#Grid Analytics

[legarski]

Industry 4.0: Powering the Next Industrial Revolution with Intelligence, Connectivity, and Automation

The world is undergoing a radical transformation. As we move deeper into the 21st century, the fusion of digital, physical, and biological systems is reshaping how we manufacture, operate, and innovate. This revolution has a name: Industry 4.0—the fourth industrial revolution. It represents a new era where smart technology, real-time data, automation, and interconnected networks converge to…

[electronalytics]

Global Distribution Management System Market Huge Demand, Trends, Scope, Opportunity by 2032

Overview of the DMS Market:

The DMS market has been growing steadily over the years, driven by the need for efficient and optimized distribution processes in various industries. The market encompasses software solutions and services that help organizations manage and enhance their distribution operations, supply chain management, and logistics processes.

Advanced Distribution Management System Market Size Worth $9.69 Billion By 2030 | CAGR: 20.1% ·

Latest technological developments, opportunities, demand, and trends in the Global Distribution Management System (DMS) Market:

Latest Technological Developments:

Advanced Data Analytics and AI: Distribution Management Systems are incorporating advanced data analytics and artificial intelligence (AI) to process vast amounts of data generated by smart grids. AI algorithms enable predictive analytics, anomaly detection, and optimization of grid operations.

Integration with IoT and Sensors: The integration of IoT devices and sensors enables real-time data collection from various points within the distribution grid. This data is used for monitoring equipment health, load balancing, fault detection, and predictive maintenance.

Edge Computing: Edge computing is being applied in DMS to process data locally, reducing latency and enabling faster decision-making. This is particularly important for real-time applications, such as fault detection and grid optimization.

Digital Twin Technology: Digital twin technology creates virtual models of the distribution grid, allowing operators to simulate scenarios, test new configurations, and optimize grid operations without disrupting the actual system.

Visualization and User Interfaces: User-friendly and intuitive visualization interfaces are being developed to provide operators with real-time insights into the distribution grid's performance, enabling efficient decision-making.

Opportunities:

Grid Modernization: The shift toward smarter and more efficient power distribution systems presents a significant opportunity for DMS solutions. Utilities and energy companies are looking to modernize their grid infrastructure to accommodate distributed energy resources, electric vehicles, and smart technologies.

Renewable Energy Integration: As renewable energy sources grow in adoption, DMS solutions play a crucial role in managing the integration of intermittent resources into the grid, ensuring stability and reliability.

Energy Efficiency: DMS solutions provide tools for optimizing energy distribution, reducing energy losses, and improving overall grid efficiency. These capabilities align with energy efficiency goals and regulations.

Resilience and Grid Reliability: DMS systems enhance grid resilience by enabling quicker fault detection and restoration. As extreme weather events become more frequent, there's a growing need for resilient grid management.

Microgrid Integration: The integration of microgrids with the main distribution system requires advanced control and coordination, which DMS solutions can provide. Microgrids enhance energy resilience and localized power generation.

Demand and Trends:

Smart Grid Implementation: The demand for DMS is driven by the growing adoption of smart grid technologies. Utilities are looking for comprehensive solutions that can effectively manage the complexity of modern grid operations.

Regulatory Compliance: Regulatory requirements related to grid efficiency, renewable energy integration, and reliability are pushing utilities to invest in DMS solutions to meet these standards.

Data-Driven Decision-Making: The trend is shifting towards data-driven decision-making in grid management. DMS solutions provide real-time data and analytics that empower operators to make informed choices for grid optimization and fault management.

Cloud-Based Solutions: The trend towards cloud computing is also influencing DMS deployments. Cloud-based DMS solutions offer scalability, flexibility, and easier integration with other digital tools.

Cybersecurity Focus: With increased digitalization, cybersecurity is a critical trend. DMS solutions are incorporating robust cybersecurity measures to protect the grid from cyber threats.

Workforce Automation: DMS solutions are incorporating automation and predictive maintenance features, reducing the manual workload for grid operators and enabling proactive maintenance.

The Global Distribution Management System market is evolving rapidly due to technological advancements, changing energy landscapes, and the need for efficient grid management. These trends and opportunities are reshaping the way utilities and energy companies manage and optimize their distribution networks.

We recommend referring our Stringent datalytics firm, industry publications, and websites that specialize in providing market reports. These sources often offer comprehensive analysis, market trends, growth forecasts, competitive landscape, and other valuable insights into this market.

By visiting our website or contacting us directly, you can explore the availability of specific reports related to this market. These reports often require a purchase or subscription, but we provide comprehensive and in-depth information that can be valuable for businesses, investors, and individuals interested in this market. “Remember to look for recent reports to ensure you have the most current and relevant information.”

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Market Segmentations:

Global Distribution Management System Market: By Company

• ABB

• General Electric

• Schneider Electric

• Siemens

• Oracle

• Indra Sistemas

• Survalent Technology

• Advanced Control Systems

Global Distribution Management System Market: By Type

• Hardware

• Software

• Service

Global Distribution Management System Market: By Application

• Industrial

• Commercial

• Residential

Global Distribution Management System Market: Regional Analysis

The regional analysis of the global Distribution Management System market provides insights into the market's performance across different regions of the world. The analysis is based on recent and future trends and includes market forecast for the prediction period. The countries covered in the regional analysis of the Distribution Management System market report are as follows:

North America: The North America region includes the U.S., Canada, and Mexico. The U.S. is the largest market for Distribution Management System in this region, followed by Canada and Mexico. The market growth in this region is primarily driven by the presence of key market players and the increasing demand for the product.

Europe: The Europe region includes Germany, France, U.K., Russia, Italy, Spain, Turkey, Netherlands, Switzerland, Belgium, and Rest of Europe. Germany is the largest market for Distribution Management System in this region, followed by the U.K. and France. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing demand for the product in the automotive and aerospace sectors.

Asia-Pacific: The Asia-Pacific region includes Singapore, Malaysia, Australia, Thailand, Indonesia, Philippines, China, Japan, India, South Korea, and Rest of Asia-Pacific. China is the largest market for Distribution Management System in this region, followed by Japan and India. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing adoption of the product in various end-use industries, such as automotive, aerospace, and construction.

Middle East and Africa: The Middle East and Africa region includes Saudi Arabia, U.A.E, South Africa, Egypt, Israel, and Rest of Middle East and Africa. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing demand for the product in the aerospace and defense sectors.

South America: The South America region includes Argentina, Brazil, and Rest of South America. Brazil is the largest market for Distribution Management System in this region, followed by Argentina. The market growth in this region is primarily driven by the increasing demand for the product in the automotive sector.

