Leaving the sterile patina of the integration vault felt like stepping out of a cold room and into a desert.
As the group took an outside escalator to the second wing of the storage housing, the appearance shifted from laboratory white to the familiar, oily grit of a racing garage.
Luca saw some irony in this.
There was an imbalance in the utility speed of the racing world. While millions of euros fuelled projects, both successful and failed ones, the actual salvation was usually found in a room that smelled of industrial degreaser and stale espresso.
It was funny realizing that the global pride of the Ferrari nameplate could, in its rawest form, be reduced to a few crates of specialized carbon and the calloused hands of three men in grease-stained jumpsuits.
Inside the secondary wing, the space was more functional than the last. The three crew members were currently occupied in the corner doing bystander work as Mr. Roland and his escorts entered.
