another. Each one landed with weight, not urgency. Jonas breathed out slowly, feeling the air leave his chest without forcing it. His heart rate was steady. Not low. Just controlled.

This was the moment before motion, the last stillness before everything snapped forward, before thought gave way to instinct and consequence. Somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the anticipation, beneath the weight of expectation and broadcast narratives and championship math, Jonas felt something close to calm. Not confidence. Not fear. Just readiness.