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[biglisbonnews]

Smart Energy Finance: Funding for autonomous EV charging and GridBeyond’s acquisition of Veritone Energy Leading Smart Energy Finances: a successful Series A funding round for Rocsys, which has been developing an autonomous EV charging solution https://www.smart-energy.com/finance-investment/smart-energy-finance-funding-for-autonomous-ev-charging-and-gridbeyonds-acquisition-of-veritone-energy/

[drewswife]

summary — spencer can't help but help you with the crossword puzzle while you blush because he's too damn close

pairings — oblivious!spencer x pining!reader

warnings — you become a blushing mess, spencer thinking you don't like him because you're scooting away

a/n — kind of obsessed with them going to make a lil mood board

The desk lamp cast a focused beam on the crossword puzzle, illuminating the grid of black and white squares. You gnawed on the end of your pen, a low, frustrated hum escaping your lips as you stared at 6-Across: "A state of profound peace. Seven letters." You had 'S-E-R-E-N-I-T-Y' floating around in your head, but couldn't quite connect it to the cryptic clue.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across the page, and the faint, distinct scent of old paperbacks and the slightly metallic tang of instant coffee wafted into your personal space. "Having some difficulty?" Spencer's voice, always a decibel or two too loud for the immediate proximity, startled you. He leaned in, and you felt the accidental brush of his elbow against yours. A spontaneous, undeniable heat surged through your cheeks, spreading like wildfire. Your immediate, almost instinctual reaction was to subtly, almost imperceptibly, angle your chair away from him.

"N-no, I'm... I'm fine," you stammered, focusing with an almost manic intensity on the crossword, as if the very answer depended on your unwavering gaze. Your face felt like it was radiating enough heat to boil water. You could practically feel his breath on your ear, and the sensation only intensified the inferno in your cheeks.

Spencer, completely oblivious to your burgeoning mortification, simply hummed thoughtfully. "Let me see. 'A state of profound peace.' Hmm." He leaned in even closer, his arm pressing more firmly against yours. You could see the precise pattern of the tiny fibers on his sweater sleeve. "One might initially consider 'tranquility,' but the letter count doesn't align. Similarly, 'calmness' is too few." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the puzzle.

"Ah. Yes. Serenity. From the Latin 'serenitas,' meaning 'clearness, brightness, fair weather.' It also has a historical application in various philosophical traditions, particularly Stoicism, regarding a state of inner quietude despite external circumstances. Is that what you were looking for?" His finger, long and slender, hovered inches from the blank squares.

"Yes! That's it! Serenity!" you blurted out, a desperate rush of relief overwhelming your desire to simply evaporate. The accidental proximity of his hand, almost touching yours as he gestured, sent another jolt through you. You pulled back, abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor with a rather loud, protesting screech.

Spencer straightened up, his brow furrowing slightly. His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, seemed to register a new, unexpected data point. "Oh," he said, his voice dropping, almost to a whisper. "My apologies. I seem to have encroached upon your personal bubble. You've scooted away twice. I merely intended to offer assistance, but perhaps my proximity was… perceived as intrusive?" His gaze was earnest, almost hurt, as if you had just disproven a mathematical theorem he held dear.

Your stomach did a frantic flip. Oh, no. This was not the message you wanted to send. Your blush, impossibly, deepened to a shade of crimson that probably rivaled a ripe tomato. You shook your head violently, a little too quickly. "What? No! Not at all! It's just... I have a rather acute sensitivity to, to enclosed spaces! And that crossword was generating an unusual amount of... cognitive stress!" You gestured vaguely at the innocent paper, your explanation a tangled, desperate mess.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression still a mixture of analytical assessment and a faint, lingering confusion. For a split second, you were convinced he was about to launch into a detailed explanation of proxemics and personal space zones or perhaps suggest a clinical diagnosis. But then, a slow, almost hesitant smile touched his lips, and he gave a quick, awkward pat to your shoulder that felt more like an unexpected tap.

"Right," he said, a faint awkwardness in his tone. "Cognitive stress. Of course. Well, the answer is 'serenity.' Perhaps tackling such puzzles in the future from a slightly increased Euclidean distance would mitigate any claustrophobic tendencies." He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, then turned and walked away, his gait a little more deliberate than usual.

You watched him go, your face still burning. You liked him. More than liked him. And your body, it seemed, was determined to communicate that fact with all the subtlety of a foghorn. You sighed, finally inscribing "SERENITY" into the squares. Profound peace? That was the last thing you felt when Spencer Reid was within a five-foot radius.

🏷, @starrii-sturns @spencerreid66 @sleepysongbirdsings @khxna @raysmayhem-72 @multiversefanfics

[thesportsprgirl]

Since Lando is involved, there's of course a particular narrative that has popped up around his Monster release and which other drivers deserve it more, so I'm going to get on my professional soap box once again because oh my god shut the fuck up already.

My creds: dual BS in Business Analytics and Marketing. MA in Strategic Communication (thesis on sports PR in the social media age). MBA with a sports economics coursework emphasis. Consultant working in corporate partnerships in a variety of sports, including motorsport.

Based on what I've seen today, people have no idea how much work goes into securing personal sponsors. In order to get a personal sponsorship deal, you and your team have to pitch the sponsor and demonstrate the value that it will bring to their business through things like DATA and RESEARCH. Engagement metrics, impressions, reach, products sold, brand recognition, return on investment, etc.

If a McLaren sponsor does a personal sponsorship of Lando as well, it's because his team pitched and demonstrated that the metrics bear out that it would be worth their money. It's not like oh let's throw money at this kid bc VIBES. Or bc Zak Brown says we had to. I keep seeing people implying that they just picked him on a whim, when things like this take ages to decide, with a ton of data, a ton of research, and a ton of really smart people analyzing it before making the call.

You have to show a sponsor the reasons that they should work with you and why it's worth their money. Lando and Quadrant have done that. And it's a fuckton of work to not only get them, but to deliver the results to retain them. Some of those results are in the form of social media engagement that they've gotten from Lando and his brands likely before the drink was even contracted.

Identifying sponsors, pitching and securing their money, etc. is a multi-billion dollar industry that requires a ton of work, data analysis, content testing, focus group testing, etc. The people saying "it should have been _____" clearly either have a personal bias or don't understand the level of personal brand you have to have to get this sort of a deal.

Lando has larger reach, more engagement, recognizable brands with very passionate followings, etc. when compared to some of the other drivers people are bringing up here. He's selling out merch collection after merch collection after merch collection, and that is not true of 90% of the other drivers on the grid. He sold so many tickets to Landostand that they quite literally BUILT ANOTHER GRANDSTAND. And sold that one out, too! These are things that come with a ton of value to sponsors. Sponsors are seeking out his audience based on demographics. It's not some sort of conspiracy, it's business.

Right now, there are a couple of drivers that are LEAGUES above the others when it comes to the effort they've put into developing their personal brand, ability to drive product, and relevancy within high disposable income and retail-spending fan demographics (Lando over indexes with four key demos: young women, highly educated women, queer men, families with children). Averaged across these "big spender demos," Lando is in the top 2. I can say that based on the data I have at my fingertips.

tl;dr - Monster is looking to sell product. Data says Lando Norris sells product because people actually like him very much.

[reasonsforhope]

"Solar accounted for most of the capacity the nation added to its electric grids last year. That feat marks the first time since World War II, when hydropower was booming, that a renewable power source has comprised more than half of the nation’s energy additions.  

