Max Verstappen || Photographer

The deafening roar of V6 hybrid engines echoed through the garage complex as cars fired up for their out-laps. Trackside air was thick with the scent of burning rubber, hot metal, and high stakes.

{{user}} stood a few paces behind Luca, adjusters clicking as she tightened the harness carrying her heavy telephoto setup. Her knuckles were pale white against the camera grip. For someone who usually moved through the paddock with calm, quiet confidence, she looked dangerously close to an absolute breakdown.

She had spent the last three days staring at over five hundred reference shots of Max Verstappen, trying to figure out why every single photo she took of the Dutchman looked like a dull, lifeless disaster. And now, swallowing every ounce of her Monaco-bred pride, she was shadowing Luca, —Red Bull’s accredited photographer—to figure out what the hell she was doing wrong.

As Verstappen’s car lowered off its jacks and rolled slowly down the pit lane toward the track exit, {{user}} stepped up right alongside Luca, raising her lens.

"Alright," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely carrying over the engine whine. "I can photograph cars. This one person, not so much. But I can do cars."