Dominik Corvinus opened his eyes as the technician removed the tire warmers. The car was lowered from the jacks with a sharp thud. Dominik gripped the complex F1 steering wheel with both hands, feeling the cold, textured rubber of the grips.
The engine fired up—a guttural, metallic roar that vibrated through his spine. The Mercedes garage next door was also deafening. Looking at the technicians swarming around him, the reality hit him: this was his first official moment as a Williams Formula 1 driver.
Outside in the pit lane, a small army of photographers had gathered. While they were ostensibly there to shoot the new cars, their lenses were trained on the garages of the rookies, hungry for any sign of a mistake.
Dominik engaged the pit limiter and looked at the chief mechanic in front of him. A few cars had already peeled out onto the track.
Suddenly, a Silver Arrow roared past the Williams garage. It was the Mercedes W13.
Inside the cockpit was George Russell.
As the silver car cruised past at pit limit speed, Russell's helmet turned towards Dominik. There was no wave. No thumbs up. Just a cold, lingering stare from behind the dark visor—a silent reminder of their conversation earlier.
So, he's going to play it like that, Dominik thought, shaking his head with a faint, cynical smile. Let him stare. I have a job to do.
The chief mechanic gave him the signal—a sharp "fighter pilot" launch gesture that made Dominik chuckle inside his helmet. F1 mechanics were a breed of their own.
The technician stepped aside. Dominik pulled the clutch paddle, engaged first gear, and checked his mirrors. Clear.
He blended the throttle and clutch, and the Williams FW44 rolled into the pit lane. The view through the narrow visor was claustrophobic yet focused. The world had shrunk to the asphalt strip ahead.
The photographers leaned in as the No. 45 Williams emerged. A 19-year-old rookie partnered with a returning driver like Albon—it was a lineup that screamed "potential or disaster," reminding many of the Haas rookie gamble from the previous year.
Dominik glanced at his mirrors. Daniel Ricciardo's McLaren was behind him, fitted with a massive aero rake—a "barbecue rack" of sensors measuring airflow. Dominik's car was clean.
"Dominik, simulated qualifying run," Gaëtan Jego's voice crackled over the radio, calm and French. "Take this lap easy. We're on C5 tires. Pit confirm after this lap, change to C4, then one push lap. Flat out."
Dominik knew what this meant. They weren't just testing the car; they were testing him.
He drove to the end of the pit lane, took a deep breath, and disengaged the limiter. The Williams surged forward onto the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya.
During the warm-up lap, Dominik wove aggressively left and right to generate heat in the tires. The FW44 felt like a boat compared to his nimble F2 car. Under the new 2022 regulations, the cars were longer, heavier, and stiffer. He felt every bump.
"Switch to Attack Mode," Gaëtan commanded as he approached the final chicane.
Dominik flicked the toggle on his wheel. The dash flashed ATTACK. He tightened his grip.
Exiting the final corner, he mashed the throttle. The FW44 launched down the main straight.
2nd gear. 3rd. 4th. The digital readout blurred past 250 km/h. Dominik held 4th gear through the long right-hander of Turn 1, the G-forces tearing at his neck muscles. The downforce was immense.
He opened DRS on the run down to Turn 1. The engine screamed as the ERS deployed its full electrical load.
Suddenly, the car began to violently bounce up and down.
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
His vision blurred. His head rattled against the headrest. He had heard rumors of "porpoising" with these new ground-effect cars, but feeling it was different. It felt like being in a washing machine set to spin cycle at 300 km/h.
He didn't lift.
He braked hard for Turn 1, the deceleration forcing the air from his lungs. The braking performance was savage, far beyond F2 levels. He threw the car into the corner, fighting the weight transfer.
Through the long Turn 3 (Renault), the car gripped up. He was carrying huge speed—276 km/h on exit. He realized with a jolt that he was already faster than Sebastian Vettel's Aston Martin in the micro-sectors ahead.
But the car was tricky. The C5 tires were overheating. In the slow, technical Sector 3, the car refused to turn into the hairpin at Turn 10 (La Caixa). Understeer.
Dominik wrestled the wheel, forcing the nose in. Then, as he got on the power, the rear snapped. Oversteer.
He caught the slide with a lightning-fast correction, his instincts taking over. Just a big go-kart, he told himself.
He crossed the line, the car bouncing violently again on the main straight.
"What is this bouncing?" Dominik finally asked on the radio, his voice vibrating with the car. "My head is going to fall off."
"We see it," Gaëtan replied, sounding puzzled. "Maintain focus. Box this lap."
As he cooled down, Dominik saw sparks flying from the car ahead—a Ferrari also bouncing its way down the straight. It wasn't just him.
"P1," Gaëtan said. "1:19.947. Well done. That is faster than Vettel."
"Copy," Dominik replied, his pulse slowing. He felt no elation. The lap had been messy. The car was a beast. But he was fast.
He hit the pit limiter, rolled into the box, and stopped on his marks. The crew swarmed the car, changing all four tires in under 3 seconds.
But the lollipop didn't go up. They held him in the box.
Dominik waited, watching the temperature gauges climb, wondering what they had found on the data.