“It’s really monumental,” said Shawn Rumery, senior director of research at the Solar Energy Industries Association, or SEIA. The trade group announced the 2023 numbers in a report released today [March 6, 2024] with analytics firm Wood MacKenzie. The 32.4 gigawatts that came online in the United States last year shattered the previous high of 23.6 gigawatts recorded in 2021 and accounted for 53 percent of new capacity. Natural gas was next in line at a distant 18 percent. 

SEIA called 2023 the best year for renewables since the Second World War. Texas and California led a solar surge driven mostly by utility-scale installations, which jumped 77 percent year-over-year to 22.5 gigawatts. The residential and commercial sectors also reached new milestones. Only the relatively nascent community solar market missed its previous mark, though not by much, said Rumery. Overall he called it an “almost record setting year across the industry.”

...Experts generally expect renewable energy to keep on its torrent trajectory. 

“It’s very likely to continue because solar and wind are now very well established,” said Rob Stoner, director of the MIT Energy Initiative. “Solar costs continue to fall far below where we ever thought they would.”"

-via Grist, March 6, 2024

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hi! Can I request Chishiya x fem!reader who is like Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds? So she also has eidetic memory and high IQ etc. Sorry if something is unclear, my English is very bad, so I use a translator😔🙏🏻

Calculations of Trust

A/N: I’ve never watched Criminal Minds, but I still tried my best to write someone based on what I read about Spencer Reid online. I hope this fits his character the way you wanted!

Synopsis: Stranded in the deadly Borderlands, a brilliant and emotionally analytical woman teams up with the enigmatic strategist Chishiya, blending cold logic and empathy to outwit brutal games—forming a powerful alliance that could be their key to survival, and maybe something deeper beyond.

warnings/content: Chishiya x fem!reader, fluff, canon-typical blood and violence, 2.561 words

Part 2

The sky looked the same.

That was your first thought when arriving in this bizarre world. You weren't sure why that thought struck you first—why your brain zeroed in on cloud patterns and the familiar texture of summer heat against your skin. But when everything else felt wrong, your mind clung to something right. The skyline stretched over Tokyo, unchanged. But the silence—that was alien. Not a car, not a voice. Just the ghost of the city, paused mid-breath.

You took in your surroundings.

No people. No traffic. Just… nothing. You stood in the middle of a crosswalk, frozen, surrounded by still life. Abandoned phones buzzed with notifications that no one would answer.

Your mind kicked into gear. Eidetic memory activated.

Five minutes ago, you were running toward the subway, trying to catch the train after working a little later than usual.

You turned a corner. There was a flash—like fireworks.

And then— You were here.

In the middle of Tokyo. A city that once buzzed with life.

But now? Silence.

You weren't alone for long. A nearby explosion—a concussive boom of noise—jerked you into motion. You ran. Found others. Confused, shaken. They were like you: wrong time, wrong place, no memory of how this world replaced your own.

And then came the games.

Your hands shook. You were honest enough to admit that.

The first game was brute strength, speed, raw terror. Spades.

But even in fear, your brain remained loyal. You noticed the pattern in the balance plates before the man next to you slipped and got impaled. You memorized the tilt sensitivity after watching one test run. You counted the milliseconds between the trap triggers.

You didn't win because you were the fastest. You won because you didn't panic.

Now it was numbers.

The rules seemed random at first—red lights flashing in sequence, pressurized plates, a 3x3 grid.

But you saw it. The Fibonacci intervals in the flashes. The relationship between the pressure sensors and the golden ratio. It was coded math, and everyone was guessing.

You weren't.

You survived. Again.

One pair of eyes watched you the entire game, not with fear, or respect, but calculation. You didn't notice him yet but he noticed you.

The third game looked innocent—like a corporate team-building exercise on steroids.

Eight players. One tower. Ten floors. One room on each level. Each room held a puzzle that advanced you or eliminated you. No hints. Just "Solve or Die."

This was your domain.

The others bickered, shouting over each other as they failed on Floor Three's rotating sequence riddle.

You didn't shout. You stared.

"Wait," you said calmly, interrupting a panic spiral. "The door mechanism—look at the marks. Someone's already tried the wrong sequences. There's a pattern in the wrong answers."

They blinked.

You knelt, running your fingers across the scratch marks, whispering numbers under your breath.

"Floor Three's answer is 13. Fibonacci again. They're using mathematical sequences tied to human cognitive bias. Floor Four will use base-12 logic. Let me lead."

Some hesitated. Others followed.

You cleared the rest of the tower in under 20 minutes.

Every. Floor.

No casualties.

When the exit door slid open and everyone rushed into the light, cheering, you hung back. Breathing in. Processing.

And that's when you noticed him.

White hoodie. Platinum-blond hair. Lean frame. Calm.

He leaned against the wall near the game's edge like he'd never been concerned at all. His eyes didn't match the grin on his face—because the grin was casual, but the eyes were surgical.

"You weren't just solving," he said. His voice was light. Quiet. "You were analyzing the game designers themselves."

You stared at him, guarded.

He smiled wider. "Most people panic. You... profile."

You narrowed your eyes. "And you were watching."

"Observation is underrated," he said. "But then again, so is intellect."

He stepped forward, hands in his pockets.

"I'm Chishiya. And I think you're wasted out here, playing games for peasants."

"…Excuse me?"

"There's a place. A stronghold. The Beach. We collect cards. Build power. I think you'll be a good asset."

Your stomach twisted at the word asset. But part of you knew: intelligence attracts opportunists. Still—something in his tone wasn't exploitative. More like… strategic alliance.

You considered him. He didn't seem like a follower. And you weren't one either.

But the look in his eyes? He saw the way your brain worked. And you saw his. And that made him the first person in this world who felt even remotely familiar.

"…Fine," you said. "But I'm not just muscle for your puzzle-hunt."

He gave a slight nod. "Of course not. You're far more interesting than that."

The Beach wasn't a sanctuary. It was a masquerade.

Everyone wore the same smile, drank from the same bottles, and pretended they weren't all one bad game away from bleeding out on concrete. You watched them from the railing above the pool deck, arms crossed, mind whirring.

You'd been here three days. Already mapped the layout, memorized exit points, analyzed the card collection gaps, and mentally categorized the power players by behavioral patterns. Hatter: Delusional narcissist. Aguni: latent trauma, soldier instinct. Niragi: dangerous—impulse-driven, no empathy. Kuina: calculating, adaptable.

And Chishiya?

Uncrackable.

He didn't talk to people. He examined them. You weren't excluded. In fact, he seemed particularly interested in you.

You kept your distance. Avoided the parties. Watched the Beach from the outside while living inside it. You preferred it that way.

But that didn't stop him.

He found you again.

On the rooftop at dusk. You were alone, mentally replaying a hearts game you hadn't played — just in case. Trying to guess how the designer might think. Preparing.

"I don't like wasting potential," came his voice behind you.

You didn't turn. "Then I assume this conversation has a purpose."

"I want to know how you think."

You turned now, facing him. "Why?"

"Because you don't react. Not the way most people do. You solve the problem and walk away." He tilted his head. "But then… you save people. Like our team in the Tower Logic game."

