anyway, either that as the backstory or something way less dramatic

like going-out-for-some-milk-and-never-coming-back; or, in this case, leaving-for-race-and-never-coming-back

why? who knows—maybe he wasn’t ready to be a parent yet; maybe he felt like yn was better off without him; maybe there was something else

whatever the case may be, he eventually became the formidable toto wolff of the f1 paddock

he still eventually married, still eventually had other children

in this one, he forgot yn because he chose to—not because he had to

either way, whether it was his choice to leave yn or not, she grew up without him

her choice to pursue sports medicine and tba second degree is entirely independent of his presence

and so is her eventual presence at the f1 paddock for the narrative

i’m currently considering the ghost of you route and making her an intern . . . but for red bull, for the ✨ rival drama ✨

i’ll stop there before i give the entire plot. not that i already have something concrete, but y’know.

i will also let you know, though, that i can only envision a father-daughter ‘happy ending’ if it was the first backstory. even i can’t think of an excuse why yn will ever forgive him if he willingly left??

however, both backstories will have significant degrees of angst, for sure.

An hour before showtime, YN carries the Moleskine notebook Jihoon and Vernon have procured from one of their managers across the paddock. Her steps, light as they may be, are determined. Her focus, singular. Her movements, unconsciously inherited from the same man she copied her stare from. She is one of them—a person of the paddock—but not really.

She locates Lewis just as the early afternoon sun hits the silver constellation across her face. He is not alone.

YN is suddenly very conscious of her in-ear monitors resting on her shoulders and of her microphone grasped by the same hand holding the notebook. Suddenly, she’s aware of how sparkly her gear looks, with both her IEM and microphone being bejeweled in silver. It’s very distinct from the matte and glossy finishes drivers’ helmets and Formula One cars use.

The ‘not really’ has never been so visually jarring.

She unconsciously catalogs who Lewis is joined by on neutral ground: his new teammate Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Alex Albon, and his former teammate George Russell. Then, she does nothing with the information. After all, she’s approaching them with one goal in mind.

Closure.

"YN," he greets her before she even stops in front of their loose circle.

She gives a small bow, not quite reaching the respectful ninety degrees her idol training ingrained, mostly for the benefit of the other six drivers. "Hello."

She doesn’t bother comprehending the murmurs of unsynchronized replies she receives. Her attention is already locked on the only driver she cares about. "You changed costumes?"

YN looks down at her outfit on instinct, before looking back up. "Not quite. I just put a jacket on." She uses her free hand to move the jacket a bit to the side, making the Mercedes logo on her chest more visible for a few seconds to prove her point. "It enhances the homage aspect, I think."

It’s a partial lie. It’s a lie by omission. It’s a lie consistent with the one she and her brothers convinced their styling department of.

While it’s true that the Plus44 zip-up fits really well with the driver aesthetic she’s supposed to embody, it’s not the only reason she asked one of their managers to get it from her unit’s van. She also wanted to wear a layer that covers her unwelcomed allegiance. Something that doesn’t immediately scream ‘Mercedes’ or ‘Wolff’s team,’ but rather the name of the man she just introduced to her brothers.

It’s a necessary lie—the only one that can bridge everything she is and has become with the truth she now carries.

"It looks great on you, kid." At the corner of her eye, she catches Lando and Alex share slightly bewildered looks. She has no doubt it has something to do with the endearment Lewis just dropped—and the casual way he uttered it. "Though, I suspect someone will be a little bummed the team logo is now a little less visible."

YN doesn’t miss the amused glance Lewis shot to the person somewhere behind her. One of the other drivers—George Russell, she assumes. Not that she cares for her Vater’s spy’s feelings. Or her Vater’s, for that matter.

She chuckles, a little warmer than the one she usually gives during interviews but nowhere close to the one her brothers hear. "I’m sure Kimi will manage. My members like him."

Lewis’ hum sounds unconvinced, but he doesn’t push the topic. Instead, even with amusement still swirling in his eyes, he switches to a different one. He nods once towards her bejeweled silver-colored microphone. "Is it almost showtime?"

"Almost to soundcheck, yeah," she confirms.

"Are we permitted to watch?" A voice behind her joins the conversation. She doesn’t need to turn to confirm his identity. His accent is distinct enough.

She fights hard not to glare at him. "Mr. Russell—"

"George."

YN really wants to use a Hapkido move Wonwoo and Chan taught her for emergencies two years into SEVENTEEN’s debut. But, of course, good forms and reputations must be kept.

She locks her professional armor tight, purposely ignoring the interruption. "The area we’ll be filming at is visible from the pit lane balconies in front of the grid. You all are welcome to watch, if your schedules permit you to."

It’s not a ‘no.’ It’s a ‘you can, if you want.’ It’s a subtle ‘you don’t have to.’

George flashes his signature smile, his natural charm engaged. "We’ll be there."

She nods once, almost stiffly, before her eyes swift over the rest of her audience. She gives them a small, practiced smile. "Enjoy the show then, everyone."

YN lets her attention gravitate back to Lewis, her smile instantly turning a few degrees warmer. She switches her microphone to her other hand, so she can hand him the Moleskine notebook. "Here. A gift."

"For me?" He says, almost on instinct, as he accepts the notebook. He holds it tenderly, like it’s some precious relic, bafflingly blind to—or perhaps just intentionally ignoring—the crease marks on the spine, and the chips and indents on the cover. "Thank you, YN."

"It just has my sketches over the years, since 2013." It’s nothing is the loudest sentence ever unspoken at that moment. "The Mercedes cars since you joined the team, for the most part. Not just yours—Nico’s, Mr. Bottas’, and Mr. Russell’s, too—but mostly yours."

She doesn’t need to explain why they’re mostly his. They know as well as she does why that’s the case.

It’s the perfect cover for the less obvious truth that she’s hoping the drivers—those younger than Lewis, specifically—haven’t realized: Toto Wolff became Mercedes’ Team Principal the same year Lewis Hamilton moved to Mercedes. Both of their chapters with Mercedes started in 2013, having just ended their life chapters with Williams and McLaren, respectively.

It’s also the perfect alibi to protect Lewis’ relationship with her Vater. He doesn’t need to know about the fracture—much less how deep it goes. He already has enough on his plate as it is, with learning the rhythm of his new team and whatnot. Besides, she’s not there to unsettle whatever truth the paddock lives in since her departure.

She has been removed from that truth’s narrative for a reason. She may not know why, but she’ll do well to respect it. Matter of fact, she’s respecting it so much that she’s currently in the process of cutting ties.

"These are brilliant, YN." Lewis flips through the pages, taking his time to absorb each one. "You started these before you left?"

"No, after," she corrects. "I think this notebook was part of the first purchase I ever made in Seoul."

YN doesn’t offer up any more information, no matter how much she wants to tell Lewis she only drew on the notebook whenever she was pondering . . . or homesick.

The same way she’s not telling him that she’s not just commemorating his twelve years in Mercedes by gifting him the notebook; she’s marking the end of her association, as well.

(There’s such thing as too much sentimentality—and only making the gift about Lewis avoids such.)

With an ease of someone who has never forgotten the fifteen-year-old who used to roam around the Mercedes HQ and the paddock during the first quarter of 2013, Lewis invites her for another hug. It’s not as tight as the one they shared an hour ago, just before he met her members, but the overwhelming warmth remained.

"You showed this to your Papa?" Lewis inquires in a low, private register, obviously meant for her ears only.

YN smiles at the thoughtfulness, assuming he’s keeping her secret from the other drivers without being asked, despite the painful twist of being reminded that he doesn’t know she’s trying to call the other ‘Vater’ now. "He gets his own gift."

Maybe—just maybe—rather than completely severing ties with the sport she grew up watching, she’ll just join Lewis in Ferrari.

Soundcheck is . . . interesting, to say the least.

The stage is set at the center of the top 2 and top 3 constructor’s garages, across the pit lane. Thus, per the final constructors’ standings last season, Ferrari and Red Bull have the best views from their balconies. As such, the drivers interested in watching a Kpop group in their element all gathered there—purposefully ignoring team rivalries for an extended period for a bit of fun.

That isn’t to say the top 1 and top 4 constructors’ balconies are empty, of course. McLaren’s balcony is full, too, as is Mercedes’.

It’s truly a sight to behold: the show-runners of the Formula One paddock reduced to mere spectators in their own turf.

"When she said she’s with them," Bono says slowly, breaking the silence at Mercedes, his eyes locked on the fourteen people moving about on the stage across the pit lane, "I didn’t think she meant she’s part of the group."

Bradley whips his head towards the race engineer, as if he can’t believe what he just heard. "You’ve met her?"

"Yeah, her and the boys," the other replies simply. "She was leading them on a tour around the garage earlier. Ravi was supervising from the back. George was mixed with them for some reason."

"What?" His voice comes out a little higher, an unguarded reaction of someone who leads the team’s media duties. "Was anyone recording? That would’ve been a great PR—"

"Not that I caught," Bono interrupts just as the chaos across the pit lane increases with fearful shrieks of "형! Not me!" ["Brother! Not me!"] on the makeshift stage. "I did find out YN’s father apparently used to work for the team, though."

Shov decides there and then to join the conversation, tearing his attention away from the fourteen idols still in the process of connecting their in-ear monitors while doing the most random things on stage. "Her father? Mercedes?" His interest is palpable. "What did you say her name is again?"

"YN," Bradley supplies before Bono can. "I looked into the group after I received an email from FOM that we were selected to host their base, and . . . oddly enough, she’s the only one out of the fourteen that seems to have a very tight lid on her personal life. She’s literally worse than George."

"George? Our George? How?"

"His siblings might come to more races than his parents so the fans recognize Cara and Benjy more, but his entire immediate family’s names and faces are known to the public," the Chief Communications Officer starts to explain. "His hometown is publicly available as well, as are his full government name and birthday."

That particular kind of personal information being available to the public is not uncommon in the industry they work in, particularly for the drivers. Especially for drivers with big enough fanbases to have sleuth hobbyists in them, who store every information gathered in a publicly accessible database.

In the age of modern technology, parasocial relationships built on those particular parameters are—for better or worse—the norm.

"But YN? She has mastered giving everything while giving nothing," he continues. "I found her birthday, her nationality, her ethnicity, her home city . . . but her birth surname is nowhere on the internet. Always just ‘YN,’ and an additional line about something called a Korean name. I could easily find her favorite color, her favorite movie, her favorite food, her favorite F1 driver, her favorite anything—but, I kid you not, all I got about her immediate family is that she grew up with at least a father."

Bono is quick to comment, not even letting his words marinate in the air. "What a curious way to say the kid has a father."

Bradley shakes his head. "No, you don’t understand. Her father is literally the only family member she ever mentions in her ten years as an idol and yet—"

"Maybe she’s just raised by a single father," Shov interrupts with a shrug. "No shame in that."

"No, no—I mean, yes, but that’s not what I’m trying to get to." Bradley’s eyes are slightly wider now, as if he’s willing them to understand what he isn’t saying by sheer will alone. That, or his findings during his research on the idol in question is haunting him. "YN seems to be close with him, but he’s literally nowhere. No name, no presence, nowhere."

Shov’s comment comes out too thoughtful for someone who is only hearing about her for the first time. "YN, huh?" A deliberate pause, unusually weighted. His eyes shift to the side for a second, towards Toto, albeit it’s too quick for the other two to catch. "She’s awfully protective of him."

On the other hand, Bono isn’t as sentimental. He brings back the logic that has been lost somewhere along the conversation. "Perhaps it’s just customary to their industry? Considering the fans on that side of entertainment can get pretty crazy and all."

It is, in all honesty, a shot in the dark. Unlike Bradley, who has to look beyond the race track to have a more effective strategy, Bono’s—and the rest of the Mercedes team outside of the communications and public relations departments—professional world view revolves around the car and the track.

He just hit the bull’s eye because, regardless of the continent and the decade, music fans are known—and proven—to be a different breed.

"It’s possible," Bradley half-agrees to his point eventually. "Perhaps it just sticks out because the boys’ histories are more of an open book. Their parents get photographed attending their concerts, their high school alma maters are searchable, their families’ businesses are in the fans’ bucket lists . . ."

On the stage, entirely oblivious to the Mercedes engineers’ attempts to rationalize the enigma YN is, the chaos has turned into an organized riot. The members have started chanting "du-du-du-du" in an all-too familiar tune. Had the melody not been a regular fan chant for every time Max Verstappen takes the podium’s top step in the recent years, they would’ve honestly assumed it’s part of a SEVENTEEN song because of how well they sound—regardless of the suddenness of it all.

Back on the Mercedes balcony, Toto doesn’t hear a word of the conversation happening next to him. "Can we rule out everyone who got carried over from the Brawn roster, or . . . ?" Even when they circle back to the topic of YN’s ‘former’ Mercedes employee father, the danger doesn’t register in his mind.

His stance doesn’t waver, his arms remaining crossed on his chest. His attention is simply too preoccupied by the figure clad in Lewis’ brand with a three-pointed star peeking through the open Plus44, his eyes dedicatedly following as she runs across the stage.

There is no judgement, despite what his hard stare might suggest. There is only watchfulness.

And a spike of wariness after YN somehow tripped over her own feet, almost face-planting had S. Coups—recognizable at a distance by his sheer aura—not been there.

As far as he’s concerned, it’s just like when he was still able to take her to the playground. She just effectively traded the playground for the stage, and the neighborhood children for bandmates.

Soundcheck eventually ends not with a checkered flag, but with a commanding voice through a bejeweled forest green microphone. S. Coups’. "세븐틴, 가자!" ["SEVENTEEN, let’s go!"]

"야, 이번에 구호 누구 차례야?" ["Yah, whose turn is it for the circle chant?"]

SEVENTEEN’s YN is known by many names.

SEVENTEEN’s only girl (self-explanatory). SEVENTEEN’s crown of the jewel (the member who sits outside the boys’ diamond-like tiered order, in terms of so-called importance). SEVENTEEN’s tenth eldest/fifth youngest (also self-explanatory).

Nation’s unattainable love (two words: thirteen brothers).

Kang YN (a similar way Soonyoung is sometimes called Kwon Hoshi). Choi YN, Yoon YN, Hong YN, Wen YN, Kwon YN, Jeon YN, Lee YN, Kim YN, Xu YN, Boo YN, Chwe YN (with the boys’ surnames, mostly depending on whoever is next to her in a photo).

NIGHTINGALE (also ‘Producer NIGHTINGALE,’ WOOZI’s—and BUMZU’s—creative partner).

Wolff (by the members, who found her legal surname "cool"; understood by CARATs as ‘wolf’ the animal). Wolf Princess (circa debut-rookie era, purposely simultaneous with Soonyoung’s ‘10:10 Prince’). Wolfie (personal favorite, proudly coined by Jeonghan). Silver Wolf (by CARATs, starting from A|1 era when she first dyed her hair and every time silver dye touches her hair since). Red Wolf, Blue Wolf, Black Wolf, Blonde Wolf, any-other-color Wolf (by CARATs, same reasoning as silver but not as ironically "iconic"). White Wolf (also from a dye, and from the MCU-fanatic Jihoon who watched Black Panther).

S. Coups’ baby (albeit she shares that title with Mingyu and Chan, as far as she’s aware). Jeonghan’s partner-in-crime (notably in Going Seventeen or whenever he’s feeling very Loki). Joshua’s unofficial sister (Mama Hong may or may not have adopted her—CARATs can’t find any disapproving evidence). Mingyu’s engineer to his architect—

Every name is a badge, a testament of being seen. While not every one is given with adoration, specifically those from antis, each one is proof. Proof that her ten years in the industry—twelve, if counting the televised parts of her pre-debut—has been lived with her shadow behind her. There is no regret, just a trade she didn’t mean to make.

