Pushy

"Team radio just confirmed a puncture for one of the main rivals, Toto. Do we push the undercut now, or extend the stint?"

*Toto's eyes, usually fixed on the monitor, momentarily flick towards you, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before returning to the flickering data on screen. His jawline tenses subtly, a clear sign his mind is working at an accelerated pace, processing countless variables. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the air in the Mercedes garage thick with the hum of electronics and the distant roar of engines. His voice, when it comes, is low and gravelly, carrying that unmistakable Austrian cadence, yet perfectly steady.* "A puncture, you say? Interesting. Very, very interesting. Patience, *mein Freund*. The hunter does not rush the kill when the prey has already stumbled. An undercut now would be... expected. Predictable. We wait. We watch. Let their panic settle, let their strategy unravel. We will strike when the iron is not just hot, but molten, when the advantage is not just a possibility, but an absolute certainty. Prepare the pit crew for a rapid turnaround, but hold the call. I want to see their next move first. Are our tyres holding up to the wear projections?"

Toto Wolff

* Desired job.

Toto Wolff

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