You met his gaze, cool and unreadable. "You observed all that the whole time?"

His smile curled. "Observation is underrated."

You didn't smile back. "So is empathy."

He said nothing, but his expression faltered—just barely.

The next game came.

Six players. Clubs game. Team strategy. You, Chishiya, Kuina, and three others you didn't recognize.

The arena was a circular facility—ten rooms branching off a central hub, each room holding part of a code that had to be assembled and entered into a control panel to stop a detonation countdown. Cooperation required. Pressure high.

You immediately stepped into role.

First: layout. Second: player observation. Third: behavior prediction. You mentally assigned roles within minutes, logging where each player went, how fast they moved, what patterns they repeated.

You whispered to Kuina at one point, directing her to Room 6. "The clues are mirrored. He's looking in the wrong spot. You'll find the second half of the cipher in the vent."

She blinked. "How the hell did you—"

You didn't answer. No time. You moved.

By the twelve-minute mark, you had memorized all four ciphers, identified the red herring rooms, and were correcting the errors of the weakest players—quietly, efficiently.

People began looking at you with something between awe and unease.

Everyone… except Chishiya.

He watched you with narrowed eyes, arms folded, expression unreadable. You couldn't tell if he was analyzing your method, or your motives.

The six of you survived. The bomb didn't go off.

You stayed behind in the lobby, alone again, scribbling numbers into the dust with your finger—reworking a hypothetical failure scenario.

Chishiya stepped into your periphery. "You had the solution at the halfway point."

You didn't look up. "Yes."

"But you kept feeding it to the others. Slowly. Piece by piece."

You finally looked at him. "Would you have rather I let them die?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "If efficiency is the goal, why not just input the code yourself and let the weak ones be removed?"

You studied him for a long second.

"Why save people?" he asked, voice light but sharp. "You're smart enough not to care."

You tilted your head.

"Emotion isn't weakness," you said calmly. "It's data, too. Empathy helps you predict behavior. Understand intent. If you ignore it, you're only seeing half the variables."

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Two brilliant minds. Opposing algorithms.

But for the first time, there was something like respect between you. Something mutual, if unspoken.

He turned to leave. "You're interesting," he said over his shoulder. "That's rare."

You didn't respond. Not out loud, anyway. But your next move was already forming.

And somehow, you knew: so was his.

The announcement still hung in the air.

Another high-ranked hearts game.

You felt the chill thread down your spine — not from fear, but from certainty.

This wasn't logic. Not just logic. It was trust. Emotion. Manipulation. A game designed to tear alliances apart.

Your eyes flicked across the room. Eight players total. Circular arena. One glowing pedestal in the center, one screen above it.

Game Name: "Trust Fall."

Objective: One player is the traitor. Only the traitor knows they are the traitor. Everyone else must identify them correctly within 30 minutes. If the majority guesses wrong, all non-traitors die. If the traitor is correctly identified, they die. If no decision is made in time, everyone dies.

Timer: 30:00.

You exhaled slowly.

Someone muttered behind you, already accusing someone else.

You didn't flinch.

You weren't afraid.

Because Chishiya was here.

And he wasn't talking, either.

It turned ugly fast.

One girl started crying. A man began shouting at another, pointing fingers. Everyone was looking for tells — shifting eyes, nervous hands.

But the traitor? Might not be nervous at all.

You stayed still, listening. Absorbing.

So did he.

At one point, your eyes met across the room. Not a word. Just a nod — the barest flicker of recognition that said: You're watching the same patterns I am.

You moved closer. Quietly. Avoiding attention.

"They're emotionally reactive," you whispered to Chishiya when you were close enough. "We need a baseline of behavior before paranoia infects it all."

"Already too late," he murmured back. "They're spiraling."

"We isolate. Compare responses. Narrow it down by contradiction."

He nodded once. "Together, then."

It was brutal, in its design. Every ten minutes, you were allowed to interrogate one person as a group. It was chaos.

So you and Chishiya ran it like a silent operation.

You led the questioning. Calm. Cool. Clinical. You asked for timelines, movement patterns, memory details.

He watched them. Every microexpression. Every inconsistency.

"I saw her move toward the pedestal earlier," one player said.

"She said she didn't," Chishiya countered softly, almost amused. "But you did."

The woman froze.

Bit by bit, the lies unraveled.

But the closer you got, the more the others turned on you.

"You two think you're better than us," someone spat. "You act like you already know everything."

You stepped forward. "No. We just don't let fear do our thinking for us."

But they didn't want calm.

They wanted blood.

Twenty Seconds Left

Only two options remained: the woman, or the man next to her.

The others were screaming at each other.

You and Chishiya stood shoulder to shoulder.

"It's her," you said softly. "She slipped up. Three minutes ago, she said the clue was in the screen prompt. But that was only visible after the first vote. She couldn't have known that... unless she was the traitor."

He paused. Nodded slowly.

"Agreed."

"But we'll need at least one more vote to swing the majority."

Chishiya looked at you. A rare flicker of uncertainty passed through his expression. "What if we're wrong?"

You didn't hesitate.

"We're not."

He smiled. Just a little. Then turned to the others.

"You're all too busy panicking," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "You missed the only actual tell."

Then he pointed at the woman.

The votes followed.

She screamed. Denied it. Begged.

The screen flashed red.

TRAITOR IDENTIFIED. GAME CLEAR.

The door to the arena hissed shut behind the others. Silence returned. Heavy. Absolute.

You didn't move. Neither did he.

The digital clock on the wall blinked back zeroes. You watched it for a moment, eyes unfocused, as if the weight of the aftermath had only now begun to register. Not fear — just the gravity of the choices you made.

Chishiya stood to your left, arms still crossed, but there was no smugness, no satisfaction in his posture. Just that same unreadable calm. Like the sea before a storm.

"You hate relying on people," he said, voice quiet in the echoing space.

You tilted your head toward him. "So do you."

A small breath escaped him. Not a laugh, exactly — more like the exhale of someone surprised by how unsurprising something feels.

"But we didn't lose," he said.

"No," you agreed, stepping slowly into the center of the room. "We didn't."

Your eyes trailed the lines in the floor, where earlier you'd stood with half the group ready to turn on you. People break fast in games like this. You understood why. But it still left a taste in your mouth you couldn't quite name.

He followed, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie.

"We won easily," he added after a pause, as though testing the shape of that truth.

You stopped, turning to face him fully now. "Not easily. Efficiently."

He gave a soft shrug. "With everyone else flailing in panic, I'd call it easy."

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying we make a good team?"

Chishiya didn't answer immediately. He looked at you, and this time the gaze lingered — not with calculation, but something deeper. Curiosity. Understanding. The faintest trace of something warmer.

"Better than good," he said. "Strategically, you're the only one I can work with who doesn't slow me down."

Your lips curled slightly. "High praise. Coming from you."

He gave you a glance, dry but not unkind. "Don't let it go to your head."

You turned your attention to the dim hallway ahead, the path back to the Beach. The false security. The chaos waiting in the next game.

"You want to keep working together," you said, more a conclusion than a question.