YN tries not to breathe too hard on her handheld microphone when she raises it for her opening ment. The opening set—"Clap," "Maestro," "Anyone"—had been a hell of an opening. "Hello, I’m YN! It’s nice to meet you!" She smiles at the camera, imagining the crowd that would’ve been in front of them had this ‘mini concert’ not been a surprise pre-recorded content. It makes her think about their completely online concerts and fanmeetings during the global pandemic. "Wow. Ten years. SEVENTEEN’s really entering the double digits now. It’s amazing."

She pauses, her eyes are suddenly glossy with a memory only she can see. "It still feels like yesterday when I opened that basement door and witnessed these guys scream bloody murder while playing Pull the Radish." A soft, almost soundless chuckle escapes her throat, "I genuinely thought I walked into an active murder. I almost asked to be picked up."

Joshua jumps in with a a quip, subtly shifting to ensure the cameras captures the small Haas logo on his chest. "Leave it to us to make a great first impression."

"I don’t know about ‘great,’" she shoots back almost immediately. "but it was definitely memorable. I mean, look—that first meeting was twelve years ago now, and I still remember it clearly."

A smirk begins to bloom on her face as an idea forms in her mind. YN doesn’t hesitate to put it in action, with mischief dancing in her eyes. "I suspect, even if the world ends tomorrow, I’d still remember that first chaos. It was the best foreshadowing, if I’d say so myself."

"와. Nice one, YN 누나." ["Woah. Nice one, YN."] Chan walks past Jeonghan and Minghao to give her a resonating high-five, his movements a little exaggerated like they often are whenever there’s a skit in motion. With his predominantly Rosso Corsa outfit, he incidentally reminds YN of a red warbler strolling past a white dove (Jeonghan with his Williams-inspired palette) and a raven (Minghao with his black Mercedes-inspired getup).

"Thank you, thank you," she gives a quick bow to her left, right, and center like she’s in an actors’ award show, immediately riding into her brother’s impromptu skit. "난 케이터링 끝날 때까지 안 가." ["I’ll be here until the last call for catering."]

Junhui jumps in next, unconsciously fiddling with the mock turtleneck of his McLaren papaya-colored top. "‘Foreshadowing’이 오늘 ‘Shadow’를 무대한다는 뜻은 아니라고 확실히 해두는 게 좋겠어." ["Might want to clarify that ‘foreshadowing’ doesn’t mean we’re performing ‘Shadow’ today."] His grin widens, a pre-tell that he’s about to say something he’s proud of. "희망고문으로 캐럿들 울리고 싶지 않잖아. 'Shadow'가 캐럿들이 진짜 아끼는 곡인 거 알면서." ["We don’t want them to cry from false hope. You know ‘Shadow’’s a CARAT favorite."]

And there it is. An intentional nod to "Don’t Wanna Cry," another song in the mini concert setlist.

"That’s okay!" Seungkwan—in his Sauber green-accented costume—doesn’t even let the genius marinate in the air, already armed with the next contribution to the bit. "They’re still pretty—"

"스포는 여기까지," ["That’s enough spoilers,"] Seungcheol cuts off the twelfth eldest through his forest green microphone—which coincidentally matches well with the Aston Martin green that he dons. Although the interruption is a bit too late since the nod to "Pretty U" is already uttered. "너네 자꾸 이러면 셋리스트 너무 일찍 다 스포하게 되잖아. 멘트 시간 나중에도 있으니까 좀 아껴둬." ["If you guys keep this up, you're going to end up spoiling the entire setlist too early. Save some for the later ment segments."]

"Oh, 리더님’s thundering!" ["Oh, Seungcheol’s thundering!"] Vernon, although he usually just enjoys comedic bits without participating, can’t help but throw another food for the flame. He even stops fiddling with the zipper of his classic Renault-inspired leather jacket to properly join in on the banter.

"‘Thunder’ is also not in the setlist," Mingyu chimes in, helping in the most chaotic neutral way possible while visually debating if he should keep a part of his modern Ferrari-inspired getup for the rest of the filming.

"A shame, really," YN comments in faux disappointment. "‘Alo, alo’ 하는 부분이 F1 그리드에 있는 어떤 분을 떠올리게 하는 아주 기막힌 우연이 될 수도 있었는데 말이죠." ["The ‘alo, alo’ part would’ve been a great unintentional nod to someone in the F1 grid."]

"그래도 넌 투표 안 했잖아, YN아," ["And yet you didn’t vote for it, YN,"] Jihoon reveals without a second of thought, mercilessly throwing her under the bus for CARATs to watch. Trust someone currently wearing Red Bull colors to betray another who’s covered in Mercedes’ aesthetics.

Like any other multi-song performance block, SEVENTEEN-style democracy decided the setlist. It had been a difficult one to curate. After all, these F1xSEVENTEEN contents they’ve been filming since the morning are meant to showcase how the group’s precision goes with the sport’s. Similar to how they approached the Apple event around the Face the Sun era, they decided to tie their beginnings with Formula One—only this time, they focused on the drive to continue instead of on the road to start.

"Darl+ing" was the only soundtrack of that Apple collaboration. This one with Formula One has a room for ten. Ideally, it would’ve been one song from each year of their decade together . . . but, alas, democracy didn’t work that way.

YN lets out a theatrical gasp at the betrayal, before opting to take another person with her. "오빠도 안 했으면서!" ["Neither did you!"]

Because if she learned one thing in the twelve years she has known her brothers, it’s that no one goes alone. Not even down.

Years before the nightingale learned to take a leap of faith and fly from the nest, YN was a nestling whose world mostly revolved around the Wolff home in Vienna—specifically wherever her Papa was.

Like any toddler her age, she watched Barney, Pingu, and other children’s shows during her allotted screen time. However, to fill the rest of her days, she was either playing with her toys, testing out the baby-proofing around the house, or helping her Papa in the garage. "Normal toddler activities," as far as her grandmother was concerned—and Toto knew better than to question his mother. (She had, after all, raised him, and he turned out fine.)

Not that she had a warm reception to her first grandchild getting exposed to potentially dangerous tools way too young. Matter of fact, she had given Toto an earful with carefully chosen words about possibly endangering his eighteen-month-old. It had been a long lecture, despite beginning with "I waas goar net, was i sogn soll." ["I don't even know what I should say."]

He had stood his ground about YN belonging in every part of their home then, the same way he insisted he could handle raising his daughter without a partner. It had just taken a lot more convincing, which included extending the baby-proofing to the garage and teaching YN not to run with a tool in hand.

Eventually, his little assistant engineer had been given an all-clear. His garage time had never known true quiet since. Especially because YN’s mandated footwear in that particular part of the house squeaks every time she takes a step.

Toto was eye-level with the front right tire of a 1979 Mercedes-Benz 450SEL 6.9, his focus on replacing the worn twenty-year-old stabilizer bar links that were way past their prime. His back was to the blanket he laid out for YN to sit on with her xylophone and toy tools, but his ears were finely tuned to the sounds she was making.

If he was hearing the xylophone, she was sitting down.

If it was squeaks, she was most likely up and about.

But if it was silence, void of any toddler sounds, specifically after a sequence of squeaks? He learned almost as soon as YN turned twenty-four months old that sudden silence from a mobile toddler was one of the reddest flags there was in childcare. Because it could mean the toddler in question was doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing.

"YN, schatzi," He called her attention without checking over his shoulder. "Der Papa braucht den Gabelschlüssel. Kannst ihn suchen?" ["Papa needs the spanner. Can you find it?"]

As expected, the toddler silence ended with a quick succession of squeaks, each one getting closer to the station he set up for her. "Oh, ja!" ["Oh, yes!"]

It took a few more squeak-squeak-squeak before his daughter was standing directly to his right, grinning proudly with the spanner and the toy spanner in each extended hand. "Da, Papa!" ["Here, Papa!"]

He took the spanner, leaving the toy version in her hand. "Danke, schatzi." ["Thank you, darling."]

YN didn’t leave. Instead, she opted to watch him work while leaning on the front bumper of the Mercedes-Benz. Her left hand remained loosely wrapped around her toy spanner as her eyes followed his every move.

In that moment, where he could feel her tiny body close, the silence wasn’t dangerous. It was observant—analytical, even.

Toto didn’t break the silence that time. She wasn’t using her toddler curiosity to figure out the baby-proofing, so it was a win.

"Papa fix?" She eventually chirped. He could hear the slight tilt of her head in her voice.

"Ja," ["Yes,"] he grunted as he tightened the new stabilizer bar link in place. "Papa is fixing." He turned his head to the side to look at her as he rolled the front right tire into place, one hand reaching for the impact wrench he left on the ground earlier. "Almost done. Dann geh’ ma rein auf an Saft, hm?" ["Almost done. Then we’ll go inside for juice, hm?"]

He wasn’t; he still had the rears to replace. But it didn’t matter at that moment. He had a little assistant to reward and a daughter to spend time with.

"Saft!" ["Juice!"] YN celebrated, stomping her feet in a little celebratory dance—cueing a rapid-fire series of squeak-squeak-squeak.

The last notes of SEVENTEEN’s grand finale are still ringing in Toto’s ears when a knock resonates from his office’s door. He doesn’t dare to hope it’s YN, since the fourteen members were still on stage when the Mercedes balcony emptied of spectators after the final bow.

"Come in!" He responds almost instinctively, even if he isn’t quite ready to see anyone yet. His hand immediately goes to the power button of his phone, locking the screen and hiding the zoomed in photo he took of his daughter smiling during the second talk portion of the concert.

(The filming took just a little over an hour and forty minutes, even if everything was one take. Much to the audible confusion of the grid at the neighboring balconies, the members explicitly called it a "mini" concert despite being the length of a full one.)

True to the mannerisms of someone who has been in the paddock long enough, Ravi starts talking almost as soon as he opens the door. "Boss, is now a good time? Or should I come back later?"

"Now is fine." He gestures to the chairs on the other side of his desk, nonverbally inviting him to take a seat. "What happened in the guests’ garage tour?"

"Ms. YN led the tour, as Pledis requested," Ravi starts as he makes his way to one of the chairs he gestured at. "It was in a mix of Korean and English, so I only understood the English bits; but, from what I gathered, she seemed awfully knowledgeable in the engineering side of the sport. They barely needed me to answer the questions she couldn’t."

Toto does his best not to show too much interest, even if he’s internally craving for details. After all, it’s the most concrete sign that YN hasn’t completely left her engineering upbringing in the past. "How . . ." He tries to inquire, but falls short of the appropriate words to continue. He doesn’t know how he can possibly end that question. How can she remember the engineering after twelve years of being an idol? How did she move around in the world she was born into in front of her brothers?

Thankfully, Ravi doesn’t need more than a one-word prompt. "Based solely on the English I was able to catch, her understanding seemed to be deep since she was explaining the technical descriptions and jargons by relating them back to something the others were already familiar with."

Toto exhales slowly, forcing himself to not let out a fond chuckle only a proud father can. Of course—of course she would. Evidence of deep understanding aside, that’s exactly how he taught her when she was little, before he even considered Race Car Aerodynamics as a bedtime read when she outgrown the fairytales.

The younger man pauses, seemingly gathering the right memory to share. "Ms. YN was, if I recall correctly, comparing the engineers to music producers."

Joshua’s voice suddenly echoes in his mind. "Her producer name is NIGHTINGALE."

She might’ve not become the engineer he envisioned, but she still definitely is one. A better one, even, considering she has become an engineer that stayed true to the entirety (not just the half he favored) of the girl he raised.

The toddler who always placed her toy mechanic tools next to her toy instruments. The child who had music lessons on certain days and read a science book to bed. The teenager whose extracurricular list always had a mix of both.

In hindsight, it should’ve been unsurprising that YN ended up as a music engineer of sorts.

"Did she say anything about the W16?" Toto asks before he can stop himself.

"She did, yes," Ravi confirms with a nod. "She compared it to the W15, for the most part, and mentioned her . . . theories . . . about why some of the changes were made. The English fragments actually made me wish I could understand Korean to know the rest." He starts to laugh at a memory only he can see, but quickly covers it up with a cough. "Ms. YN also mentioned she has faith Mercedes would place up to P2 in the Constructors’ Championship this season."

Considering the team finished P4 last season, Toto can’t even be offended by his daughter’s prediction. "Second?"

"She didn’t stutter, sir," the Mercedes representative assigned to care for their South Korean guests doesn’t miss a beat, giving a small, sheepish shrug. "George asked about P1, and she just hit him with: ‘The car is only as good as the team behind it, and the team is only as good as the car they’re given. It’s a feedback loop, and right now, the loop says P2.’"

Toto can’t stop himself from bursting out into a laugh. For a fleeting second, his gaze falls on the darkened screen of his locked phone. "A charmer, that one."

"I’ve memorized it out of sheer shock," Ravi admits, unconsciously performing his nervous habit of touching his earlobe. "I didn’t expect that answer from someone who gave the PR team a win with that ‘My heart has always belonged to Mercedes’ line from the interview this morning."

He doesn’t know what to comment on that without giving away the truth him and YN concealed in their own ways for a dozen years, so he opts to pivot slightly. "And George? How did George take that?"

"He started a banter, which some of the SEVENTEEN boys saved when Ms. YN answered dryly." Ravi pauses again, his silence still as contemplative as earlier. However, this time, it’s accompanied by his habit. "I don’t mean to gossip, sir; but, during the tour, I noticed . . ."

Toto stops moving, doing his best to not look suspiciously frozen. There are simply too many ways for Ravi’s sentence to end. It’s just rather unfortunate that it may end the secret before he and YN can talk once more.

Alas, relief doesn’t come comfortably.

"I noticed George seemed particularly interested in Ms. YN."

When she, Jihoon, and Bumzu wrote "Circles," YN completely expected it to tug on CARATs’ heartstrings. Perhaps not in the same way as "Kidult" does, but in a parallel magnitude. Much like "Smile Flower," "Campfire," and "Us, Again" do, although they came before.

A track a good percentage of CARATs can’t listen to without getting emotional. A track that may not be a popular favorite, yet holds a special place in their hearts regardless.

She just never thought their own staff would use "Circles" against them. Twice.

Once during their seventh Caratland two years ago, on the third day of performing "Circles" for the first time, because a montage of their earlier years in the industry for the first and second days apparently wasn’t enough, their staff had prepared a surprise with written messages from their families. Naturally, there was no message that started nor ended with "YN’s dad"; but, nevertheless, YN had cried. She was defenseless against the sweet messages that all addressed them as a collective—"kids"/"children," "SEVENTEEN [members]," "[our] thirteen sons and [one] daughter." It helped immensely that some of her brothers cried upon reading the messages, too, so she felt comfortable to let the tears run.

They had been a disaster then. Everyone who wasn’t crying was comforting those who were, and even those that were ugly crying were comforting the others. Jihoon barely composed himself enough to finish the song. But, by some miracle or another, they pulled through. Somehow.

YN naively thought that’d be it. No magician repeats the same trick to the same audience twice, after all.

But, alas, twelve years under the same company really should’ve taught her better. She should’ve known Pledis would do something unexpected.

For the second time their staff used "Circles" against them was literally just fifty-five minutes ago. They had just finished performing "Kidult" and were transitioning into another ment segment. Except their microphones stopped working, and the song that wasn’t included in the setlist started playing. Then there was their younger voices doing the group greeting and the sound of tape rewinding.

The memories zoomed through in reverse, until it finally reached a clip of a teenage Seungcheol—much younger than she had ever seen him—standing in front of a plain background. It was his Pledis audition from fifteen years ago. Their staff had dug deep into the company archives for each of their audition tapes, with dates on the bottom right corner fluctuating between fifteen to eleven years ago. 2010 to 2014.

YN had no regrets about the shriek she let out once she realized what was happening. Nor about hitting Seokmin’s shoulder as the (secondhand) embarrassment floods her system. Not even when she was well-aware there were paddock people watching them—witnessing the same things they were—from the balconies. Mostly because the boys’ embarrassment were also both highly visible and perfectly audible as hers was.

