Chapter Twenty Three – Seoul Friday
Elena Archer – Seoul Circuit Media Centre
The Seoul paddock was in full swing by the time I reached the media centre.
The hum of conversation, the clicking of keyboards, the buzz of camera crews—it all blended into the familiar soundtrack of a race weekend.
I’d passed three drivers, two team principals, and what I was pretty sure was a K-Pop idol before I even reached the coffee station.
My badge got me through the security doors. Graham had peeled off after breakfast to chase down a contact at Pulse—something about a rumour involving sponsor conflicts—and left me with a list of people he wanted quotes from before lunch.
But that wasn’t what I was really here for.
I scanned the media centre, eyes flicking over familiar faces. Journalists, photographers, a couple of team comms liaisons tapping at tablets… and then I saw her, face lit up with a laugh.
“Caroline,” I said as I drew near. She gave me a small wave and finished her conversation with one of her colleagues.
“Hey,” she said, turning her attention to me. “So apparently, Hawthorn’s new PR woman is a crisis management specialist.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, perching on the edge of the nearby desk. “Is she going to fix Moretti’s damaged reputation?”
“I believe that’s the plan.”
“Good luck to her.”
“Sour grapes, darling?” Caroline asked, fussing with some paperwork. “You two were very friendly last weekend.”
“And then he punched Aleks and didn’t take kindly to me writing about it. I was hardly the only one.”
“Aleks?” She skirted the rest of what I’d said and gave me a pointed look.
“Volkov.” I rushed to cover my tracks. “Tall, Estonian, reigning champion? I thought you reported on this stuff.”
She let out a snort of laughter and shook her magnificent hair. “Sure.”
“So, I wanted to ask…” I stalled, playing with a loose thread on my skirt.
“What?” She stilled and focused on me, a slight frown on her sculpted brow.
“If you wanted to get the best gossip from someone at the FIA, who would you talk to?”
“Oh,” she moved around the desk and perched next to me. “That’s a juicy question. I assume you mean more than the latest intern to fall into Jax Rivers’ bed?”
I pressed my lips together. “Yeah. More like, you know… Secrets?” I whispered the last word.
Caroline leaned closer. “I smell what you’re hinting at. That’s an interesting twist in the story.”
“I’m just gathering information,” I said, putting my hands up in surrender. “Nothing inflammatory to see here.”
“Yeah, sure.” She grinned and nodded. “You want to talk to Jimmy Styles.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He works in Race Control. He’s not high enough to make big decisions, but he has his ear to the ground. I get good tips from him from time to time.”
“Great. Where would I find him?”
“Right now, he’ll be in the control room, but when the current practice session finishes he’ll be on the paddock somewhere getting lunch, I expect.”
“You’re a star, thanks. What does he look like?”
Caroline laughed, pulled out her phone and pulled up a picture of him.
A couple of hours later, armed with a mental snapshot of Jimmy Styles—mid-thirties, floppy hair, slight overbite, polo shirt tucked into jeans like he’d never left the early 2000s—I made my way out of the media centre and back into the blinding midday sun.
The Seoul paddock was buzzing post-practice. Drivers in branded polos strode between hospitality suites and media stations. Team personnel hauled gear or hovered around data displays, and a handful of VIPs in oversized sunglasses pretended they belonged. It smelled like burnt rubber and ambition.
I weaved through the crowd, scanning faces until I spotted him.
Jimmy was seated at one of the shaded outdoor tables near the hospitality row, picking at a plate of noodles with chopsticks and deep in conversation with two other FIA staffers—both older, both in navy shirts bearing the official crest. He laughed at something one of them said, then gestured animatedly with his chopsticks, nearly flinging a mushroom across the table.
I slowed my pace, hovering just beyond their table, pretending to check my messages while I waited for an opening.
That’s when I felt it—that tingle between my shoulder blades. Not just being watched. Tracked.
I glanced up.
Across the paddock, near the entrance to the FIA media centre, stood a tall blonde woman.
Pale hair slicked into a severe bun, dark sunglasses hiding half her face.
But it was her stillness that made my stomach clench.