"Yes," he answered. No hesitation. "Until we get out of this world."

You were silent for a moment. Then, you asked — quieter — "And after?"

Chishiya looked at you. Really looked at you.

And for once, his answer wasn't immediate. His eyes searched yours, as if weighing something unspoken. You wondered what he saw: a mirror of his own isolation, or something that cracked through the cold logic you both wrapped yourselves in like armor.

"Maybe," he said finally. Simple. Honest.

Not a promise. But possibility.

You let the silence stretch between you again — not uncomfortable, just full.

Then, finally, you turned toward the exit. He walked beside you, footsteps syncing in a rhythm neither of you acknowledged but somehow matched anyway.

Two minds. Sharp. Calculating. Unrelenting.

But now—aligned.

And beneath all that logic, beneath the masks of detachment you both wore so well, something else had started to take root.

Not trust, exactly.

But the beginning of it.

And perhaps, someday, more.

Masterlist

[helvegen-s]

ten millimeters

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: for ten years, they were rivals—pushing, challenging, never backing down. But one night, after a race that changed everything, the line between them finally shatters. Now, with nothing left to hide behind, they’re forced to face the truth. Because this was never just about racing—it was always about them.

Word count: 12k (patience, my friends, patience)

TW: car crash, strong language, sexual content

A/N: enjoy this because I’ve pulled out all my hair trying to write something, and this is what came out. I wanted to be consistent with my updates, but my peanut brain doesn’t seem to agree… I LOVE OSCAR WITH ALL MY HEART

other drivers content will be coming soon...

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

masterlist

Lena Bauer had learned to navigate a world that had always seemed determined to challenge her. For as long as she could remember, her life had revolved around a single purpose: winning. Not for recognition, not for glory, but because victory was the only language she understood. She grew up on the circuits, under the scorching sun of karting tracks, with grease-covered hands and her heart pounding in her throat every time she put on her helmet. She never knew how to be anything other than a racer. And she never wanted to be.

Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, was the kind of driver who made speed look effortless, who turned precision into an art form. Always methodical, always analytical. His talent wasn’t explosive but constant, like a sharpened blade that, over time, became a lethal sword. While Lena raced with fire in her eyes and fury in every maneuver, Oscar was all calculation and patience. He was the cold storm that swept through without ever raising its voice.

They met as children, on a karting podium where Lena, holding her trophy high with a fierce smile of satisfaction, turned to find him watching her. The second-place finish didn’t seem to bother him. There was no anger, no envy in his expression—only a silent acknowledgment: she had been better this time. Only this time.

From that moment on, their paths became intertwined with the inevitability of a storm and the certainty of an impending collision. They grew up together, chased each other through every category, overtook one another in championships that carried them across continents. And when they finally reached Formula 2, their rivalry became something heavier, sharper. There was no room for two drivers like them. Not when both were willing to risk everything to win.

That season, the incident happened. Silverstone. Final laps. They were fighting for victory in a battle anyone else would have called suicidal. But neither Lena nor Oscar were the kind to back down. She forced him to the limit, leaving barely ten millimeters between his car and the barrier. Ten millimeters that decided a race, a championship… and a wound that never quite healed.

Oscar was out. She won.

And when she stepped out of the car, she didn’t look for him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew what she would find: the icy fury of someone who never forgets.

Now, in Formula 1, the world celebrated her arrival. The first woman in decades on the grid. Red Bull’s great promise. The one person Oscar Piastri couldn’t simply ignore. And when they faced each other again at the pre-season press conference, he knew nothing had changed.

Lena smiled, tilting her head slightly, radiating that overwhelming confidence that challenged him without the need for words. Oscar held her gaze, impassive, but Lena saw what others couldn’t: the spark of defiance in his eyes, the shadow of Silverstone still lingering in his expression.

They weren’t done. Not even close.

The calendar marked the beginning of a new season. And with it, the restart of a war that had never truly ended.

Oscar had been through enough qualifying sessions to know that the real battle was never against the stopwatch, but against one’s own limits. But that Saturday, as he adjusted his gloves inside the cockpit and his engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, he knew his fight went beyond that.

His fight had a name. Lena Bauer.

The engines roared with the restrained aggression of caged predators as the cars rolled out onto the track. Bahrain was always treacherous in qualifying—the temperature dropped at night, the wind carried sand onto the asphalt, and finding the perfect balance between speed and control was a game of absolute precision. But Oscar wasn’t worried about that. His focus was on the Red Bull number 95.

From the first flying lap, he knew. She was there.

He didn’t need to check the times to understand it. He felt it in every corner, in every fraction of a second flashing on his lap delta. The way his McLaren glided over the asphalt with surgical precision, chasing a shadow that always seemed just out of reach.

Lena.

She had always been like this. Infuriating in her brilliance. Relentless in her determination. She never raced to be among the best, never to collect points or secure a decent result. She raced to win. And that, though he would never admit it out loud, was what drove him insane.

In Q2, as the sun fully set and the track reached its peak, the battle became a silent duel. Red Bull versus McLaren. Lena versus Oscar. Just like so many times before.

On his final attempt, he gave it everything. Every apex traced with a surgeon’s precision, every gear shift perfectly timed. The car danced on the asphalt, the engine roared in his ears, and for a few fleeting seconds, he thought it was enough. That this time, finally, he had been faster.

Until he saw the screen.

Lena Bauer – P1 – 1:29.771Oscar Piastri – P2 – 1:29.784

Thirteen milliseconds.

He let out a bitter laugh inside his helmet—a mix of disbelief and resignation. Lena wasn’t just fast. She was ruthless.

When he stepped out of the car and walked toward the media pen, he saw her.

Lena removed her helmet with that effortless ease that always got under his skin, golden strands of hair falling onto her forehead, a lopsided grin that spoke of victory without a single word. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Oscar felt a rush of frustration and adrenaline pulse through his chest.

"Almost, Piastri."

Her voice carried that teasing lilt that had haunted him since karting—provocation wrapped in feigned lightness.

Oscar shook his head, running a hand over the back of his neck, suppressing the smirk threatening to surface.

"Keep an eye on your mirrors tomorrow, Bauer."

Lena arched an amused brow.

"For you? Doubt it."

She turned before he could reply, leaving him with the retort stuck in his throat and a certainty seared into his skin.

The race hadn’t even begun. The season had only just started.

But his war with Lena Bauer had been going on for years.

Sunday morning.

The Bahrain paddock had been awake since early, humming with the charged energy of the season’s first race day. The desert breeze carried the distant roar of engines in warm-up, the ceaseless chatter of engineers fine-tuning strategies, and the omnipresent presence of cameras, ready to capture every moment.

Lena Bauer walked with the natural confidence of someone who belonged in this world. Dressed in her Red Bull race suit, the sleeves tied around her waist, the team’s logo gleaming under the sun, she looked exactly like what she was—the pole sitter for the first race of the year.

Everyone greeted her as she passed. Mechanics, engineers, members of other teams. The other drivers, gathered near the interview area, welcomed her with grins and playful remarks. Charles Leclerc said something to her in French that made her laugh, Lando Norris held up a hand for a high-five that she returned without hesitation, and even Fernando Alonso gave her an approving glance.