It was endearing and horrifying all at once. Not to mention filled with brand new blackmail material.

So much for ‘full circle.’ Perhaps even too much.

YN shivers involuntarily at the memory of her old voice when speaking in English. Without the melodic Korean and casual American influences that she picked up later, there were just . . . the strong Austrian and formal British lilt. She hasn’t even realized her voice has transformed considerably over the years until she heard her fifteen-year-old self talk.

As much as she believes one shouldn’t change for another’s acceptance, she’s also a living proof that to be loved is to be changed.

The same way to be loved is to be remembered, to be seen.

The Mercedes motorhome room loaned to SEVENTEEN is dark when she pushes the door open. She thinks nothing of it as she feels the wall for the light switch. She had gone straight to the women’s bathroom after the mini concert filming; so she’s assuming the thirteen of them also beelined to the men’s, hence the honor of being the early bird belongs to her.

But, alas, as the overhead lights reveal, she’s actually further down the arrival hierarchy than she readily assumed.

The compliment she’s preparing for Jihoon about the intentional lyric change he did for the final song "Super"—changing ‘만화’ [‘cartoon’] in ‘이 노래는 이 만화의 엔딩송이다’ [‘this is the cartoon’s ending song’] to ‘F1’—gets buried in the back of her mind in an instant.

She forgets how to function and freezes by the door, unintentionally mimicking a car that won’t start.

"생일 축하해요, 축하해요," ["Happy birthday, happy birthday,"] Wonwoo begins to sing before she even completely comprehend what she’s seeing.

It’s a considerably long spread of familiar men standing shoulder to shoulder, facing her. Out of habit, before anything else, she first does a mental headcount of her brothers, despite her gut telling her all thirteen are there.

She barely hears Mingyu as he continues the song to the next line, "당신의 생일을 축하합니다." ["Congratulations on your birthday."]

"생일 축하해요, 축하해요, 그대 나의 기쁨." ["Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, my happiness."] Vernon, too, albeit she ironically frowns at him as she tries to will her brain to get with the program.

Then comes Seungcheol. The same man who she, up until a few years ago, didn’t know is the whole reason she made the cut for the final SEVENTEEN lineup. Had she not accidentally overheard some veteran Pledis employees talking, she would’ve never found out that her eldest brother apparently fought their former CEO to keep her with them instead of being transferred back to the PRISTIN/Pledis Girlz trainee pool. "태어나줘서 고마워." ["Thank you for being born."]

YN suddenly feels like she’s been hit by a Formula One car coming at top speed. Her eyes water for what it feels like the umpteenth time today. (Not that she’s counting the actual number, but the reality’s three for three—with the first one being the reigning winner of having the best flow.)

"행복한 그대 미소가 나의 하루," ["Your happy smile makes my day,"] Jeonghan smiles into his line, the curve touched with his signature mischief—no doubt already readying his teasing ammo.

Joshua, standing right in the center of the line, diligently balances the cake with ease. "때로는 지쳐 힘들겠지만," ["At times, it may be tiring and hard, but,"] he sings with his eyes glinting with she can’t name but she’s certain has something to do with his Kdrama cameo six years ago that since became an old inside joke.

"그대의 하루 옆에 언제나 내가 . . ." ["By your side throughout your day, I . . ."]

". . . 있어줄게 사랑해요." [". . . I will always be there, I love you."]

YN lets out a wet gasp as her brain finally comprehends the song her brothers are singing, her hand flying upwards to use the proximal phalanx of her pointer finger to discourage tears from falling down her cheeks.

It’s "Happy Birthday (Thank You for Being Born)"—the first birthday song (albeit unofficially released) in SEVENTEEN’s repertoire. It’s the song Jihoon wrote with CARATs during his birthday live stream five years ago, which they subsequently recorded and posted for CARATs’ fifth birthday the following year.

It’s one of YN’s favorite Jihoon masterpieces, right up there with "What Kind of Future." There’s just something so special about the simplicity of it; about the message it delivers compared to the traditional birthday song.

"What—" She starts to say after Chan and Seokmin finish their respective parts.

"Shh, 월피. 거의 다 했어." ["Shh, Wolfie. We’re almost done."]

YN immediately closes her mouth, suppressing a laugh. They’ve already celebrated her birthday with a hotel room service cake right when the clock struck midnight, ambushing her shared room with Vernon and all, so she’s not sure why there’s a second celebration.

"생일 축하해요, 축하해요," ["Happy birthday, happy birthday,"] Minghao continues the song like nothing happened.

"당신의 생일을 축하합니다," ["Congratulations on your birthday,"] Junhui sings next. She swears she sees his leg twitch, as if he’s itching to break formation to move to her side or do something for her. He’s always been one of her brothers who prefers to show affection through acts of service.

Very dissimilar to Seungkwan, who shows affection through words—written or verbal—comfortably. "생일 축하해요, 축하해요, 그대 나의 기쁨." ["Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, my happiness."]

"태어나줘서 고마워." ["Thank you for being born."]

"태어나줘서 고마워." ["Thank you for being born."]

YN gives tiny, enthusiastic yet soundless claps as Soonyoung and Jihoon close off the song. She steps closer to her brothers, meets them half rest of the way, and stands directly in front of Joshua who’s still holding the cake. "고마워, 여러분." ["Thanks, everyone."]

"Make a wish!" Mingyu yells somewhere from her left.

"그래도 너무 오래 걸리지 마!" ["Don’t take too long, though!"] Chan quickly caveats somewhere from her right. "배고파요!" ["We’re hungry!"]

YN chuckles, not bothering to wipe away the tears that are now free falling, "알았어." ["Alright."]

I hope you at least light a candle for my birthday, like how people light one for the dead.

She blows the candle.

A celebration immediately erupts. "신난다! 이제 밥 먹자!" ["Hooray! Now we can eat!"]

This time, YN doesn’t suppress the laugh that bubbles up from her chest. She lets Soonyoung steer her by the shoulders towards the foldable tables that Mercedes definitely didn’t have earlier.

She turns to her third eldest brother, who just carefully placed the cake down on one of the tables. "Why the second cake?"

Joshua meets her eyes with a shrug. "Why not a second cake?"

"Because the first one was an overpriced gourmet," she answers without missing a beat. "Already expensive."

Junhui, who has taken charge of cutting the cake, hands her the first slice. "It’s okay. This one’s free."

"‘Free’?" YN echoes thoughtfully as her eyes lower down to look at her slice.

It’s a simple chocolate cake. There is no icing nor fondant embellishments, not even a typical Happy Birthday written on top. Yet, somehow, nothing about it seems cheap.

At the corner of her eye, she notices two cans of unsweetened whipped cream on the table.

"It’s Sachertorte," she blurts before she can stop herself. She hasn’t confirmed if the jam in the middle is apricot, but there is no doubt in her gut, "isn’t it?"

Her tear ducts start to water once more.

Sachertorte has always been her birthday cake for as long as she can remember. That is, until her sixteenth since she was already in Seoul by then, and it’s not available in any bakeshop—nor any restaurant—that she has been to over the years.

She has found Korean equivalents of many Austrian foods that are close enough to satisfy her homesick cravings. Most of the time, they’re not remotely comparable—often just with the same ingredients or with a strange similar taste—but she has gaslighted herself long enough to be ‘content’ with them.

In short, she hasn’t had Sachertorte—or any proper Austrian food, really—since boarding Flight OZ731. And to be presented with one after so long . . .

"That’s what he said it’s called," Vernon replies from the other end of the two tables pushed together.

Her head snaps up so fast she almost gives herself a whiplash. "Who?"

The hesitant silence gives her the answer before any of them can. "아직 뭐라고 부를지 못 정했어." ["We haven’t decided what to call him yet."]

YN doesn’t wait for permission.

After a courtesy knock, she swiftly opens the door to the Team Principal’s office without listening for the clearance.

It’s just that time of the day—of the dozen years, really—when she can’t care any less about appearances, much less decorum.

She didn’t even stop to look at the mirror before she headed there. For all she knows, her eyes might still be red-rimmed from the appreciative tears she just shed. Her face might be a little puffy, too, given the crying and the sweet dessert she took a bite of.

She’s down to the base layer of her costume. Gone are the plaid pleated miniskirt Haeun layered over her jeans, the black belt with a silver buckle that was purely for aesthetic, and the extra silver jewelry that adorned her. The Plus44 jacket is off as well, as is the Ferrari 44 team driver cap that Lewis gave her that she looped on the belt for the mini concert.

All that is left are the Doc Martens the styling department paired with star-stained jeans and a fitted Mercedes shirt. The constellation of silver stars on her face is also still intact, mostly because she’ll have to do her whole makeup removal routine to get them off.

YN’s as non-idol as she can be, even if the distinction is physically ambiguous.

If there’s relief that there is no one on the other side of the door besides the person she came for, she doesn’t register the feeling.

She doesn’t grant him a preamble. "We’re not in Austria."

Nor a chance for him to turn her away and kick her out before she gets to say her piece. She walks towards his desk with an audacity natural to someone who once owned the same rooms he did.

The plate of Sachertorte slice lands on his desk soundlessly, but not silently. It echoes with an unvoiced accusation. How? Why?

How did a Sachertorte manifest outside Austria?

Why did a Sachertorte make its way to her team?

Toto Wolff meets her eyes in the same speed he has always had when she was younger. Quick and without hesitation—like whatever she has to say is the most important news of his life; like whatever she came there for is much more important than whatever he’s been staring at on his desk.

Even when that attention stopped translating to unselected attendance when she reached ten.

"Apricots aren’t exclusive to Austria," he answers with the same dry wit she inherited.

YN, a true child of a racer-turned-CEO, doesn’t blink. She fights the urge to cross her arms. "Did it have to be Sachertorte?"

"Was it not to your liking?" He picks up the fork that accompanies the half-eaten slice on the plate, seemingly intending to taste it for himself. "I can get another bake—"

"Oh, so you can do that, but can’t reach out for twelve years?" She snaps before her brain can filter the bluntness. Still, she doesn’t take it back even when she realizes what just happened.

YN sees something cross his features, but she opts not to dwell on it. Alas, the millisecond freeze his frame undergoes is more telling than she’d like to admit. "YN . . ."

Her breath hitches involuntarily. That’s the first time she’s heard her name in its original pronunciation in twelve years. No Korean or Japanese elongation. No American spin. No British imitation. Just pure—

"Don’t." She finds it difficult to swallow, like there’s a thorn— a nail— a fishbone stuck in her throat. "Don’t say it like that." She takes a step back, away from his desk, creating distance for a room to breathe. "Don’t say it like you’re still my Papa. My Papa would never— He would never take all my pictures down."

She just wanted one framed photo. One thing that proves he didn’t forget her. It didn’t even have to be one of the three he had up in his office when she left then. Perhaps a photo taken when she was way younger; when all her tools were still made of colored plastic. It didn’t have to be the current, adult her; it just had to be her. There just had to be anything of her.

She would’ve been content in the small chance that she might’ve been some poor person’s chosen way to break the ice with the Team Principal of Mercedes.

But, as it turns out, that negligible percent chance has been too much to hope for. Because she has been so thoroughly erased that only Lewis remembers her.

Toto sets the fork down with a slow, deliberate precision that screams of a man trying his hardest not to spook whatever—whoever—is in front of him.

"I didn’t mean to erase you," his voice comes out gravelly, far removed from the one she has heard him use in boardrooms. "A new hire came in a few months after you flew out and asked about the frame on my desk. The one we took from your science fair in Year 3." He clears his throat softly, as if his next words are difficult to push out. "That’s when I realized I couldn’t bear to talk about you when all I wanted to do was talk to you."

YN doesn’t let his sentimentality wear her down easily. "That’s what the album deliveries are for." She stands her ground. "Every year since debut . . . I send you a copy of every release we make, so you’ll know how to contact me whenever you’re ready." Her voice drops, losing its defensive heat to ice. "But you never were. Not even to say ‘stop mailing me.’"

"I know—"

"Do you?" She challenges, not even giving him the chance to finish. Perhaps if she was twelve years younger, she would have a few more reservations in talking to him in that tone; but, alas. Still, she forces herself to dull down the sharpness with a breath. "I’ve known since I was thirteen that you don’t approve of the music. I’ve . . . learned . . . how to live with it since."

Like an unhelpful assistant, her mind reminds her of the latest huge moments in her life that she would’ve loved to share with him in any capacity. Because she might’ve learned how to live with the disapproval and gotten used to the absence, but she has never given up on the connection. Not even once.

(He’s her, as her seven-year-old self articulated, "most favorite person in the entire universe" through and through.)

There was this ‘thing’ with SEVENTEEN’s last pre-debut show Seventeen Project: Debut Big Plan, specifically in the last episode prior to the debut showcase when they were finally deemed worthy of their SEVENTEEN team rings again. Instead of the then-Pledis CEO giving them back, the company surprised them with their families and let their relatives put the rings back on their pinkies. The person that showed up for YN was the judge from her last violin competition—the very same Pledis employee who scouted her for her supposed natural ability to connect with the crowd.

There was also SEVENTEEN’s first ever win a month before the group’s first anniversary. And SEVENTEEN’s first ever Grand Prize three years after their debut. All thirteen of the boys had someone to share and celebrate each piece of news with, including those that came between and thereafter. But not her. Never her.

There was their early contract renewal four years ago, too, which added five more years to the group and modified how both HYBE and Pledis Entertainment handled them.

Not to mention SEVENTEEN’s first million-seller album five years ago. Or their six-million-seller album two years ago.

And SEVENTEEN’s later-cut short third world tour, which last show was supposed to be at the then-called Mercedes-Benz Arena in Germany. She would’ve saved him a couple tickets even if she already knew he wouldn’t be able to attend because of the approaching season opener that following weekend.

Same with the Glastonbury Festival last year, which ironically happened the weekend of last season’s Austrian Grand Prix. There was something excruciating about being three hours away from Brackley while he was two hours away from Vienna in the same weekend, but fatigue helped her move past it.

Headlining Lollapalooza Berlin later last year was entirely different, however. Although it was held during the break between the Italian and Azerbaijan Grands Prix, a rare window when he definitely should’ve had time to watch their 90-minute set, she and the boys were already informed about the F1xSEVENTEEN collaboration in the works by then. She figured it would be better to wait it out and make their first meeting be at the paddock. Thus, as much as she had been dying to see him, she ultimately held off for one more year.

"But what I can’t live with," she pauses, "is finding out that you’ve apparently been living like I never existed." She lets out a soundless chuckle that seems more like a pained exhale. "You couldn’t even pretend I was a dead loved one?"

She has never cared about being the exception. Nor is she ever bothered by being seemingly unloved. Mostly because her brothers—and their families, as a welcomed extension—make her feel loved in every way they can. Also because, in her mind, she’s collecting telemetry (in the form of anecdotes) for her next debrief with her Papa when she sees him again. After all, that was how it had often been since his days at Williams: filling him in on her days over dinner.

She never would’ve thought that, when she finally uses her non-expiring paddock pass, she’d find herself as an unremembered ghost.

"‘Dead’?" Toto eventually echoes in the heavy silence. She swears she sees him flinch before his jaw tightens. "You think I’ll feel better thinking you’re already dead?"

"I don’t know!" YN can no longer restrain herself from raising her voice. "You seem perfectly fine regretting my birth! Why don’t we clean the slate and I’ll stop sending you the albums?" Her eyes are starting to sting, but she wills herself to not let any drop fall. "That would be the best for the telemetry, wouldn’t it? No more useless data."

He’s out of his chair before she can process another thought. He has forgone his futile attempt at trying not to spook her and now stands a step away.

