Chapter Text
The steady ticking of the wall clock echoed through the darkness, while you stared intently at the essay spread across your desk. The rhythmic tapping of your keyboard filled the otherwise silent room. You kept telling yourself that you only needed to finish this one last section before going to bed, then you could wake up early tomorrow and continue working on it to stay on schedule.
You had seriously overestimated your own stamina. Your eyelids grew heavier and heavier until, somewhere between searching Google for “how to stay awake” and rereading the same sentence for the tenth time, you finally slumped forward onto the desk. The air conditioner hummed softly in the background, cool air brushing against your skin. The glasses resting on your nose had slipped slightly to one side—one wrong movement and they’d probably snap in half. And just like that, surrounded by scattered papers and a few abandoned ballpoint pens, you drifted off to sleep.
You stirred faintly, your eyes fluttering open. A harsh fluorescent light shone directly into your face, completely different from the warm sunlight that usually streamed into your room every morning at six. Instinctively, you reached out in search of your beloved phone, desperately hoping you hadn’t overslept and missed submission time. Instead, your hand met an empty stretch of desk. You shot upright immediately, panic surging through you as your eyes darted around the room in search of your phone.
Then you froze.
This wasn’t your room.
You were standing in some strange place covered in English text everywhere you looked. The computer in front of you was packed with racing data, technical reports, and terminology that made your head spin. It took you exactly thirty-six seconds to realize that you weren’t even in your own country anymore. You were in a completely unfamiliar place. I mean, sure, you could speak some English—but all these Formula 1 technical terms? You couldn’t understand half of them.
Your gaze landed on an employee badge lying nearby.
L/N Y/N.
That was definitely your name. But your blood ran cold when you read the line underneath.
“Ferrari Racing Team Race Engineer — Employee ID: 1207”
Race engineer?
What?
What the hell was going on?
A thousand questions exploded inside your head. You shook it slightly, staring at the badge as though it contained the secret exit from this bizarre dream. Somehow, overnight, L/N Y/N—a final-year college student who loved watching F1 and football—had become a race engineer.
You slowly lowered yourself back into the chair, rubbing your temples before turning toward the computer again. The streams of data were still there, flashing relentlessly across the screen. You scrolled down and immediately blurted out:
“What am I even looking at?!”
The sudden chime of a notification made you jump, message after message flooded your phone screen.
“Oh my god, L/N Y/N, where are you? Please, I’m begging you. There are only five days left until the Canadian Grand Prix. For the love of everything, pay attention to your glowing brick of a phone.”
“Y/N? Don’t tell me you forgot about this morning’s meeting.”
“Hey, are you there? Fred wants to discuss the SF-26’s track performance with you.”
You sat frozen in your chair, clutching the phone tightly, with absolutely no idea which message to answer first.
Five days.
Five days before you’d be sitting in the garage surrounded by specialists discussing things you’d only ever skimmed through while reading random aerodynamic articles on Instagram. Sure, you’d once dreamed of becoming an engineer. But you had chosen other majors because you convinced yourself that mechanical engineering was way beyond your capabilities. And now life seems determined to mock you. You went to sleep one night, and suddenly you woke up needing to understand tire strategies within five days. Not even a full week to prepare.
“Come on, think, Y/N. Didn’t you once brag about learning an entire semester’s physics syllabus in two days?”
Five days until race weekend. Which meant only three days before FP1. The realization sent a chill through your entire body.
While your brain was spiraling into chaos, a soft click echoed through the room. A male engineer peeked his head through the doorway. His eyes swept across the room before landing on you—still glued to your chair like a statue. He let out a relieved sigh and stepped inside.
“Uh... good morning?” you offered, forcing what you hoped was a friendly smile.
“I’m glad you’re not dead, Y/N.”
“Looks like you forgot about the meeting this morning.”
You nearly launched yourself out of your chair. Grabbing the lanyard around your neck, you prepared to sprint straight out of the room.
“You’re seriously planning to attend the meeting wearing that?”
Only then did you realize you were still dressed in the exact same clothes you’d fallen asleep in the night before. Apparently noticing your embarrassment, he tossed you a Ferrari polo shirt and told you to get changed.
Inside the restroom, you stared at your reflection in the mirror. It was still you.
The same hair.
The same eyes.
The same face.
Yet nothing about your situation made any sense. At this point, there was only one thing you knew for certain: You had to act normal. You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to calm yourself down. Then you fixed your hair, applied a little lip balm so you wouldn’t look completely drained, and adjusted your crooked glasses. Once you were done, you clipped that cursed employee badge onto your shirt.
Honestly?
You looked surprisingly convincing as an engineer. You nodded to yourself. Maybe nobody would suspect a thing. But what about the knowledge? How were you supposed to cram years of technical terminology and aerodynamic theory into your head in only three days? This wasn’t some ordinary physics problem where you could just plug numbers into a formula and get the answer. People’s safety depended on these calculations. Drivers’ lives depended on them.
“Whatever. I’ll figure something out somehow.”
You repeated the words like a mantra.
When you stepped back outside, the engineer was still waiting, still watching you. You nodded to signal that you were ready, and he gestured for you to follow him. The two of you walked for what felt like forever—him leading the way while you trailed behind—until you finally reached the paddock area.
“Um... I know this is probably a rude question, but where exactly are we?”
He stared at you for several seconds. Then he answered.
“Montréal, Canada.”
You suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to grab onto the nearest wall before your legs gave out beneath you.