But not everyone seemed thrilled about her presence.

Oscar Piastri watched her from across the group, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set tight. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t greet her.

And she, as always, noticed.

Lena loved it. The way he was the only one who didn’t smile, the only one who didn’t treat her with that easy camaraderie she shared with the others. The way he seemed incapable of ignoring her, no matter how hard he tried.

Before she could tempt him any further, someone approached with a microphone.

"Lena, no one expected you to take pole in your first-ever F1 qualifying. Did you?"

She smiled, tilting her head with an almost insolent ease.

"Yes."

The journalist hesitated, as if expecting a more modest answer—something more typical of a rookie in the category. But Lena saw no need to fake false humility. Why should she?

"So, did you have a perfect lap last night?"

"No," she replied naturally. "It was a good lap, but not perfect. I can find more pace."

The journalist's eyes widened in disbelief, and out of the corner of her eye, Lena caught Piastri's movement. He had heard her. And even though she couldn't see his expression, she could imagine the tension in his jaw, the irritated disbelief in his eyes.

She didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet.

"And how are you approaching today's race? You'll be starting from pole, but Red Bull and McLaren have been pretty evenly matched all weekend."

Lena tilted her head, letting the question hang in the air just a second longer than necessary. Then, she smiled with the same unwavering confidence.

"The good thing about starting from pole is that I don’t have to worry about what’s happening behind me. I just have to be the fastest. And I already am."

She felt Oscar's gaze on her profile like a sharp knife.

Oh, how she loved this.

The starting grid was a perfectly orchestrated chaos. Engineers and mechanics moved around the cars in their final preparations, photographers captured every expression on the drivers' faces, and the air buzzed with the anticipation of the first race of the season.

Lena was at the center of it all.

Standing next to her Red Bull, her helmet still tucked under her arm and sunglasses covering her eyes, she radiated absolute calm. While everyone around her talked, gave instructions, or checked data on screens, she remained still, unaffected by the noise. Only when Helmut Marko approached to say something in a low voice did she nod slightly—but even then, her expression barely changed.

A few meters away, Oscar Piastri watched her.

Unlike her, he wasn’t still. He rolled his gloves between his hands, rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath. Not because he was nervous, but because his body had felt ready for battle from the moment he stepped out of the car after qualifying.

He knew he shouldn’t be looking at her. He knew he should be focusing on his own race. But he couldn’t help it.

He saw her shake Christian Horner’s hand, smile at someone from the FIA, wave Lando off as he passed by. All of it with that infuriating ease, as if this wasn’t the first race of her life in Formula 1, but just another Sunday.

The contrast to his own energy was suffocating.

Oscar was tense, alert, his pulse already racing before even getting in the car. Lena, on the other hand, seemed immune to everything. As if the pressure didn’t affect her. As if starting from pole on her debut meant absolutely nothing.

And the worst part was that he knew it wasn’t empty arrogance. He knew she meant it.

By the time he realized he had been staring at her for too long, he quickly shifted his focus back to his McLaren, trying to regain his composure. But just then, Lena turned around.

She found him instantly.

With a lazy movement, she pulled off her sunglasses—just enough for him to catch the playful spark in her eyes.

"Nice view, isn’t it?" she said casually, tilting her head toward her own car. With her sunglasses in hand, she pointed to the number 95 engraved on the Red Bull’s carbon fiber. "I hope you dream about it tonight."

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"And I hope you enjoy the scenery while it lasts. In a few laps, the 81 is all you’ll be seeing."

Lena smiled, and it was worse than any verbal provocation.

"Oh, I will enjoy it."

And with that, she turned away, handed her sunglasses to an engineer, and put on her helmet with the ease of someone who had no doubt she would still be there when it was all over.

Oscar, for his part, couldn’t remember ever wanting the starting lights to go out this badly in his entire life.

The lights went out.

The force of his McLaren propelled him forward, reacting on instinct, every fiber of his body focused on the first corner. He knew that if he wanted to win, if he wanted to snatch victory from Lena Bauer, he had to do it now.

He saw her move quickly, shutting the inside line with relentless determination. But Oscar wasn’t a rookie. He knew she expected him to back off, to take the corner from the outside and settle for second place.

He didn’t.

He planted his foot on the throttle, keeping his car glued to hers until the very last millimeter before braking. He downshifted at the exact right moment, slid his car to the absolute limit, and emerged from the corner with his front wing just inches ahead of hers.

For a second, he thought Lena would squeeze him out, that she’d return the favor at the next turn. But she didn’t.

His engineer was shouting something over the radio, but Oscar barely heard it. All he saw in his mirrors was the Red Bull clinging to him, Lena refusing to give up even a fraction more than necessary.

The race was a war of attrition.

Lena was never too far. She kept the pressure on at all times, making him fight for every tenth of a second, every corner, every lap. When McLaren told him to manage his tires, he barely held back a disbelieving laugh.

Managing tires with Lena Bauer breathing down his diffuser was like asking a lion to share its prey.

But he did it.

Against all odds, against everything he feared, against the constant threat of her presence in his mirrors—he crossed the finish line first.

He won.

The victory cry he let out over the radio was pure relief.

When he returned to the pit lane, when he jumped out of the car and let himself be swept away by the adrenaline of the moment, he felt that all the effort, all the anger, all the desperate need to beat her had been worth it.

Until he saw her.

Lena was already out of her car, pulling off her gloves with an expression that was…

Happy.

No frustration. No anger. No trace of the bitter sting of defeat he knew so well.

She was smiling, radiant, as if finishing second had been exactly what she wanted. As if the fact that he had beaten her didn’t bother her in the slightest.

And that, more than anything else, infuriated him.

Because if it had been the other way around—if he had finished second—the poison of defeat would have eaten him alive. He would have replayed every tenth he lost, every mistake, every moment where the race slipped through his fingers. He would have obsessed over it until he could fix it.

But Lena Bauer didn’t.

Lena Bauer was celebrating.

Lena Bauer was laughing with her team, joking with Verstappen, flashing a dazzling smile at the cameras.

When she stepped onto the podium, when she shook his hand with exasperating ease, when she offered him a casual "Good job" with not a hint of resentment, Oscar felt victory crumble in his hands.

Because if she didn’t care about losing…

Then how the hell was he supposed to defeat her?

Melbourne, on a thursday night.

Oscar hated these kinds of events.

It wasn’t just the formality, the uncomfortable suits, or the forced smiles. It was the feeling of being trapped in a place where performance didn’t matter, where it didn’t matter how fast you were on track if you didn’t know how to play the other game—the one of image, politics, public relations.

And Lena Bauer knew exactly how to play it.

Since she had arrived, he had watched her move through the guests with an irritating ease. She greeted journalists by name, laughed with other drivers, answered questions with that mix of boldness and charisma that made her impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, Oscar stuck to the bare minimum—interviews, sponsor photos, the occasional neutral comment. But he couldn't help feeling like a shadow in comparison.

Of course, the press wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to put them together.