It’s the closest they’ve ever been since the morning she received her Pledis Entertainment acceptance email. Not counting the airport drop-off soon after that, since they mutually made a conscious effort not to stand too close to one another when the talk about her future went awry.

"YN, schatzi, look at me," he rasps, his voice raw. "Bitte." ["Please."]

YN listens, but not without hardening her stare. She has half a mind to glare, but ultimately decides against it since a single eye twitch will certainly start the waterfall that has been threatening to spill over her cheeks. She says nothing.

"Es tut mir wirklich leid, YN," ["I’m truly sorry, YN,"] Toto starts, not breaking eye contact. "Your brother told me how excited you were for this schedule, just for me to . . ." He lets his voice trail, presumably deeming it unnecessary to complete the thought. "I know— I know an apology won’t be enough. You can stay mad at me for as long as you like. But I can’t . . ." He swallows, "I can’t let you continue thinking I regretted you, when it’s the farthest thing from the truth."

She isn’t easily swayed. She stays rooted on her ground, trying her hardest to not be moved. "The dead are remembered better than I, Vater."

He shakes his head, a silent counter to her words. When he speaks again, the German doesn’t make another reappearance, leaving only the raw, desperate truth as it is. "I never forgot you."

She half-expects him to move closer, but he doesn’t—seemingly respecting a boundary unknown to her. "Your pictures . . . They’re all in Brackley. In a cabinet. In my office. With . . . every album you ever sent. I kept— I kept all of them. Everything I had of you."

YN’s breathless "What?" comes with an escaped tear that directly drops to the ground without touching her cheek.

Her eyes follow his every movement as he walks back to his desk to grab his phone and return to her while tapping on his phone screen. Despite the fair description he already gave, she still isn’t prepared for what she sees once he turns the screen towards her.

It’s a photo of a cabinet she has never seen before, inside a room she vaguely recognizes from her last memories with him. Custom, she supposes, based solely on how it looks impractical for any other use besides the one he uses it for. There, true to his words, are SEVENTEEN albums surrounded by framed photos from her childhood.

There was her mid-laugh—donning safety glasses, latex gloves, and lab coat—covered in blue foam. She was about three years old then and undeniably too curious for her own good, having stared at the mouth of the beaker until the rapid chemical reaction exploded on her face. She had tried to eat the foam after the picture was taken, uncaring that it was literally made from dish soap and dry yeast.

Another of her grinning at the camera, face and arms covered in soot and grime. One hand folded into a peace sign and the other wrapped around a wrench. She looked about eleven years old there; still too young to care about how she looked like on camera, but old enough to know how to do a quick fix on a car.

Also her in Year 9, looking proper and dignified in her school uniform with her violin case strapped on her back. It was a high-angled selca—a selfie, rather—that she sent to him during Picture Day, which she vaguely remembers partnering with a text: Heading to the tube now, love you x. Strangely enough, she somewhat recalls the text she sent thirty minutes after that as well—something about kart racers riding in the same carriage as her.

The centerpiece of the cabinet wasn’t the photo from Year 3 science fair, however. It was her at two years old, wearing a dirndl and sitting on the floor. Her attention wasn’t on the camera, but on the xylophone she was playing with the handle of a toy screwdriver.

YN can’t rationalize the broken gasp that opens the dam. She wants to blame her inability to think on the fact that she has already cried thrice today, and that’s three times more than she normally does in any given day. She wants to blame it on the hundred-minute set she just finished, or the lingering jet lag from a long-haul flight.

But she also knows picking either will be a complete and utter lie. Especially when she knows exactly why.

Immense relief.

"I don’t have anything of yours to display," she says, her voice suddenly hoarse from the emotion that overcame her. Despite the unsteadiness of her voice, her hand is steady as she hands his phone back. "Just . . ."

"I know." Her Papa doesn’t need her to finish. "I read the letter you put in the album you gave me this morning." He puts his phone in his back pocket, opting to stay where he is rather than return to his desk. "And your dedication message at the end of the photo album."

Without waiting for permission, much like she had earlier, he halves the distance between them and reaches to hold her face between his palms. She doesn’t flinch at the sudden contact. Not even when his thumbs move to wipe her tears away.

"I’m sorry I made you think you couldn’t hold onto me without feeling like a burden, schatzi," he starts without breaking eye contact. His hands hold her in place—not to keep her from moving, but to ground her to the reality of the moment. "You are never a burden—especially not to me, you hear me?"

He doesn’t wait for a proper response, continuing on after she sniffles like it’s a comprehensive reply. "You are my child, no matter how old you get; no matter what name you go by in public. Nothing will change that."

His last words ring like a vow, prompting a sudden shiver to run up YN’s spine and leaving an anchoring warmth in its wake.

Her learned instinct to not make a somber-adjacent moment linger kicks in. Her chuckle is soundless, sounding more like a sigh of relief. "That’s cheesy, Papa."

Toto’s laugh is no better. It resembles an exhale after holding his breath for so long; for twelve years, to be precise, ever since Flight OZ731 took off for Seoul.

He doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he just closes the remaining distance and pulls her into a bone-crushing embrace.

P.S. I hope it’s not too much to ask for a hug when we meet.

YN instantly melts. She ignores her mind’s immediate attention to how she no longer remembers how he used to smell, but is still able to tell that he doesn’t smell the same, and just buries her face into his team polo.

"I’m hurt, Papa," she murmurs, almost sounding like her four-year-old self when she scraped her knee at the playground.

She vaguely feels a kiss land on her temple, but it doesn’t quite register. "Ich weiß, mein nachtigall, ich weiß." ["I know, my nightingale, I know."] She swears she hears him sniff. "Der Papa macht das schon wieder gut." ["Papa will make it better."]

And just as she always did, YN believes him.

Silence is not unusual in a garage within the Formula One paddock. It isn’t as rare as some people might think, either. All it takes, really, is the timing. Specifically when the team and their neighbors either commence their respective meetings in padded rooms or take their midday breaks elsewhere.

For the current silence in the Team Principal’s office, the cause is irrelevant. So is the relative quietness outside of the room.

All that matters is the smaller body that situated herself in front of his desk drawers, her legs crossed under her.

Toto is back on his desk chair. Rather than facing his screen again, he has turned to the side to watch YN judge the contents of his drawers. Partly because they don’t make baby-proofing products for someone twenty-seven years past her first birthday.

The bottom drawer slides smoothly with a soft tug.

A pout immediately forms in her face. "It’s empty!" She looks up at him from her spot on the floor, her eyes accusing like her natural curiosity is deeply offended by his efficient storage organization.

Before he can react and defend the lightness of his desk, she has already returned her attention to the layered storage space in front of her and focused on the the next drawer above.

Once more, however, YN is met with disappointment. "Also empty!"

Toto can’t stop the laugh that blooms from deep within his chest.

She may be twenty-eight years old now, but she’s definitely still the toddler that figured out every baby-proofing around the house and the garage by the time she turned three. The same toddler who once toddled over to ask what each item she took out of the forbidden garage cabinets was. ("Papa, des," ["Papa, this,"] she would present her discovered ‘toy’ with her wide, sparkling eyes turned upwards, "Was macht des?" ["What does this do?"])

"I pack light, schatzi," he reasons eventually once his laughter dies down.

YN, naturally, can’t accept that. "You knew I was coming!" The offense still colors her voice, her pout lingering. "You could’ve just, I don’t know, spread out your desk things so I get a treat for every drawer! Like— like those slow feeders for dogs!" She then adds as an afterthought, "I’ve seen Mama Kim—Mingyu’s mom—trying one on Bobpul. It looked cool."

"You’re not a dog, schatzi."

She shakes her head, her expression reading: that’s not the point. "I require enrichment, Papa."

Toto’s laugh remains unburdened, filling the walls of his office easily. It isn’t the first time he laughed since YN left but, somehow, it feels like it is.

The passage of twelve years is evident in their faces—in the lines in his, in the lack of cheeks in hers—but, somehow, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Not that it means he’s clear of the twelve years he wants—needs—to make up for.

He taps the longest and shallowest drawer of his desk twice. "Open this one," he instructs softly while scooting just enough to give her space to open the compartment all the way. "I promise it’s not empty."

YN doesn’t have to be told twice. She adjusts her position on the floor to lean back on her heels, and pulls.

As promised, the drawer is not empty. There are Mercedes-branded notepads and sticky counterparts; loose pens and highlighters; a stapler and a box of staples; and a handful of paper- and binder clips, too. Typical office essentials.

There is also a leather box that stands out, visibly more than a decade old but not worn around the edges. It’s embossed with a jeweler’s logo in the cover.

"Oh," YN elongates the syllable, audibly intrigued. She gingerly turns it over her hands to view it in different angles. "What is this? Is this for Susie? Can I take a peek?"

"It’s for you," he corrects. "I commissioned it for your sixteenth birthday. I just never had the chance to give it to you."

"Oh," she says again, albeit quieter this time with the new information. It takes her a moment to follow up. "Can I . . . can I open it?"

"You can do whatever you want with it."

Toto takes the pleasure of watching her expression change from reined curiosity to unrestrained amazement. He doesn’t need to look over to remember the design and craftsmanship of the necklace, for he had carried it for twelve years and had occasionally opened it whenever the heartache got too much.

It has a small rectangle pendant engraved with a nightingale silhouette in the front and a ‘W’ in the back. The stainless steel makes up the majority of the charm—forming the center rectangle and the serpentine die-cut outer border—while the carbon fiber creates the matte inner border. It’s a commissioned jewelry purposely designed to look like a miniature postage stamp and ordered soon after she left, but meant to be given in the same year regardless—because he had hope then that she’d be home for either her birthday or the winter holidays.

It ended up being twelve years late, but he digresses. It’s better late than never, after all.

"대박," ["Wow,"] YN blurts. He doesn’t need translation to understand the wonder. "Thank you, Papa. It’s beautiful." She looks up at him, her eyes suddenly gleaming under his office lights. "Very fitting."

The corners of his mouth turn up automatically as he notices the mischievous glint in her eyes. It’s the same gleam she gets whenever she finds something privately humorous.

Such as the absolute coincidence of his twelve-year-old gift being designed like a postage stamp when she has spent the last ten years sending him international packages meant to serve as messages.

"It is, isn’t it?" He scoots his chair a fraction closer, leaning forward and gently guiding her head towards him so he can plant another lingering kiss on her temple. She doesn’t protest. "Are you allowed to wear it?"

Her affirmative hum comes almost immediately, as soon as her nose scrunch smooths out. "We’re allowed personal jewelry. Chan—Dino—wears a matching bracelet with his same-age friends from other groups. I don’t think he takes it off." She returns her gaze to the necklace, her left thumb slowly feeling the weave of the carbon fiber. "Even if it wasn’t allowed, I’d still wear this every day. Our current contract basically says we— I can do what I want anyway, but in, you know, corporate lingo."

The Team Principal in him stutters, dying to vocalize a series of questions about her active contract with Pledis Entertainment. But the father in him is just beaming with pride.

To command that much leverage over a company’s revenue stream that her group is able to negotiate such free rein for themselves is no easy feat. He may not be familiar with the industry she has mastered, but the sheer influence that achievement requires is universally understandable. Especially since her wording has made it clear that the current contract is already old enough to no longer be considered new.

"Will you put this on me?" YN offers the leather box, her eyes rounding into a subtle, puppy-like stare while her bottom lip gives a tiny, involuntary pout.

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He accepts the box without another word and transfers the necklace onto her bare neck. He overhears her quietly celebrate under her breath with "예쁘다, 예쁘다" ["pretty, pretty"] as he successfully clasps it around her.

"Let me see." He applies a slight pressure on one of her shoulders to nonverbally signal that he wants her to turn around and face him again. He smiles when she does so without another prompt. "It suits you, schatzi."

A chuckle escapes him when she exhibits the same tells she has carried since she was a child whenever she gets a compliment. Witnessing her slip into the same habits—crossing her ankles whenever she sits on a chair, raising a pinkie whenever she drinks—during the interview this morning is already surprising enough. But to see her still feel embarrassed upon getting a compliment? Despite being in her line of work for a decade? It’s undoubtedly a curious, beautiful thing.

YN drops her head onto his knee after letting out a low, embarrassed chuckle. "Thank you, Papa," she murmurs. "I love it."

Toto’s hand instinctively smooths her hair, carefully following the curve of her skull without messing with her still-styled hair. He feels the heat that her bashfulness spreads from the back of her neck to the tip of her ears. "I’m glad you do, YN."

They stay like that in comfortable silence for a moment. Neither of them remembering—caring about, really—the agendas that must be waiting for them outside his office. He couldn’t have cared less about her makeup potentially leaving a print on his trouser leg, either.

As far as he’s concerned, she can stay there for as long as she’d like—even after his leg falls asleep.

Eventually, however, their little bubble breaks when YN jolts upright with a proud grin. "I have something for you, too."

"Another one?"

"The album earlier doesn’t count." He instantly feels colder when she shifts away to give herself space to dig for the gift on her person. "I was supposed to give this to you earlier with the album, but you pissed me off."

He inwardly grimaces at her glare, playful as it may be. "I really am sorry, schatzi," he starts. "I’ll let you pick the new frame I’ll bring with me for the flyaways."

She hmphs with no actual poison before her grin returns. "Here you go," she hands him a slightly aged paper horizontally folded into thirds.

"What is this?"

"You’ll find out," she dismisses his blatant attempt to get ahead of the telemetry with a gesture towards the paper. It’s a subtle start reading if you want to know.

Toto doesn’t know what to expect, so he doesn’t have any expectations at all. Yet, still, nothing could’ve prepared him for what greets him as soon as he unfolds the aged paper.

Ms. YN MN Wolff 42 Han River Avenue, Yongsan District Seoul, South Korea 04389 XX May 2020 Re: Application for Engineering Science (H100) UCAS ID: XXXXXXXXXX Dear Ms. Wolff, Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you that the University of Oxford has made you a conditional offer of a place to read for the degree of Master of Engineering (MEng) in Engineering Science, commencing in October 2020. This offer is made in association with St. Catherine’s College. Your tutors were exceptionally impressed by the analytical and logical reasoning demonstrated throughout your admissions testing and subsequent interviews. To secure your place within the Department of Engineering Science, this offer is contingent . . .

He doesn’t read the rest.

"You— You went to Oxford?" Toto’s voice is uncharacteristically faint. "While on an idol-music producer schedule?"

YN shrugs a shoulder, tilting her head as if it’s no big deal. "Somehow." There is no ego in her tone, but there is a minute trace of a tired sigh. "Catz was accommodating enough to let me do everything online and self-paced. I did have to take a leave of absence when we—SEVENTEEN—started touring again, though."

"Why?" He doesn’t mean to question her motivation, but her willingness to put herself in that arduous situation for four total years is too baffling.

Thankfully, she doesn’t take offense. "Partly because some of the boys were getting theirs and I felt like following the crowd," she starts nonchalantly. "Mostly because I thought you’d like it if I went beyond secondary school."

He doesn’t know what to say to that. It is a bullseye assessment, as expected of his analytically observant eldest. But he is also a university dropout, so he knows better than some that college isn’t for everyone. Certainly that a university degree is not the only path to success, just as well.

Still, he craves specific telemetry on her apparent university experience. "Did you—? Are you—?" He swallows, giving himself a moment to recalibrate after two failed attempts to voice his inquiry.

Yet, by some miracle or another, YN answers the question he hasn’t expressed comprehensively. "You didn’t miss out on seeing me walk in the Sheldonian Theatre, don’t worry." She flashes him a small smile meant to provide comfort. "I graduated earlier this year in absentia. I didn’t have time to fly over just to walk across a stage."

There’s an unmissable irony to the fact that she couldn’t spare ten seconds walking across a stage because she was most likely spending three hours performing on another elsewhere.

It explains a portion of her current nonchalance—as if she hasn’t obtained a degree in one of the top universities in the world.