Everyone else was in motion—walking, talking, working. She stood stock-still, facing me.
Recognition shot through me. She’d been keeping an eye on me in Suzuka too.
I turned away fast, heart spiking. Could she tell I’d recognised her? Probably. I wasn’t subtle. Idiot. Maybe it wasn’t even her. Maybe I was just being paranoid.
But paranoia was starting to feel more like self-preservation. I should walk away, but this was my best lead. I hated to follow it while under scrutiny. But my moment was fast approaching.
I edged closer to Jimmy’s table, timing it so I reached him just as the others got up—one off to a meeting, the other muttering something about comms checks. Jimmy slurped up the last of his noodles and dropped the chopsticks into the empty bowl, then wiped his mouth on a paper napkin.
“Jimmy Styles?” I asked, stepping into the shade of the table umbrella.
He squinted up at me. “That’s me. You’re…?”
“Elena Archer. I write for IMR.”
“Oh, right.” He gave a sheepish smile and gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Heard of it. You guys don’t pull punches.”
“I try not to,” I said, taking the seat. “Mind if I steal five minutes?”
“Sure. As long as you don’t ask me anything that’ll get me fired.”
I leaned in slightly. “I’m chasing a background thread. Nothing on the record—just… off-the-books curiosity.”
He tilted his head, intrigued but cautious. “That sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not.” I smiled. “I’m looking into FIA enforcement habits—more specifically, parc fermé.”
He raised a brow. “I’m not a scrutineer.”
“I know. But Caroline said you know everyone who is.”
He chuckled. “She’s not wrong. I’ve been in Race Control since 2014. You stick around long enough, you see who plays by the book and who keeps the eraser handy.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I’m not asking you to name names. Just… does anyone have a reputation for looking the other way?”
He looked thoughtful, nudging his chopsticks in the bowl.
“There’s always someone. The trick is knowing why. Favouritism. Fatigue. Pressure from above.” He tapped the table with two fingers. “Most people assume the FIA is one big rulebook on legs, but it’s still made up of humans. And humans make deals. Or mistakes.”
“Anything I should be looking at in particular?” I asked. “Patterns? Certain circuits? Certain officials?”
Jimmy sighed and pushed his bowl aside. “If something fishy’s happening under parc fermé, your best bet is to follow the chain of supervision. Not the big bosses—they’re too public. Look for mid-level staff with access and just enough authority to be useful. People who blend in.”
“Any names?”
He hesitated. Then, “If I were digging into this—which I’m not—I’d start by looking at who logs the seal reports. And who’s responsible for verifying them. That’s where the wiggle room lives.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “That helps.”
Jimmy gave me a pointed look. “You didn’t hear it from me. I like my job.”
“Your secret’s safe.”
He stood and stretched, slinging his lanyard over his shoulder. “Careful, Archer. Dig too deep, and you’ll find dirt under your fingernails you can’t wash off.”
“Journalism’s messy,” I said. “But I’ve got good soap.”
He gave me one last look, like he was trying to decide if I was brave or stupid.
Then he walked away.
I stayed seated after Jimmy left, pretending to scroll through my notes. The other tables emptied around me as staff filtered back to their posts. Conversations faded. The clatter of cutlery dulled. Just long enough for the hum of anxiety to crawl back in.
I glanced around the seating area casually—too casually, probably.
And there she was.
The same blonde woman. Now seated a few tables away.
She wasn’t staring directly at me. She was eating and talking quietly with someone else in a white FIA shirt.
But her body was angled just enough that I couldn’t help noticing the line of her gaze drift my way every few seconds. Not obvious. Just… deliberate.
I turned back to my phone, fingers hovering over the screen without moving.
What was it Graham always said?
When in doubt, assume they’re watching.
I packed up slowly, trying not to rush, trying not to let my imagination spiral. She could’ve just been a comms officer. A paddock regular with resting espionage face. Or she could’ve been waiting for someone else entirely.
But as I walked away, I didn’t look back.
Because I already knew she was still watching me.
I left the paddock with the thought that I was getting far too close to the truth.