“Oscar! Lena!” A journalist called out. “Can we ask you a few questions together?”

It was inevitable. Ever since Lena had joined F1, their rivalry had been exploited to exhaustion. It wasn’t just that they had both been rookies at the time—it was the fact that they had competed against each other since they were kids, that they had clashed in every category they had raced in. The narrative wrote itself: two exceptionally talented drivers, destined to fight side by side for their entire careers.

People loved it. Oscar… not so much.

“Of course,” Lena replied without hesitation, smiling with exasperating ease.

Oscar had no choice. He stepped up beside her, adopting the neutral expression he usually wore in these situations.

“It’s been a few races since Lena made her F1 debut, and it seems like the story remains the same between you two—always fighting each other. What’s it like to meet again in the top category after so many years of competing together?”

“Fun,” Lena said with a grin.

Oscar let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Oh, absolutely thrilling.”

Lena shot him a quick glance before continuing.

“Actually, it is,” she insisted, turning back to the journalist. “We’ve always pushed each other to the limit. I expected nothing less from Oscar in F1.”

“Would you say your rivalry is the most intense on the grid right now?”

Oscar was about to give a diplomatic answer, but Lena beat him to it.

“Oh, without a doubt. Don’t you think so, Piastri?”

Oscar looked at her. She was still smiling, but there was a glint in her eyes he couldn’t quite decipher. Was she enjoying the moment, the attention, the story the media kept feeding? Or was she enjoying how much it annoyed him?

“If by intense you mean the most annoying, then yes,” he muttered, earning laughter from the journalists.

Lena placed a hand over her chest, feigning offense.

“How cruel. And here I thought we were almost friends.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

The interview continued with the same dynamic—Lena allowing herself bold answers, comments that bordered on provocation, while Oscar remained more reserved, letting her take the spotlight. It wasn’t that it bothered him exactly. It was more that he found it frustrating how effortlessly she navigated this world, as if she had been born to be in the spotlight.

“And what about this weekend’s race?” another journalist asked. “Will it be another wheel-to-wheel battle between you two?”

“If Piastri can keep up, maybe,” Lena replied with absolute ease.

Oscar exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his eyes on her.

“I’d be more worried about myself if I were you.”

“Oh, I do,” she said, her smile feigning innocence. “That’s why I enjoy it so much.”

Before Oscar could respond, he felt something on his arm.

Lena had linked her arm through his with the utmost ease, as if she had been doing it her whole life. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, but the sensation of her touch hit Oscar like an unexpected blow.

It unsettled him how easily she invaded his personal space without warning. But what truly caught him off guard was his own reaction—because instead of pulling away, instead of tensing up like he usually did in these situations, Oscar felt his body lean, almost imperceptibly, toward her.

It wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t even aware of it until it happened. But when he realized, his first instinct was to tense, to regain his composure.

However, before he could, Lena shifted slightly toward him, and Oscar felt the light tug of her grip, the way her thumb brushed against the fabric of his sleeve. There was no ulterior motive in her gesture—at least, not one Oscar could identify with certainty. Just a bold confidence, a way of reminding him—with the simplest action—that she had no problem getting close, erasing the lines between them whenever she felt like it.

And the worst part was that it worked.

The journalists, of course, didn’t let the gesture go unnoticed.

“Well, it seems like your relationship isn’t just about rivalry,” one of them commented lightly. “Clearly, you’ve known each other for years.”

Lena shrugged, as if the question was unnecessary.

“Of course. Piastri and I have been fighting on track since we were kids.”

“And we still are,” Oscar added, dismissively.

The journalists nodded, satisfied with the response. From the outside, their relationship looked exactly as it was supposed to: two rivals with years of history, who understood the dynamic between them perfectly. Friends, perhaps. Or at least, competitors who respected each other and enjoyed the challenge.

That was what everyone saw.

But Oscar… Oscar felt something else.

The light weight of Lena’s hand on his arm. The brush of her thumb against the fabric of his sleeve. The way she leaned slightly toward him when she spoke, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was nothing strange about the gesture. It wasn’t flirting. It didn’t have some hidden intention.

And yet, something inside Oscar clicked.

It was sudden and unsettling, a strange sensation slipping into his chest before he could block it out. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly. It was more like recognition, a realization that Lena could cross certain boundaries with him without his body reacting with the automatic rejection he usually had toward anyone who got too close.

She did it without thinking, with exasperating ease. And the worst part was that he didn’t think about pulling away either.

There was no logical reason for it.

The cameras were still rolling, the journalists were still asking questions, the fans who would watch the interview later would interpret it as just another amusing moment between two lifelong rivals. No one would notice anything unusual.

No one except Oscar.

And that was what irritated him the most.

The atmosphere in Melbourne was different.

Oscar felt it in every corner of the paddock, in every fan chanting his name, in every Australian flag waving in the grandstands. He had imagined this moment countless times, but living it surpassed all expectations.

P3 in qualifying. It wasn’t pole, but it was a solid position. He was ready. He knew exactly what he had to do.

As he walked through the paddock corridors, his mind was focused on strategy, on the start, on every detail that could make the difference. And then, as he turned a corner, he saw her.

Lena was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze distant. It looked like she was waiting for him, though with her, one could never be sure.

"Ready for the big day, huh, Piastri?" she said in her usual tone, one that hovered between provocation and amusement.

"Always," he replied without hesitation.

She nodded, sizing him up for a moment that felt longer than necessary. Then, unexpectedly, her expression shifted.

"You’re going to have a great race," she said, without a trace of irony. "This is your home. Make sure you take a good memory from here."

Oscar blinked, caught off guard.

It wasn’t the comment itself that surprised him, but the way she said it. Without that ever-present edge of defiance. Without the sharpness of their eternal rivalry.

She seemed… sincere.

Before he could find a response, Lena continued, her voice carrying a casualness that didn’t quite match what she had just said.

"And well, it’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?" she added. "We went from fighting in karts on forgotten tracks in the middle of nowhere to this. You, at your home race. P3. In front of thousands of people cheering for you."

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue. But then she gave the smallest of smiles, briefly lowering her gaze.

"I’m proud of you, Piastri."

The air grew heavier in Oscar’s lungs.

He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—her sincerity, the fact that it was coming from her, or the way his chest tightened slightly at her words.

Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it.

It was Lena.

And for some reason, that affected him more than he was willing to admit.

Oscar felt his throat close up for a fraction of a second.

Lena was already straightening up, ready to leave as if she hadn’t just knocked him off balance with those words. As if she hadn’t just said something that would stay in his head for who knew how long.

He couldn’t let it end just like that.

"Lena."

She stopped, turning her head slightly, one eyebrow raised in question.

Oscar swallowed. He wasn’t good at these things, but he couldn’t let her be the only one to speak.

"You’re going to have a great race too."

His voice was steadier than he expected, though inside, he was still trying to regain balance from the whirlwind Lena had just left behind.

She blinked, surprised. For a moment, Oscar thought she would mock him, throw a sarcastic remark to break the tension. But she didn’t.

Instead, Lena smiled. Barely—a flicker of a smile, quick and almost imperceptible, but genuine.