(If his memory serves him right, she has shown more emotion the day she told him about her acceptance in Pledis Entertainment twelve years ago than she presently is. But then again, she had been a mere teenager then.)

Toto places the admission offer letter on his desk to free his hands for a hug. "Kumm her, schatzi." ["Come here, darling."]

YN doesn’t make him ask twice. The embrace is just as tight as the first, albeit now with an entirely different nonverbal communication attached to it. It’s no longer a mere accumulation of heavy regret and intense relief. Those still linger, but they’re now overpowered by pride and shame.

Pride for all she has accomplished; for what she has become from the toddler who navigated a Viennese garage with squeaky shoes.

Shame for making her achieve so much in spite of his utter silence; for letting her believe that there is only one way to earn his attention.

"You did incredibly well, YN," he murmurs into her hair.

He feels her bury her face into his collarbone. She stills in his arms, seemingly savoring the moment and letting him hold her for as long as he needs.

Still, she’s the first one to eventually create a distance to look him in the eye. The new pendant around her neck gleams under the office lights. "I brought the Sachertorte slice for you, but I’m going to eat it." She nods twice, as if she’s mischievously convincing him of something. "I’m still hungry."

He chuckles soundlessly at that, one hand already moving to slide the paper plate closer to her. "Do you do that to the boys?"

"I sent for you."

Oscar appears at the end of the path YN has been following aimlessly. He has changed out of his racing suit, yet still carries the unmistakable glow of a post-race win.

YN tries not to notice how the scattered lanterns above them cast a light that compliments his appearance. "I know."

A year ago, Oscar and YN’s relationship concluded with a mutual agreement. They both agreed it was the best compromise for their individual interests. They were aware a "them" no longer existed, and their titles now carried the "ex" prefix. Yet, despite the officiality of it, they remained oblivious to the new reality they were meant to embrace.

They grabbed lunch together the day YN hauled her things out of their shared flat. She even toured him around her new apartment when he dropped her off with the last of her boxes.

They were next to each other when they archived all their photos and posts with one another off of their social media accounts. They helped each other double check they didn’t miss a single digital trace of their concluded romantic relationship.

They continued to text each other about the most mundane and random things, as if they hadn’t severed the bond they cultivated for more than six years. It was as if they were still together, and were merely living apart temporarily.

They would’ve been content to let things linger in the grey area forever if the people around them hadn’t failed to catch on. The world still saw them as a unit—Oscar and YN, YN and Oscar. It was a perception that rendered their breakup useless.

Eventually, Oscar dropped her off at the airport, with a one-way ticket to a destination she didn’t disclose. There, they stood before each other and blocked one another’s personal numbers on their respective phones. They stood their ground, watching the screens confirm the severed connection.

Their last hug was tight, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. There was no "goodbye," only a "take care" that struggled to leave their throats.

As far as the both of them were concerned, that was the final lap for "them"—and that was that.

Now, a year later, YN’s return triggers old habits to resurface with agonizing ease—as if the gap year never happened at all.

I’m sorry, she followed up after replying a quick and instinctual Thanks, Osc to his first contact with her in a year. Force of habit.

It’s alright, he replied back not even five seconds later. You can still call me that.

"You didn’t come." It’s not an accusation, just a quiet statement of fact. He has lived through the reality of it, subtly—but desperately—searching the crowd below the podium for a face that used to be a frequent fixture.

But YN hadn’t been there. "I didn’t."

"Why?" His facial expression doesn’t change, but his voice has a hint of pain in it. After asking his team—through his race engineer—to fetch her from a rival garage over the radio, he truly expected her to be there. But, alas.

"It’s not my place anymore."

Those six words cut deeper than they should have, mostly because they’re irrefutably true. It—that spot and everything it stands for—really isn’t her place anymore ever since "them" ceased to exist.

But that doesn’t mean Oscar has ripped YN’s name out of that reserved space. After all, it isn’t written on tape, easily peeled away. It’s carved into wood, deepened by time. He doesn’t want her name crossed out with another blade, or sanded down and erase.

Matter of fact, he wants it protected—shielded by carbon fiber and fireproofs, reinforced by anything that could make it permanent.

He wants her to stay.

YN watches him swallow like sand is grating against his throat. The scattered lanterns above them are useless in softening the blow. If anything, their warm light only highlights enough of the right features to worsen the feeling.

She almost takes the words back.

But, with the instinct of a born racer, he beats her to the move without so much as a blink. "I can’t do it."

"Oscar—"

Oscar takes a step forward, locking his eyes onto hers. "I know. I know we agreed to end it, but— I can’t do it anymore." He pauses, the next words clearly a struggle to exhale. "It’s too quiet without you."

It’s an absurd thing to say. He’s literally a Formula One driver. The scream of a single V6 engine is louder than anything she has ever contributed in his life, let alone the roar of nineteen other cars on the grid. His world is already louder than most by default, with or without her.

Yet, he doesn’t stutter—nor does he blink. He means it with his whole chest; his whole heart.

"You’re—" she backtracks, catching herself before she can tell a lie— "We’re just not used to it yet."

"I don’t want to get used to it."

I don’t want to get used to it. Those words, while uttered in his usual calm, echo like a snap in the silence of the venue’s garden. Somewhere behind them, precisely inside the very venue rented for the night to celebrate the race, the party continues on—wholly unaware of the tectonic shift happening between the race winner and the woman he has lost.

YN opens her mouth, her mind scrambling for logic, for reason, for anything to make him think rationally . . . but she finds nothing.

Especially when she notices what Oscar just produced from his pocket: a familiar velvet box she once caught a glimpse of in his travel bag years ago. The same velvet box she thought nothing of because it had felt too early then.

Her breath hitches. His nickname slips out before she can stop it. "Osc . . ."

"Marry me." He rasps, his voice suddenly raw. "Marry me, and be YN Piastri. Or be YN LN-Piastri, or stay exactly as you are. Whatever you wish to call yourself, whoever you want to be on the paperwork . . . it doesn’t matter to me as long as it’s you. Just marry me and never leave me again—because I’ve already lived a year without you, and I can’t bear another day."

YN can’t speak. She can’t think. She just lets her instincts take over, unconsciously reaching out to him with her fingers trembling.

He doesn’t need her to be the person he wanted her to be twelve years ago. He just wants her back.

And not just the her that has an affinity and talent for STEM, either. Not just the her who would rather be under a kart than on it, nor the one who assisted him in their home garage and readily participated in various low-stakes experiments and projects. Not just the her that would reach out for easy-to-read STEM books and easy-to-follow STEM videos just because.

He wants the her that earned the nickname "nightingale" with how much she gravitated towards a microphone and musical instruments, too. The her that would sing about anything as she moved about. The her that filled their home with music in varied degrees.

He just wants his eldest—his YN—back.

I’m sorry I used the blueprint you drew to follow a path that took me away from you.

Despite what she personally believes, he knows it isn’t "the blueprint" that took her away from him. Rather, it’s his fear of the path she set her mind to pursue. He had acted on pure logical instinct, dismissing her desire for a creative career because he saw it as unstable and illogical. "The blueprint" only took her away from him because he let it.

He had been incredibly hypocritical. He let his fear of his eldest taking a huge risk swallow him, despite having been quite a risk-taker himself—notably in his youth. She merely inherited that same trait, and applied it to her own chosen path.

In hindsight, it should’ve been a relief for him. At least, YN didn’t follow his early footsteps and pursued a racing career. At least, he didn’t have to worry about her life being constantly in danger inside cars going at insane speeds.

Yet, he let his years as a board executive dictate his perception of what should’ve been an exercise of unconditional love.

It shouldn’t have mattered if being an idol was unstable and illogical. All that should’ve mattered was that his daughter wanted to pursue being one. And he should’ve supported her loudly, regardless of where he was in the world.

Toto exhales as he finally folds YN’s handwritten letter back, following the deepest creases and crearing a new one. However, instead of putting it back inside the album where he found it, he opts to secure the letter inside the left front pocket of his slacks—on the same side where his heart lies.

It’s a very conscious effort not to look at the empty spot on his desk, where a frame of them during one of her science fairs once stood.

It’s an unconscious effort to take out the photobook that the album’s slightly involved packaging conceals. He mentally praises the obvious cohesion in the album title—Happy Burstday—and packaging resembling a one-tier cake in a box.

However, the cohesion seems to have end there, for the photographs inside the photobook are entirely apart from the soft ambience of birthdays. Instead, the concept is obviously dark grunge—delinquent and rebellious.

The YN that greets him, once he finds her pages, is astoundingly different from the perfectly poised professional that he saw during the interview. The latter was clothed in business casual of beige and white, a carefully neutral combination amongst the rainbow of the grid, perfectly matching the other thirteen people beside to her. She had been impeccable in playing the part of a mysteriously charming Kpop idol who is a mere fan of the sport—like that was all she is.

The former, however, embodied the rebel he once thought of her as but never actually was. She had two intersecting scars on her left cheek and a slit on her right eyebrow, courtesy of SFX makeup. Her costume included leather, spikes, fishnets, and chains—although not in the predictable, usual way. Throughout the six pages dedicated to her solo photographs, a smile never graced her lips, as the concept notably required.

Toto doesn’t recognize both versions of the same woman. He does, however, recognize the child and teenager she once was. He saw the analytical glint in her eyes whenever she focuses; the way she crosses her ankles whenever she sits; the habit of raising a pinkie whenever she drinks; and the ease with which she compartmentalizes and—simultaneously—merges both of her interests.

YN’s still—and always will be—his daughter. That’s a fundamental fact that cannot be erased—not by time, distance, nor belief.

In his quest to find more glimpses of her, he eventually flips to the last pages of the photobook. It’s the Thanks To section. He understands nothing from the continuous blocks of Korean letters under the members’ names, which are conveniently written in romanized alphabet.

YN’s name is the tenth name to appear, after a ‘Mingyu’ and before a ‘DK’. Like the previous nine, YN’s Thanks To starts in Korean. However, like the member that goes by the name ‘The8’, the paragraph in Korean is followed by a paragraph in a different language. The8’s second paragraph is in Chinese, based on the strokes of each letter. But YN’s non-Korean paragraph . . . is in Austrian German.

Papa: Vielen Dank für den Spitznamen Nachtigall, die Geige, mit der ich Liebesleid gespielt habe, und das Exemplar von Katz’s Race Car Aerodynamics (1996), das wir gemeinsam gelesen haben. Ich habe alle drei behalten. [Papa: Thank you for the nickname Nightingale, the violin I played "Liebesleid" with, and the copy of Katz’s Race Car Aerodynamics (1996) we read together. I kept all three.]

A hand flies over his mouth as the gravity of her words’ subtext settles heavily on his shoulders, like a ton of carbon fiber came down from a significant height above—effectively making his eyes water once more.

A ghost of her handwritten words flashes behind his eyelids when he takes a moment to collect himself.

They were all I had.

The irony of YN’s favorite violin piece to play becomes him. Fritz Kreisler’s "Liebesleid"— "Love’s Sorrow," a heartbreak that is a result of a lost love—is a cruel reminder that his lack of support for her chosen path has led them between the very notes of the Viennese composition she loves.

Hours before Flight OZ731 took off to Seoul, the three-day-old tense air between Toto Wolff and YN Wolff still hadn’t dissipated.

They did talk about YN’s acceptance to Pledis Entertainment after dinner three days ago, as he promised, but it didn’t end the way he hoped. She had refused to see reason, and he was adamant not to see past the illogicality.

Unfortunately, being her sole parent for the first years of her life, combined with her strong preference to be around him, they were too alike. Too stubborn, too proud, too headstrong—especially in things they have strong convictions for.

The tension was cold, almost professional, but she still called him "Papa" and he still called her "schatzi."

He still drove her to the airport instead of handing the task to his secretary. He still refused to let her get out of the car when her frustration with the suffocating tension finally resurfaced through her larynx.

"Pull over, Papa," she instructed out of the blue from the passenger seat, breaking the silence that had engulfed them the second they pulled out of their driveway. "Ich nehme einfach den Rest mit dem Taxi." ["I’ll just take a taxi the rest of the way."]

He didn’t miss a beat, his tone just as even as hers did. "Don’t be ridiculous."

He left no room for arguments—he simply couldn’t afford to. After all, he was already running out of time with his eldest—and he knew better than to cut it shorter.

Thankfully, YN didn’t insist.

He might not have approved of her reason for leaving, but he still couldn’t rob himself of the chance to see her off.

Toto was the one who checked in her luggage. There was no hesitation when he accompanied her to the Baggage Check line and handled the check-in clerk for her, even though he knew she could do it herself since she was thirteen.

He handed her passport—and plane ticket—back once they were standing idly at the relatively empty space between the Baggage Check and the Security Check. "Hast du alles?" ["Do you have everything?"]

YN rechecked the items he just handed before patting the bottom of her personal backpack and the handle of her carry-on luggage, affirming non-verbally through touch. She nodded once. "Danke, dass du mich gefahren hast." ["Thank you for driving me."]

With the tension still on the ground they were standing on and in the air they were breathing, everything seemed transactional. Even if it was, deep down, anything but.

He didn’t want her to go, but he couldn’t stop her, either, so he just did everything that he could—without compromising her discretion.

He took out the key he prepared the day before from his pocket. It was a VIP access pass he added to the Mercedes F1 Team’s system himself, deliberately not adding an expiration date and cloning his own access clearance for any paddock as long as a race was scheduled there. The lanyard wasn’t the typical F1 VIP’s, but rather made of a black material with black Mercedes stars littered all around. Her birth name—YN Wolff—was clearly printed on the informational side of the VIP access pass, although it was actually registered under her flight number—OZ731—in the system as a low-energy attempt at encryption.

"You have your Mercedes HQ ID with you?" She nodded in response, patting the backpack strapped on her back once more. "Good. Here, schatzi," he placed the pass on her hand without any prompt, "if you ever decided to visit."

Toto made the delivery as detached as he could, but his suppressed emotion almost broke free through his voice. He kept his expression neutral to sell the nonchalance. Come visit me when you can, whenever you want—in the headquarters or at the paddock.

However, internally, it wasn’t just an invitation. It was a lifeline. It was a key that promised he and his world would never be out of reach, even after she boarded the plane. Please visit me whenever and wherever you want.

YN stared at the pass for a beat too long before she gave any acknowledgment. "Danke, Papa." ["Thank you, Papa."]

She made no promises to use it or her ID, but the mere fact that it was now in her possession had been enough to give him hope. It had to be enough.

His daughter looked back at him before she passed through the Security Check. She held his gaze for a moment, before giving him a small, minuscule nod.

He returned the gesture and held his ground until she was no longer in his sight.

There had been no run for a last hug nor a short affirming declaration of "I love you."

His drive home was silent, but it was nothing like the deafening silence that greeted him back behind the door.

Toto’s hands tremble as he stares at the square cardstock paper he found at the bottom of the album ensemble. It’s another letter, only it’s not a second one from YN; it’s from her bandmates.

To YN’s Papa, Mr. Wolff: Thank you for the best sister we could’ve ever asked for. Signed, YN's brothers

Thirteen distinct signatures surround the message, each with a name written right underneath. He recognizes half of them from their introductions during the press conference and from the Thanks To section of the photobook. The rest are unfamiliar, likely due to their stage names not being the same as their birth names.

He recognizes the names ‘Jeonghan’, ‘Joshua’, ‘Wonwoo’, ‘Mingyu’, ‘Seungkwan’, and ‘Vernon’. He doesn’t recognize ‘Seungcheol’, ‘Soonyoung’, ‘Jihoon’, ‘Seokmin’, ‘Minghao’, and ‘Chan’. ‘Junhui’ is debatable, depending on whether he’s the member who goes by the name ‘Jun’.

Their names aside, the single-sentence letter makes something perfectly clear: the thirteen men YN showed up with love her loudly.

