The FIA could be the body to determine when the crossing would be erased from Luca's name, allowing him to participate in official races. But they definitely were not capable of stopping him from directly engaging with a Dallara at team training, drills and sessions.
After 4 days, Luca had completed 65% of the drug test clearance. And now, he was getting dressed in a Trampos Veststar ready to begin today's drills.
As he had expected, the FIA-approved facility was the same one located at the Berlin Federation subquarter at the edge of the city. Dr. Weiss was still the same person in charge, and was even more serious with this task.
Luca was relieved because he didn't notice expressions from the workers which might hint that they were discovering something. He left the place with hopeful spirits, eager to come in the next three days as he was instructed.
"Do you think they'll drag this out?" Haas asked Luca as they suited up in their racing gear for the day's training session.
They were in the uniform room, surrounded by rows of identical wardrobes filled with team attire and cabinets stacked with helmets. The distant hum of engines and the chatter of crew members drifted in through the slim windows and the open door.
Luca, finishing off the last bit of glucose he had been licking, wiped his lips and dusted his hands before reaching for his neatly draped gear on the bench.
"I don't know," he finally answered. "Maybe they are, maybe it's just taking the time it needs. I haven't exactly been through this before. Have you?"
Haas scoffed. "You even need to ask?"
"At least a dozen times, if I can remember."
Luca paused, surprised. A dozen times?
"And how many ended up guilty?"
"Eight," Haas replied without hesitation.
Luca nodded. That made sense. Realistically speaking, if someone wasn't guilty, there wouldn't be enough suspicion to trigger an investigation in the first place.
"Out of the eight I know," Haas continued, "four got suspended for months, three for an entire season, and one... well, one got a total ban from the track. They stripped him of his license."
Luca nodded again. He knew exactly who that one unlucky driver was. Everyone did.
Kim Winther. The Danish Formula 1 racer who had entered the sport with high expectations but left just as quickly.
He drove for Nevada for just one season—promising, talented, everything they said he was—until a two-month screening test was conducted following an accusation filed by the hotel management that had hosted Nevada HanSama during their then Swedish Grand Prix.
It turned out a few cleaners had spotted packs of some really bad zaza that no professional driver should ever have in his possession.
And just like that, one talented driver had his career signed off early—at the age of 23.
"And his tests took a whole two months," Haas added.
"And his tests took a whole two months indeed," Luca repeated, grabbing his Veststar and slipping it on. "I know I've taken nothing. So I won't worry about it. If they decide to stretch this out, I can't stop them. All they can do is try not to make it obvious."
Haas nodded understandingly, watching and studying Luca as he donned his Veststar.
He noticed the way Luca did something different. Instead of slipping his arms straight into the sleeves like anyone else would, he first draped the suit over his shoulders and let it hang there for a moment, as if he was testing the weight.
Then, instead of feeding one arm at a time, he crossed his arms over his chest and pulled both sleeves inward, almost like he was hugging himself before thrusting his arms through in one smooth motion.
It looked odd at first—almost unnecessary—but by the time the suit settled onto his body, it fit just as seamlessly as if he had put it on the normal way.
Luca then shrugged his shoulders and firmly tugged at his waist. Miraculously, it was locked in place, no different from anyone else.
Haas narrowed his eyes. "Why do you put it on like that?"
Luca cracked his neck and reached for his gloves. "Oh, that? That was Ansel's style. Just remembered it now and thought I'd try it out," he said casually, slipping his fingers into the gloves. Turning to Haas, he added, "Guess you guys didn't spend enough time together for you to notice."
Haas shrugged and picked up his helmet. He was already dressed and ready to go. "Trust me when I tell you if you learnt Han's dressing style was because he let you not because of the amount of time you teamed up," he said, waving his hand. "C'mon, let's head out."
Luca stood for a moment, watching Haas step out into the sunlit track. He adjusted the straps on his gloves, made sure everything was in place, then grabbed his unnumbered helmet and followed.
"HOLA! HOLA! LUCA, AMIGO!"
The voice rang out across the track, cutting through the hum of the crew working nearby. Luca squinted against the glare bouncing off the asphalt, scanning the area. A large group of Trampos crew members was gathered on one side of the track, while a few others were scattered around.
"YOU FORGET YOUR SOMBRERO OR WHAT?!"
Luca lifted his helmet slightly, making sure they saw it.
The sun was relentless—not scorching, but bright enough to make everything shimmer. He spotted Haas in the distance, already jogging toward the group. Without breaking stride, Luca slipped on his helmet, fastened the strap underneath his chin, and shut the visor.
Instantly, the intensity of the sunlight reduced drastically to a softer, more comfortable glow within his helmet. The sudden contrast made everything appear clearer, sharper, as if the world had just been mellowed.
Watching Luca, their now €8m worth driver walk across the track was Mr. Fisher and Mrs. Doyle up in the main glass building. He walked confidently though his shoulders were bouncing up and down as he chuckled, the team hollering some joke as he approached.
To the crew members, it was like a normal walk across the asphalt, but for the management up above, it felt as though, almost a poetic illustration of Luca walking away from Trampos.