The deliberate use of "our YN" during the press conference wasn’t meant to be a sign of possession. It was an endearment.

They don’t just show their love through gestures. It isn’t just through shielding her from the persistent curious stares, keeping an almost constant hand on the small of her back, or gravitating around her unconsciously. They vocalize their love, too, beyond the "I love you"—securing no room for misinterpretations.

They are proud of their love for her, and they are unafraid for people—most especially YN—to know it.

Their extremely concise letter is much more than an expression of gratitude for sending his daughter their way twelve years ago. It also carries a weight of an implicit report: We’ve been taking care of her, like she has been taking care of us.

More importantly, it’s an unintentional correction of his earlier misconception. Her bandmates didn’t replace him in her life; they are simply the latest, most prominent receivers of her love—and they reciprocate the sentiment in ways YN could never associate with shame or abandonment.

To put it bluntly, the SEVENTEEN boys—her brothers—love her like she deserves. They love her in a way he shouldn’t have deprived her of after it became apparent she wouldn’t be an engineer.

They are not his replacements, but they certainly have been compensating for him—for the father he failed to be—whether they know it or not.

If they had truly replaced him, the flicker of hope he saw die when she noticed the empty spot on his desk would never have ignited. A daughter with no hope wouldn’t have maintained a decade of unanswered album deliveries. But she did, and that silent proof was everything.

Toto takes another look at the cardstock letter before letting his eyes gloss over the empty spot on his desk, where a frame of them during one of her science fairs once stood. His gaze settles on the calendar he keeps right next to it.

The red ink around today’s date stares back at him.

In a world where the advancement of technology has moved calendars onto web platforms, he still purchases a physical desk calendar every year. Not for a second layer of convenience, but solely to keep a semblance of the tradition YN started when she was seven years old alive.

Her evolving handwriting used to accompany the red circle, clearly marking what made that particular date special. For nine straight years, it was a sweet little tradition between him and his daughter. That was, until, on the tenth year, YN had already flown out to Seoul by the time that special date arrived.

It had been a difficult day. The anniversary of her birth had always been a day of celebration, a reason to forget the stress and pressure his job entailed. It had always been a reminder that he had a life outside of his career—outside of Williams, outside of Mercedes. Yet, with her careful all-capitalized handwriting on his calendar and no warmth of her presence on her sixteenth birthday, the guaranteed joyous occasion had turned into an unofficial funeral.

The circle was the only thing he could keep for the first calendar he bought after YN left, and for every single one he purchased after that.

Toto’s hand—the same one he gestures at the pit wall with—reaches for the phone, steady and determined. It isn’t an unconscious move; it is a deliberate one with a crystal clear intention.

His daughter deserves to have an unwavering support system for the challenges her chosen path comes with—more than his silent, clumsy love can give.

And, at last, he’s finally ready to have the checkered flag on sight after twelve laps around the sun.

It’s easy to know where YN and the rest of SEVENTEEN are. After all, the Formula One organization fatefully assigned Mercedes to host their ‘home base’ for the day—which ironically serves as the group’s sanctuary between their F1 collaboration schedules across the entire paddock.

The specific motorhome room loaned to SEVENTEEN is nothing a quick call can’t uncover. And so is their itinerary for the remainder of the day. They’re just simple logistics. He’s great at absorbing logistics.

It’s much more complicated to figure out how to utilize the logistics when they aren’t about a business, but rather about a daughter he hasn’t seen in over a decade.

The logical part of him wants to plan before proceeding beyond the phone. It makes the most sense for the next course of action, given his adamant refusal to mismanage this—potentially last—chance. He needs contingency plans.

Yet, the emotional part of him—the father—wants to just rush over, logic and reputation be damned. There is no sense to consider; just the urge to tell her about the dust-proof cabinet at Brackley and finally hold his eldest again. He doesn’t need contingency plans; he just needs her.

Toto has already lived through a twelve-year consequence of anticipating and managing YN. He certainly doesn’t desire any extensions—or, worse, permanence.

Thus, there he stands: a meter away from the SEVENTEEN-loaned Mercedes room, the door ajar thanks to the branded shoe used as a makeshift doorstopper.

He first registers the noise—or the lack of, that is. For a room that is supposedly housing fourteen people, the absolute silence is strange. There are no low voices conversing, not even clicking cutlery or rustling wrappers, nor a low hum of background music from a portable source.

From his current distance, the only sign of life is the shoe on the door. There isn’t even any light coming from the gap, as if whoever’s in there is considerately conserving electricity.

However, as soon as he gets within three steps of the door, he’s faced with a reality that the Team Principal in him finds absolutely baffling.

The space between the door and the doorframe gives him a clear—albeit partial—view of the situation inside the room. The fourteen SEVENTEEN members are resting, as he unconsciously expected, but the professional decorum is obviously held to a different standard than the one he’s used to.

Toto registers YN first. She’s asleep on the carpeted floor, positioned the same way she had always slept since she was ten. Only the plush toy she hugs in her sleep has been traded for a brother: Woozi, her fellow member-producer, if he remembers correctly. She’s located at the far end of the room, a blanket draped over her. Another member—Mingyu, he thinks, who also belongs in the same team unit as her—serves as her only barrier from the wall. Dino is positioned on the couch above their heads, as does another body that is currently not visible from his current angle. Jeonghan lies by their feet, his head using Mingyu’s legs like a pillow.

He doesn’t need to see the remaining eight members. He already knows they’re also somewhere on the other couch and on the floor, asleep and using each other as pillows, just as Jeonghan has with Mingyu.

Unintentional as it may be, they’re still protecting YN from being easily accessible from unwanted attention and unwarranted disturbance—even in their sleep.

"They say naps between schedules are more comfortable that way," a staff member approaches him without pleasantries, seemingly reading his unvoiced concern. She’s SEVENTEEN’s, based on the triangular logo on her shirt that he has previously seen on the newer albums YN has sent and on the interview backdrop. "They’ve been doing it since pre-debut, I’m told."

"They didn’t ask for pillows or futons," Toto finds himself saying, his eyes wandering over to Dino’s head that’s propped awkwardly against the armrest before staying on his daughter’s sleeping figure.

"They do with what they have," she answers simply as if he’s not the first one to ask about the group’s napping habits. She shifts the black shirt draped on her arm, likely for one of the members inside. "Is there anything I can help you with, Mr. Wolff?"

Toto snaps to attention. "Yes, actually." He lets the Team Principal in him take the wheel—purely for professionalism’s sake. "I was hoping to talk to one of the members."

"Is there a specific one you have in mind?" The SEVENTEEN staff member inquires. "JOSHUA is the only one awake at the moment, but I can wake up—"

He remembers reading Joshua’s name after two other names, both in the Thanks To in the album photobook and on the letter they addressed specifically to him. He doesn’t know if it’s just a mere coincidence or if there’s an order he’s not aware of, but he’s willing to bet it means Joshua is one of YN’s older brothers. "JOSHUA is perfect."

Toto doesn’t want to wake any of them up. He knows their itinerary has purposeful gaps between their paddock commitments for them to use as they wish. The fact that they’re using their longest break of the day to nap is very telling of their normal, non-special collaboration schedules.

(They have more freedom to explore the paddock than most visitors, it being a weekday and days away from the hectic race weekend, and yet . . .)

She flashes a professional smile. "Alright. Give me a second to inform JOSHUA."

He remembers Joshua from the interview. He’s one of the members that talked the most, likely because of his fluency and comfort in expressing himself in English. He also appears to be one of the non-intimidating—less intense—members, purely based on his gentler facial features. All in all, Joshua is a great choice to appeal to YN’s brothers as her Papa.

S. Coups, the general leader and her unit leader, theoretically is the best choice. Perhaps even her fellow music producer Woozi, as the member she spends the most time with. However, since those two are leaders of their respective units (Hip Hop Team and Vocal Team, respectively), he figures he’ll inevitably appeal to them as a fellow leader—as a Team Principal—rather than as their sister’s father. He doesn’t want that. (The same rationale goes for Hoshi, who is the Performance Team leader, albeit he doesn’t seem to have any immediately identifiable unique connection with her.)

Toto registers the SEVENTEEN staff member exit the room first, before he sees Joshua by the doorway. His eyes automatically zero in on the wet splotches on the left side of his white shirt, concentrated around his shoulder and chest. They don’t look like they’re from spilled water, more like . . . someone cried on him. "I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Wolff."

"Of course," Toto replies, willing himself not to overthink the splotches on his shirt. "Take your time. I’ll wait here."

Joshua gives him a short appreciative nod before disappearing behind the door.

Without the presumed third eldest in his line of sight, his eyes instinctively gravitate towards YN, who has moved closer to Woozi in her sleep.

Despite Joshua—who has changed out of his wet white shirt for the fresh black shirt the SEVENTEEN staff member had brought—nudging the makeshift doorstopper aside and sealing the thirteen sleeping SEVENTEEN members inside, Toto still leads him to a small, empty meeting room a few doors down.

He hasn’t planned what to say—or, more accurately, how to say it. He knows he wants to ask for Joshua’s assistance in apologizing to YN, but he doesn’t know how to vocalize his purpose for speaking with him. Does he just go straight for it, detailing his plan? Does he explain his side of the twelve years first? Does he—

"Thank you for asking to speak to me, Mr. Wolff," Joshua breaks his reverie as soon as they are both situated on the opposite sides of the table. "I was planning to speak with you as well."

Toto instantly knows Joshua wants to talk to him about YN. After all, escalating a simple logistics issue to the top doesn’t seem to be on-brand for the group, which—according to the report he received from the Mercedes representative assigned to SEVENTEEN—is extremely low-maintenance and oddly self-sufficient.

YN apparently requested a Mercedes garage tour, but turned down a guide, and promised to stay out of any lockable doors. Ravi, the Mercedes representative, granted the request under the condition that he accompanies the group as they walk around for Mercedes’ trade secrets’ sake and in case they had any questions. Ravi booked a face-to-face meeting with him later in the day for the full tour report, as the former apparently didn’t feel safe discussing it over the phone (something about YN conducting the tour in Konglish, George tagging along, and Bono making a surprise appearance).

Jun, DK, and Mingyu asked to borrow the hospitality kitchen to cook a pot of ramyeon and several rolls of kimbap. Ravi tried to be a good host representative and offered to have the Mercedes hospitality chefs prepare their requested food, but the three members insisted on doing it themselves. Ravi caved and let the chefs supervise. The result is the anomaly offered in today’s afternoon menu: the Mercedes chefs’ honest attempts to replicate whatever the three gentlemen taught them about making the perfect kimbap—and the slices that found their way to Ravi as a token of gratitude.

Woozi and Vernon, with Red Bull cans and a Moleskine notebook in their hands, asked to borrow a foldable table. They didn’t react much when Ravi regrettably told them there weren’t any available; they just nodded and politely said, "Thank you anyway," before retreating to their loaned room.

Specific details aside, he can’t anticipate what precisely Joshua has to say about YN. Their previous inquiries to Ravi seem to be entirely apart from what YN’s third eldest brother wants to tell him.

"Given the circumstances," he starts slowly, being purposefully vague, "I’d prefer to hear what you have to say first. Please, tell me."

Joshua places his forearms on the table and sits straighter. "I’d like to preface that YN never explicitly told us who her Papa is."

Toto freezes. The YN’s Papa, Mr. Wolff suddenly takes on a completely different meaning. His instincts are telling him to question, to hear specifics, but he holds his tongue. He has given Joshua the floor, and he needs to abide by it.

"He has always just been ‘Papa’—no first name, no occupation, no physical description," YN’s brother continues. "Always a memory; always in the past tense."

As gentle as his delivery is, his words still land with a sufficient blow. Toto doesn’t need him to state it explicitly; he understands YN doesn’t talk about him in the present tense because she can’t. Not when she hasn’t seen and talked to him since she disappeared from his sight at the airport twelve years ago.

"For a time, we thought the worst. It was the only logical conclusion we could come up with, because it was the only one that explained why she’s so vague about her Papa—like there’s an NDA forbidding her to," Joshua pauses deliberately, letting the weight of his words fill the silence. "We were only able to get a solid confirmation that he’s actually alive when YN casually mentioned last week that she’s bringing a signed copy of our latest album here for him."

Toto doesn’t know how to feel about the revelation. He recognizes YN has handled the twelve years in a similar way he did. Only she at least refers to him in remembrance; he refuses to acknowledge her at all. That is, her chosen narrative is that her father’s dead; his chosen narrative is that his true eldest doesn’t exist.

It would’ve been almost comical how alike they are, had it not been so . . . painful.

"We were only able to confirm our suspicions about his identity three hours ago—after YN . . ." Joshua lets his voice fade out before he leans back in his chair, seemingly having no intention of finishing his thought. He removes his arms from the table to loosely cross them across his chest. "What we want to know, Mr. Wolff, is: Why did you stop caring about your Nightingale when she turned ten years old?"

He doesn’t need to think too hard about why he had an abrupt change of heart eighteen years ago. It was precisely a year after he permanently stepped back from the driver’s seat and focused on the business side of the motorsport industry. It was the year he started to value practicality and logic more than risky passion. It was the year he heavily favored her STEM extracurriculars.

"She— she told you about that?" He hears himself ask in disbelief. Frankly, he didn’t think YN would remember when exactly he stopped attending her music competitions and recitals. She hadn’t seemed to mind his absence at the time, since she still happily talked about each one whenever they ate dinner after. He never realized his continuous absence made such an impact—to the point that her new family has heard about it years later.

Her stronger musical inclination aside, his daughter has always been very rational. Even at a young age, after a one-time explanation at bedtime, she understood why he had to be away a lot and why he worked long hours. Her only question, then, was if she could tag along sometimes so she could watch him work.

Joshua nods once, a ghost of a proud smile is suddenly visible at the corners of his mouth, "Her idol name is her birth first name, YN, but her producer name is NIGHTINGALE." His eyes, which have been gently indifferent the entire time, softens. "She said it was a nickname her Papa gave her when she was younger."

The misinterpretation of his question leads him to the most devastating blow yet. The mention of the nickname in her Thanks To isn’t just a nostalgic reference to what their relationship used to be or a loving remembrance to what their identical attitudes forced to become a memory. Rather, it’s a silent declaration of enduring love; it’s her own—slightly more public—version of a circled calendar date. She didn’t just keep the nickname; she immortalized his love and made it part of her professional identity.

The irony isn’t lost on him. YN deliberately signs all her creations for the very career he didn’t approve of with the very nickname he gave her.

It’s another manifestation of her making use of what she has of him because that’s all she has.

The subtle smile on the younger man’s face vanishes as quickly as it appeared. His crossed arms tighten on his chest, his indifferent gaze is a little sharper on the edge, presumably as he realizes the other meaning of Toto’s disbelieving inquiry. "YN told us about how you haven’t attended any of her music-related activities since she was ten the day we won our first award show, after thirteen families—three being overseas—called to congratulate us for the win."

Toto hears the subtext loud and clear: Every member’s families called, regardless of where they were on the globe, except YN’s.

"I remember her shrugging when she said it. I also remember her closing the topic before any of us could react."

Worse: You stopped being there for her when she was ten. Not at fifteen when you opposed to her chosen career path. Ten. Your absence has gone on long enough for her to get used to it and not expect anything from you.

The Team Principal in him would’ve argued the technicality. He would’ve argued that he still tried to make time for her STEM activities, for the science fairs and competitions, so it wasn’t a complete absence. She couldn’t have gotten used to it.

But the father in him knows intentionally selective absence—and not making an effort to attend her music activities—was enough. His daughter has always been perceptive: there was no way she didn’t notice he was only missing her music-related schedules.

YN, his engineering prodigy daughter, used the very skills that make her well-suited to be an engineer to quantify and compartmentalize his disapproval.

"I—" Toto starts to say, but is unable to complete his thought on the first try. "I wanted a different life for her." The admission tastes like a shot of straight, black espresso, bitter and scalding on his tongue, spiking his veins with concentrated regret. "I wanted her to be an engineer."

"Did you dictate the career paths of your other children, too? Or was that a YN exclusive because she’s your eldest?" Joshua’s question is delivered with a sharp edge, albeit his voice remains leveled. His posture is unchanged, as is his composure.

Toto hasn’t even processed the cut of his words before Joshua retracts them, his apology is a reflex that rings hollow. "I apologize, that was out of line. I didn’t mean to be so forward."

For the life of him, he can’t even find the means to be offended. It is, after all, a fair question from a person who loves his daughter completely, deafeningly, and unconditionally.

"I didn’t, not after I saw how it cost me YN."

For a Team Principal, a lack of plan and backup plans is an amateur and detrimental move. However, for a father, it’s almost natural—especially when dealing with the firstborn; especially when dealing with the child that he had parented solo for the first few years.

In hindsight, it’s almost poetic. There had been a lot of thinking on his feet and figuring out things along the way when YN was a baby. Now, it’s like he’s back in the beginning—except she’s already twenty-eight years old and the assistance he’s seeking to survive isn’t his mother’s, but her brothers’.

Joshua drops his arms from his chest, relaxing them onto his lap and resting his elbows on the chair’s armrests. The subtle criticism in his eyes—which Toto hasn’t registered until it’s gone—smooths into an abstruse understanding. "You haven’t lost her completely, Mr. Wolff."

A part of Toto already knows that. It was one of the explanations he came up with that addresses why SEVENTEEN albums manifest at the headquarters’ mailbox 2–4 times a year for the past ten years. It was the only explanation that continues to hold up from the first album (17 Carat) to the last one mailed (消費期限 [Expiration Date]), accounting for the neatly-written ‘Papa’ on every album outbox in permanent marker. Even the newest album—the one she personally delivered, Happy Burstday—upholds it, albeit via letter.

Still, there is great relief in hearing the confirmation straight from someone who knows his daughter more than he does. Especially after he witnessed the hope in her eyes extinguish in real time just hours before. Not all hope is lost, after all.

"In the twelve years I’ve known her, your absence in her musical endeavors is the only remotely unfavorable thing she ever said about you. And she only mentioned it once." Joshua’s register is back to being professionally controlled, betraying nothing and strictly factual. "Every other memory of her Papa, however rare she shares them, are remembered fondly."

He freezes internally. With the tension on his body more lax than when they came inside the meeting room, and his heart notably lighter from fewer unsaid, he finally notices the deliberate distinction YN’s brother has been making. Her Papa is the person she adores, whose love she immortalized in a name, who she hasn’t let go of. He, on the other hand, the person he’s addressing directly through "you," is the person who hurt her, who failed to value what makes her happy, who normalized absence and implied love.

It is a clear mirror of how well YN compartmentalizes. She’s able to still talk about her Papa because she split him into two: one that obviously loves her, and one that put a condition on it. The compartmentalization is the very reason she came in his office with hope still in her eyes, despite his eighteen years of STEM preference and twelve years of radio silence.

"Sora told me you were mystified by our mid-schedule napping." Joshua seems to have moved onto the next topic, but he knows better than to assume it has nothing to do with the point the young man is trying to build up to. "She passed on all the information she had, but there is one thing that sets this particular group nap apart from the usual: it’s entirely unscheduled."

The word "unscheduled" processes like a stalled car, unexpected and anxiety-inducing. He has already accepted that the nap is part of SEVENTEEN’s routine to get through their grueling schedules. He has already rationalized it, even. Yet, to hear that collective quirk is notably—and purposefully—not on the agenda and is, in fact, added on at the last second anyway straight from a source . . .

"We had to do it since we went 13-1 on breaching the F1 collaboration contract after YN broke down because you erased her." Joshua’s tone is absolute. "The nap is a compromise because we wanted to take her away from here as soon as possible, but YN insisted on finishing our commitments here even after mourning a love she believed in all this years."

Toto, despite having decades’ worth of experience in reacting within milliseconds (as a former race car driver and as a current Team Principal for a racing team), struggles to comprehend all the information YN’s older brother just uttered in slow succession.

It’s not data for optimization or repair. It’s certainly not for a machine or a brand, nor from a car or a driver.

It’s data from his own daughter, for the belief he let her walk out of his office with. It’s from the divider of her compartmentalization of him finally breaking from his inaction.

"I didn’t erase her." Toto’s voice comes out weaker than he intends. He clears his throat, willing his conviction to translate into all the channels Joshua can immediately observe. "I didn’t erase her. I— I hid her, every sign of her, in a cabinet back in my permanent office. Not because I’m ashamed of her for choosing for herself, but because I’m ashamed of myself for not supporting her choice.

"I couldn’t— I couldn’t live with all the reminder of my failure, so I hid her." He swallows, tasting the bitterness of the truth stripped bare. "I didn’t think I deserve to say her name, either, so I didn’t."

Joshua’s tone doesn’t lift from factual as he states his assessment, "That’s erasure."

Toto’s shoulders sink. He can’t argue with the younger man’s conclusion. He might have not intended to erase her, but the results of his actions—and lack of—say otherwise.

It is erasure, regardless of his intentions.

He has no defense, nor does he want to. He understands it’s warranted; a long overdue reckoning.

Yet, Joshua’s eyes don’t regain any hint of judgment in them. If anything, they soften even further with something he can’t decipher. "YN really is your daughter."

"What—?" He can’t help but blurt, his confusion evident.

YN’s brother doesn’t give him time to dwell on the accidental unprofessionalism. "I believe you, Mr. Wolff, because you show your love the way YN does: purposely understated and easily overlooked." Nor does he give him a moment to completely process the comparison before voicing his truth. "I noticed how frozen in time YN’s hidden corner—the room with the little nook where she used to take a nap—at the garage is, like someone hit pause."

Once more, Toto takes a moment to comprehend the telemetry. He vaguely remembers Ravi mentioning a garage tour YN requested to lead, the same tour that Ravi booked to give a full in-person report on later in the day. However, the quick summary he was given didn’t mention YN revisiting the unused supply room he had turned into their secret quiet corner—much less include her telling her brothers about the memories she made inside.

Only a selected few of the senior staff know of the room. He hasn’t passed on the trick to open the door—nor have the others, as far as he can tell.

"I’m the one who keeps it the same way she left it," he admits. "I wanted it recognizable and ready for her to use if she ever comes to visit."

A part of him wants to say, I wanted it to still feel like home, but he holds the urge back. It doesn’t seem appropriate to say in front of someone who belongs in her new family.

"I figured as much," Joshua accepts his admission with a small nod. "She is incredibly perceptive, but I don’t think she comprehended the gravity of her old sanctuary’s cleanliness amidst her new truth."

He doesn’t need him to spell it out again. He already connected that the pain of erasure overpowered YN’s sharp perception. "That is on me.

"If you and your brothers will allow it, I would like to show YN that Nightingale has always had a place next to her Papa."

The group nap, as far as YN’s concerned, was another great consensus from SEVENTEEN’s democratic process. It did take a minute to get there since no one is more stubborn than her own brothers, but she technically won the 13-1 debate.

Her thirteen brothers were adamant that they were alright with breaching their collaboration contract with Formula One if it meant she didn’t have to stay in a place that causes her a lot of pain, emotional as that pain may be. She, on the other hand, was adamant that they finish their remaining commitments in the paddock and save themselves from the headache of a breached contract—regardless of their genius idea to give F1 more content than they asked for in exchange for relocating their last ‘big’ schedule there to the old circuit for the Korean Grand Prix.

However tempting it is to have an F1-centric Going Seventeen episode, rescheduling and relocating the ‘big’ schedule—a multi-song performance—will be a guaranteed nightmare.

YN really doesn’t want to deal with all of that, her emotional state be damned.

Thankfully, she somehow succeeded in getting her brothers see reason. She considers that a notable feat, especially since her and Vernon are the only ones with ‘T’ in their MBTIs while the rest have ‘F’. The group nap, where she got to hug Jihoon like they were back on the sofa bed in the Universe Factory’s common room, was certainly a welcomed bonus—and a much-needed hard reset before they face the rest of their hours at the paddock.

Thus, there she is: out of her beige-and-white business casual and into a performance outfit with a Mercedes logo centered on her chest. Her makeup has been redone to incorporate tiny silver star stickers forming a tilde running from her right eyebrow, crossing to her nose, and ending on her left cheek—no doubt a tribute to the logo’s nickname, the Silver Star.

It had been a great idea to insist on being styled with a three-pointed star during the costume fitting weeks ago, instead of letting the stylists decide what team she should represent in the shoot. After all, CARATs have only seen her wear Mercedes whenever she felt like wearing Formula One merchandise. (Her old, well-worn Williams ones—those gifted by her Papa back when he worked for the team during her early teens—stayed out of the cameras in every capacity. Those are her sleep clothes—the fabric thinned by more than a decade of washes, the ones she wears in her home: their old dorms, her apartment, her shared studio complex with Jihoon and Bumzu.)

YN doesn’t wear F1 merchandise too often on camera, just enough times over the years for people who paid enough attention to notice. A team driver cap with Lewis’ 44 on the brim has completed her airport outfit a few times, as does one without any driver number. A team driver tee has hid her athletic figure once for one of "Oh My!"’s recorded dance practices and twice for her impromptu solo live streams. A team jacket has been her outerwear for more times than she can count—her Hit the Road episode, one "TTT" episode for Going Seventeen, "Super"’s choreography video, Nana Tour, concert encores.

She knows the ‘people who paid enough attention’ are mostly—if not all—CARATs. But a part of her has dared to hope her Papa is one of them.

She’s aware that continuing to send albums every comeback despite the lack of response might not be seen for what it is. Not a mere proof of life nor a starting line to her current location as she intend them to be, but a salt in a deep wound or a twisted knife in. Not a hand waiting to receive his like she sees each delivery as, but one with a blade extended.

Thus, as a preemptive countermeasure, she coated her own public identity in silver. She has hoped that, when he’s ready to look at her, he’ll see her in his colors and realize her true intentions with the album deliveries.

But, alas. She gave him his eldest’s heart in his own team's colors, and he mistook it for an idol’s endorsement. He has taken her cipher at face value, completely missing the genius he raised.

Now, she’s set to perform in black and silver when she literally just discovered that she has been signaling a green light to an empty street for the past ten years because a last-minute costume exchange is impossible.

YN takes a deep breath.

She looks into the vanity mirror one last time, searing her reflection—the idol raised as an engineer, decked out in her Pa— Vater’s aesthetics—into her mind.

Her hands unconsciously ghost over the stars adorning her face.

The YN that copies the same movement on the other side of the mirror isn’t the same person that set foot on the same paddock twelve years ago. YN Wolff, who preferred to carry her violin like a backpack than a briefcase, whose go-to everyday makeup consisted of winged eyeliner, mascara, and matte lipstick, only saw the features she inherited from her Papa. YN of SEVENTEEN, who hasn’t played "Liebesleid" in twelve years, whose go-to day off makeup is Korean-style no-makeup, only saw the features she inherited from the other half of her blood; from the mother she never met.

Up until she saw the empty spot on her Vater’s desk, the divide between YN Wolff and SEVENTEEN’s YN has been a mere formality—a thin veil over a singularity. They are one and the same, fundamentally and every way that matters. However, with the knowledge that her Vater has kept no trace of her, she is forced to evaluate.

Unfortunately, she has no time to do such things in depth right away, so she has no choice but to put a pin on it until she does.

One thing is for certain, though: she doesn’t recognize who is staring back at her.

She consciously drops her hand as she slowly turns her head from side-to-side, her eyes never leaving the mirror. "어머, 언니," she starts, her voice laced with genuine amazement and natural playfulness, "저 너무 예쁘게 변신시켜준 거 아니에요?" ["Oh my, Haeun, didn’t you make me look way too pretty?"]

Haeun, despite being used to her compliments about her handiwork, chuckles. "어머, 무슨 소리야!" ["Oh my, what are you talking about!"] The stylist smooths out her hair affectionately, and meets her eyes through the mirror. "우리 YN이는 원래 본판이 예뻐서 그래! 내가 한 건 별로 없다니까!" ["Our YN is naturally pretty! I didn’t do much!"]

"아니에요." ["No."] She drags out the last syllable for a second, and lets the playful pout melt into a smile—one that looks softer than her press conference mask, even if the light doesn't quite reach her eyes. "고마워요, 하은 언니." ["Thank you, Haeun."]

"별말을 다 해." ["Don’t mention it."] Haeun helps her on her feet. The older woman guides her towards the door, almost unconsciously. "오늘 가서 사람들 다 심쿵하게 만들고 와!" ["Go out there and make everyone’s hearts flutter!"]

YN lets out a short embarrassed laugh, her head tilted slightly, "글쎄?" ["Maybe?"] She then gives a little wink and a two-finger salute she picked up from Jeonghan, "노력은 해볼게요." ["I’ll try my best."]

Haeun’s affectionate "너 진짜 네 형제들하고 똑같다!" ["You’re really just like your brothers!"] is the last thing she heard before she closes the door of the designated styling room with a quiet click.

The smile that blooms for no one else to see lights up her entire face, including her eyes.

After all, to be loved is to be calibrated to the same standard.

The assigned guest room for SEVENTEEN inside the Mercedes motorhome—the "borrowed base," as Wonwoo called it earlier, no doubt a jargon learned from his gaming hobby—goes unusually silent the second she opens the door to enter.

If there is one thing SEVENTEEN is known for in music shows’ cramped waiting rooms, it’s the group’s sheer volume. She has seen compilation videos from other idol groups’ contents filmed in waiting rooms where their voices—mostly Seokmin’s—were audible in the background. Their loudness is never intentional, of course, but it is natural. After all, fourteen people are more than what some sport teams put out on the field at a time.

(Some more members and they would’ve had enough bodies to be their own Formula One pit crew.)

YN pauses, her hand still on the door. She doesn’t need any more tells from the thirteen people located deeper into the room—the sudden silence, the loose spread from the couches and the carpeted floor, and the wide eyes of deers caught in headlights are more than enough.

They are talking about her.

Given the day she has had so far, it’s not surprising. Her brothers—the nine older and four younger ones—are just as perceptive and protective as they are sentimental and whimsical. She can’t blame them for conferring, nor does she find them at any fault. It’s just standard procedure whenever any of them fourteen are going through something difficult. By this point, in their twelve years together (ten years as idols plus the two years they spent within the Melona room’s green walls as trainees), it’s subconsciously expected.

YN remembers sitting in a similar conference a handful of times over the years. They have held more than five in total, but the most notable ones for her were the unscheduled strategy discussions about Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Seungkwan. Heavy emphasis on their general leader because they got caught mid-discussion.

Just like how she obviously caught them right now.

She raises an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. "시간 더 필요해?" ["Do you guys need more time?"] Her voice remains flat, her tone dry. However, she can’t stop the teasing smirk that forms at the corner of her mouth. "나 밖에서 기다려 줄까?" ["If you guys want, shall I wait outside?"]

"아니—" ["No—"] Joshua, her third eldest brother, recovers first. Like her, the logo of the Formula One team he’s representing for the upcoming performance rests on his sternum: the Haas F1 Team’s circled H sits proudly between his ribs. Like her, black takes majority of his outfit’s coloring with the second team color—red, in his case—acting as an accent. "Stay. We’re good."

She, understandably, isn’t convinced. "정말?" ["Are you sure?"]

"네, 누나." ["Yes, YN."] Chan replies more convincingly with the perpetually dramatic sigh of being the fourteenth youngest. As much being the only girl is a challenge, having twelve older brothers and an older sister has its own challenges as well. Especially when those thirteen older siblings’ adoration for him often manifests in playful bullying. "믿어주세요." ["Please believe us."]

Only then does the unaddressed tension in the air seem to exit through the door she’s still holding open. YN’s teasing smirk extends to a low chuckle at her younger brother’s dramatics. His borderline pleading eyes are a sight to see, given his current ensemble’s color palette: scarlet red with white. She almost mistakes it as another take on Haas’ aesthetics—maybe even on Alfa Romeo’s—if not for the patches of yellow by his shoulders. With the yellow, his outfit becomes the styling department’s effort to pay homage to Michael Schumacher and Kimi Raikkonen Ferrari eras, since the racing suits then notably have way more white than the current design.

Contrast to Chan’s verbal response, Wonwoo merely catches her eyes and wordlessly pats the spot between him and Junhui. His round, thin-rimmed eyeglasses, despite being scheduled to be removed right before the cameras start rolling, go well with the pink and blue—in more vibrant shades than SEVENTEEN’s official colors, Rose Quartz and Serenity—his styling favors heavily over the white. Contrast to her needing a second to correctly identify Chan’s F1 team personification, her categorization of Wonwoo’s outfit clicks in an instant: Alpine.

"들어올 때 문 좀 닫아줘," ["Please close the door when you come in,"] Vernon politely requests while flattening the collar of his dandelion yellow and cyan blue—definitely classic Renault—leather jacket over his plain white shirt. "도겸이형 . . . 위키드 . . ." ["Dokyeom . . . Wicked . . ."]

YN doesn’t need any more than that. The shenanigans they were up to when the clock struck midnight in their hotel earlier is still relatively fresh in her mind. "알았어." ["Alright."]

She closes the door with a definitive click, sealing them and their impending volume inside their borrowed soundproof base.

She crosses the room in quick, relaxed strides. She subconsciously catalogues the fact that Haeun and the rest of the styling department used black/white as the unifying colors for their costumes—guaranteeing that the fourteen of them still look like one group despite donning colors of different rival teams.

Her two older brothers, the fourth and the sixth, unconsciously move to give her more space as she approaches the spot on the couch that Wonwoo patted for her. Her head immediately finds the way to Junhui’s shoulder as soon as she melts to claim it.

"준휘오빠," she starts, her voice a whisper amidst the growing volume around them, "너 오늘 귤 닮았다." ["Junhui, you look like a tangerine today."]

Junhui has no problem matching her dry wit, "McLaren 들으면 너 죽는다. 걔 파파야에 진심이야." ["You’re dead if McLaren hears you. They’re serious about papaya."]

YN laughs, instantly adapting a teasing lilt, "완전 그쪽 사람 다 됐네." ["You’re already becoming one of them."]

"메소드 연기" ["Method acting"] is all he replies but, in true seasoned actor fashion, conveys more than a playfully smug tone of an older brother. She doesn’t need to look up at him to feel the affection and the warmth. Nor does she need to look around to sense the relief that seems to have filled the air as soon as she laughed.

Wonwoo scoots closer as he adjusts his glasses just before Jeonghan calls her attention from the other couch. "월피," ["Wolfie,"] he begins with the nickname he coined based on her surname, which served as their other nickname for her, "우리가 너 진짜 많이 사랑하는 거 알지?" ["you know we love you a lot, right?"]

YN doesn’t flinch at either displays of affection. She has had twelve years to get used to how easy they say—and show—their affections, and she has also had the same dozen years to get comfortable receiving and reciprocating them.

Her brain doesn’t find the need to rationalize their random bursts of affection. She never needs to. It’s a constant, like gravity.

Just like then. Back when her Williams shirts weren’t as thin and faded as they are now; before her Williams team cap had fraying edges. Back when she took naps on her Papa’s office couch instead of a borrowed motorhome room’s carpeted floor and had a quiet corner to copy the projected blueprints during his meetings to pass time. Back when she was her Papa’s shadow, his little engineer, and his nightingale, all at once.

Still, she finds it slightly ironic that her second eldest brother is currently coated in Williams’ colors. Especially since he looks every bit like the angel he’s been nicknamed as since debut. "알았어." ["I know."]

"야—" ["Yah—"]

"나도 너네 진짜 많이 사랑해," ["I love you guys a lot, too,"] YN adds before Seungcheol can finish his playful whine about the lack of a reciprocation. "More than you know."

That includes you, too, still—against my better judgment.

The volume, just as she—and her brothers and anyone who had ever worked with all fourteen members of SEVENTEEN at once—expected, soared past reasonable decibel levels.

Seokmin had already belted out the infamous "Defying Gravity" war cry thrice, hitting every note while sitting casually on the floor. He was entirely uncaring that his stage outfit is mostly white, or that the Racing Bulls’ signature blue and green is concentrated on his top half. Seungkwan, in his Sauber-inspired and "Thunder" stage-reminiscent green and black stage wear, had also joined in.

So did Jihoon, albeit not of his own accord. That, too, was a sight to see: his arms were nonchalantly crossed—a posture that would have hindered anyone else’s lung capacity—while the Red Bull insignia stretched across his midsection.

Then their self-made background soundtrack shifted seamlessly into the closing notes of "No One Mourns the Wicked." Because, of course, it did. They have just rewatched the Wicked movie before they flew to the circuit: the songs were still far too fresh in their minds.

Amidst the flying high notes, they took photos for the group’s social media and their personal accounts. Aside from the mandatory staff-taken group photos, both as a complete fourteen and as team units, they also took various member-taken group ones. After all, it wasn’t everyday that they collaborate with the F1 organization and don marks of the teams they grew up watching.

YN, in particular, snapped a few selcas with Junhui and Wonwoo flanking her, all three grinning from ear-to-ear. She took a couple with Soonyoung, too, their cheeks pressed together to highlight the facial embellishments Haeun had applied: silver stars for her, faux eyebrow slits for him. The constellation across her face included seven prominent stars—a nod to the seven World Championships under Lewis Hamilton’s belt. Meanwhile, the two slits on both of Soonyoung’s eyebrows represented the four titles each held by Sebastian Vettel and Max Verstappen.

She posed for a few photos with Minghao as well, who was also styled in Mercedes colors, though his palette was a crisp white-and-teal accented by silver arrow hair clips. Then, they called over the rest of their 97-line for a few more: her older Irish twins—Seokmin in his Racing Bulls blue-green-white and Mingyu in his Ferrari red-black—sandwiched her, the four of them standing in total defiance of birth order.

As her eighth eldest brother Seokmin bursts into the theatrical version of "For Good," YN’s mischief returns in the form of teasing the first eldest.

"승철오빠," ["Seungcheol,"] she calls his attention with a tone she knows he will recognize, purposely extending the last syllable of his title in relation to her, "Aston Martin green은 너한테 좀 과한 거 아냐?" ["isn’t Aston Martin green a bit too high-class for you?"]

YN, of course, doesn’t mean a word. There’s just something amusing about purposely messing with her easy-to-sulk leader. She knows, unlike her who had requested her F1 team and the rest who were assigned by the styling department, her eldest brother is bound by contract. He’s a current global ambassador for BOSS, which is an Aston Martin F1 Team sponsor. As such, Aston Martin is implicitly the only costume choice for him.

Though, YN personally thinks Seungcheol embodies the Red Bull aura more. After all, strangers—notably other idols—always find him intimidating, even if he’s not doing anything to warrant the intimidation.

"뭐라냐?" ["What are you even saying?"] Excuse you? is the manifestation of his offense. "내가—" ["I—"]

A knock interrupts Seungcheol’s offended sulk.

Once more, a hush falls over the room. However, in contrast to the silence that greeted her entrance, this one is out of respectful intrigue. Their staff—the ones who have been around long enough, at least—know to enter after knocking, since they’ll have better chances of being heard amidst a fourteen-people chaos if they’re not speaking through a door.

However, the person on the other side doesn’t seem to know the custom, for they just knocked again—louder this time—and called through the door. "SEVENTEEN?"

It’s Ravi, the Mercedes representative assigned to care for SEVENTEEN. The poor soul who has to be their gatekeeper from Mercedes’ resources.

"그분께 감사 선물 좀 보내드리자," ["We should send him a thank-you gift,"] Minghao suggests thoughtfully, his eyes locked on the door as most of them.

Wonwoo agrees without a second of thought, his mind presumably cataloging everything Ravi had to do for them so far, "그러게, 꼭 보내드리자." ["Yeah, we definitely should."]

Chan—who coincidentally stands closest to the door with all the shuffling they’ve done—doesn’t wait for a discussion to break, he simply opens the door. "Hello!"

"Hello, Mr. DINO," Ravi greets back. "Is Ms. YN inside? I have someone in the next room who wants to talk to her."

YN consciously ignores the look her brothers give one another. She has no time to dwell on the suspicion that they know something she doesn’t, especially with a Mercedes representative by the doorway.

She pokes her head around Jihoon’s standing frame, her neutral mask back in place. "I’m here!"

Ravi waits for her to halt next to their youngest before continuing, "Ms. YN, I’ve been instructed to only say that you knew them from before—right before you moved to Seoul."

Right before. That about narrows it down to the Mercedes’ senior figures, past and present. After all, her last months of her pre-idol training years was spent getting acquainted with her Papa’s new co-workers since he moved from Williams to Mercedes.

In short, she has no idea who the person in the other room can possibly be.

It’s definitely not her Papa, though.

"I see." YN doesn’t turn her entire body when she addresses her brothers behind her. She instinctively places a hand on Chan’s back. "나 갔다 올게." ["I’ll go and come back."]

She doesn’t wait, because people of the paddock are allergic to waiting. She doesn’t want to accidentally offend whoever is in the other room. She doesn’t have any intentions of causing an issue that will likely follow SEVENTEEN out of the paddock, either.

As Ravi leads her to the next room he speaks of, which apparently is nowhere near the soundproof room loaned to them, YN opts to spend her energy building a theory on who the person may be. Not to build an expectation or anticipation, but to merely occupy herself so her mind can’t be corrupted by the same thoughts she tried to bury with a nap.

YN immediately eliminates Tony Ross, Nico Rosberg’s (later Valtteri Bottas’) race engineer—for the sole reason that Tony doesn’t work at the F1 paddock anymore, as far as she’s aware.

So does Nico Rosberg, albeit he occasionally works for Sky Sports in covering Grand Prix rounds. Since today is an early weekday, she highly doubts Nico is around to report—much less to catch up with the girl who used to follow him and Lewis around twelve years ago.

She takes Peter Bonnington out of consideration as well, because Bono obviously didn’t recognize her during their quick interaction earlier. Unless, of course, he suddenly remembers the fifteen-year-old girl that used to ask him about telemetry and ultimately realizes who she is.

She’s not certain of what to think of those that left Mercedes, but stayed on the F1 paddock. James Vowles has the entire Williams Racing team to run now, a responsibility as heavy as her Vater’s. Lewis Hamilton has the whole Ferrari team—and culture—to get used to as well, having moved to the Italian team from this season and onwards. There is simply no time for either of them to linger in now-enemy territory.

Which leaves her with Andrew Shovlin. She didn’t catch him during the garage tour she took her members and George Russell on but, even then, she doubts Shov recalls a menace from twelve seasons ago. Especially if that menace just disappeared with an unexplained "I’m moving to Seoul."

Ravi breaks her reverie by finally halting in front of a door. He doesn’t comment on her almost bumping into him. He simply opens the door and steps aside to let her through, "I’ll wait here, Ms. YN."

YN nods in affirmation. "Thank you, Ravi."

She doesn’t allow herself a single second of hesitation. She dons her unreadable professional mask with practiced ease, her composure hardening into something impenetrable before she even crosses the threshold.

The sterile, corporate smell of eucalyptus and industrial expense hits her first. Then the scarlet red—

"Lewis," she breathes off-guard before regaining her armor. She clears her throat in reset, for a second chance to embody the rigorous idol training she underwent for two years. "Sir Hamilton."

"Lewis is fine," Lewis corrects with the warmth she remembers from twelve years ago, "unless you want me to call you ‘Ms. Kang’?"

Kang. The Korean surname Pledis gave her, the same way they gave Junhui ‘Moon’ and Minghao ‘Seo.’ Not because it’s essentially the same name like Wen-Moon and Xu-Seo, but because Kang embodies the strength and power that comes with the name Wolff the best. It’s the only surname connected to her public identity, albeit she’s more commonly known mononymously by her first name/stage name YN.

(The ‘real name’ section of her Namu Wiki profile only says "YN," with no surname. "Kang" only appears in her public profiles that has ‘Korean name’ sections for foreign/foreign-born idols. She might be tight-lipped about her family, but she is not a liar.)

For Lewis to know her public surname, when all she left him was ‘Seoul’ . . .

YN relaxes her posture with a grin, willing the professional steel of her spine and her shoulders to melt like ice. "YN for me, then."

The Rosso Corsa on him, where Mercedes colors used to drape, is irrelevant the second he smiles. The lines of team rivalry instantly turn into mere chalk drawings on asphalt the moment he opens his arms for a hug. "You’ve been busy, Engineer Nightingale."

YN enters with the same speed and enthusiasm she reserves for the thirteen people waiting for her, completely abandoning professional decorum for familial warmth. "So have you, Seven-time World Champion."

She closes her eyes when he chuckles, tightening her hold to let herself savor the vibrations of his happiness. "I heard SEVENTEEN won Artist of the Year and Album of the Year recently. Congratulations."

"Thank you," her voice comes out lower than she intends. "That means a lot, coming from you."

"Of course." He pats her back with the same hand that did so when she was fifteen and was bidding a farewell she wasn’t sure the expiration of; the same hand that steered straight into six more titles after she left. "I’ve always known you’re destined for great things, YN."

She lets out a low, embarrassed chuckle. She may have been performing all her life, but she still doesn’t know how to receive compliments—even with twelve years of supposedly getting used to them as an idol trainee and an idol.

"How did you—" YN isn’t sure how to finish her inquiry. How did you know I’m in SEVENTEEN? How did you know about the MAMA Grand Prizes?

After all, Pledis Entertainment only put her in consideration for the SEVENTEEN lineup roughly a month after her training started. She boarded Flight OZ731 not knowing she’ll eventually be starring in Seventeen TV, much less that she’ll eventually be the only girl of a fourteen-membered boy group.

Lewis, thankfully, doesn’t need any more prompting. "I met S. Coups at the Met Gala earlier this year. He said he was there for BOSS, but what intrigued me was his leader position in a Kpop group called SEVENTEEN with only fourteen total members." She hears him laugh as she affectionately presses the constellation on her face onto his Ferrari gear, trusting the unbudging formula of her stage makeup to let her breathe the closest scent of her childhood without any worries. "I searched up the group out of curiosity, and found you. And everything you guys have been up to for the past ten years."

YN chooses that second to pull apart from the hug, partly because she can tell he has no plans of initiating the separation himself. Her "oh" is more than an exhale of comprehension, but also one of silent relief. ‘Ten years’ meant Lewis’ research wasn’t deep enough to unearth their two years in the Melona green room for Seventeen TV, where she was barely learning how to perform and communicate in Korean; where she and the others mostly did whatever they wanted until Pledis staff gave them missions to complete; where they learned to listen to Soonyoung when he’s running dance practice like the army, to never mess with Jihoon especially when he has a guitar in his hand, and to follow Seungcheol’s lead whenever he’s trying to get them out of trouble.

"Did he say he’s a big fan of you?" She tilts her head in genuine wonder, her eyes dancing in mischief. "Because he definitely is. He spammed our group chat as soon as he was off the clock that day."

(Seungcheol might be the general leader, her unit leader, and the only member she really obeys, but she’s also her brother.)

"Not quite," Lewis shakes his head lightly, unable to hide his amusement. "But I’m assuming that’s your influence?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny," she grins. "On a completely unrelated note . . . I have thirteen people who will probably forget how to breathe when you enter the room. Do you have time to meet my members?"