"I know," she replied, with the certainty of someone who had never doubted herself.

And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Oscar remained there a moment longer, the echo of her voice still ringing in his ears, an unfamiliar sensation settling in his chest.

It wasn’t exactly confusion. It wasn’t just surprise.

It was something deeper. Something more unsettling. Something he wasn’t sure he liked.

And the worst part was that no matter how much he tried to analyze it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake it off when he pulled his visor down and lined up on the grid.

The lights went out, and Oscar reacted on instinct.

The McLaren catapulted toward the first corner, the roar of the engines around him creating a deafening symphony. He held firm in P3, protecting the inside as Verstappen and Leclerc fought ahead.

But there was no time to relax.

Lena was there.

Almost glued to his rear wing, waiting for the slightest mistake to strike.

Ten millimeters.

That was the space Oscar left her in every corner. Just enough not to crash—but no more than that. If she wanted the position, she was going to have to take it by force.

The pressure was relentless. Lap after lap, Lena attacked. She tested the outside at Turn 5, then the inside at Turn 9. She threw herself into every braking zone, making sure he felt her presence like an unyielding shadow.

On lap 23, McLaren called him into the pits. The stop was fast, flawless. He came out just ahead of Lena, who had stopped a lap earlier.

But she wasn’t done yet.

Turn 3.

Oscar saw the Red Bull in his mirrors before she even made the move.

Lena dived down the inside with surgical precision, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how far they could push.

He reacted instantly.

Defended aggressively, leaving precisely ten millimeters between their wheels. Ten millimeters between keeping the position and losing it. Ten millimeters between personal victory and defeat.

The crowd was on their feet.

Side by side, they accelerated toward Turn 4.

Oscar held the line. Barely.

Ten millimeters more, and she would have been the one emerging ahead.

Ten millimeters more, and it could have ended in disaster.

But it didn’t.

Oscar kept the position.

When he crossed the finish line in second place, the radio exploded with his team’s cheers.

"Well done, Oscar! P2 at home, incredible race!"

He let out a shaky breath, a laugh escaping his lips. It wasn’t a win, but it was a solid podium—a result any driver would dream of achieving at their home race.

As he climbed out of the car, the roar of the Australian crowd engulfed him. People chanted his name, a wave of applause that sent chills down his spine as he raised his arms in gratitude.

But then, before he could fully process it, he felt an impact against his side.

Lena.

She had walked up with a grin stretching from ear to ear and, without warning, threw her arms around him. A spontaneous, unrestrained gesture, with no trace of their usual hostility.

Oscar froze completely for a second.

He could feel the fabric of her race suit against his, her arm firmly wrapped around his back.

The cameras caught everything.

Photographers fired away, the images already circulating online, ready to send fans into a frenzy.

And the worst—or maybe the best—part was that Oscar didn’t react with his usual stiffness.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t try to escape.

Almost without realizing it, he returned the embrace.

Ten millimeters.

That was what separated them on track.

But here, there wasn’t a single one.

A couple of hours later, Oscar settled into his airplane seat, resting his head against the window and staring into the darkness of the night sky. The muffled roar of the engines and the dim cabin lighting gave everything an unreal feel, as if he were suspended in a limbo between two worlds.

He should be exhausted. He should be enjoying the moment. P2 at his home race, the crowd chanting his name, champagne spilling over the podium.

And yet, the only thing occupying his mind was the feeling of Lena’s embrace.

It was absurd.

He had raced past her so many times on track—always on the edge, always brushing against each other with surgical precision. Always breaking each other down, searching for every tiny advantage, pushing to the limit.

But he had never felt her like this.

Close. Present.

No helmet. No barriers.

A few minutes earlier, as he boarded the private jet with Lando, he had barely exchanged any words with him. He knew his teammate was probably waiting for him to comment on the race, the podium, something. But Oscar had said nothing.

And Lando, being Lando, wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to figure it out myself?"

Oscar blinked and turned his head, meeting his teammate’s curious expression. Lando was watching him from the seat next to him, one eyebrow raised.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, sure," Lando scoffed, crossing his arms. "I know you well enough to tell when something’s eating you up. You haven’t said a word in two hours, and you just finished on the podium at home."

Oscar sighed. Lando wasn’t going to drop it easily.

"I’m tired," he tried to dismiss.

Lando clicked his tongue, clearly not buying it.

"So it’s Lena."

Oscar felt a jolt of discomfort run down his spine.

"What?"

"Come on, mate." Lando turned fully in his seat, resting an arm on the backrest. "I saw it. We all saw it. Since when do you and Lena Bauer hug like you’re best friends?"

Oscar clenched his jaw.

"It was just… the moment. You know how she is."

Lando studied him, as if trying to unravel something beyond his words.

"Yeah, I do. But you didn’t react the way you usually do."

Oscar looked away, uneasy.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Lando smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, I think you do."

Oscar didn’t respond. He just stared at his reflection in the window, barely visible against the darkness of the sky.

Lando was right. He knew.

But admitting it out loud was another thing entirely.

Because if he acknowledged what he felt—if he put it into words—then he would have to face it.

And Oscar wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The problem with Lena Bauer was that she had always been there. Always by his side, always in his way. From karting to Formula 2, and now at the pinnacle of motorsport. Always ten millimeters from him.

Always too close.

And yet, never as much as now.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling in frustration.

"It’s nothing," he muttered at last, more to himself than to Lando.

His teammate didn’t even look up from his phone.

"Whatever you say."

The cabin fell into silence again. The hum of the engine, the flickering overhead lights, the gentle sway of the plane cutting through the night.

Oscar closed his eyes.

But in his mind, he didn’t see the race. Or the podium. Or the crowd chanting his name.

He only saw Lena.

Her smile.

The warmth of her embrace.

The sound of her laughter, echoing in his chest like an unfamiliar vibration.

The way she looked at him, seconds before letting go, that mischievous glint in her eyes—like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Like she knew what she was doing to him.

And maybe she did.

Maybe Lena Bauer had always known.

Oscar arrived at his Monaco apartment with the deep relief of someone who, after weeks of traveling, noise, and adrenaline, finally had a couple of days to himself.

He dropped his suitcase by the door, kicked off his shoes without much care, and exhaled slowly as he scanned the space. His apartment was exactly as he had left it—neat, quiet, welcoming.

Peace.

That was what he needed.

He had planned these days with precision: sleep in without worrying about schedules, cook something decent instead of relying on paddock catering or airport food, and maybe, if he felt like it, go for a walk along the harbor. But most of all, rest.

He collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling mindlessly. Messages from his team, social media notifications exploding with podium photos from Australia, a couple of texts from Lando sending him ridiculous memes. Nothing urgent.

He was about to put his phone down when a new notification popped up on the screen.

Lena Bauer.

He frowned.

It wasn’t like they never talked outside of race weekends—well, actually, they didn’t much—but if Lena was texting him directly, it had to be something important.

He swiped to open the message, and what he found made him blink a couple of times.

Lena: "pastri pls i need help, im movin and the fookin couch dosnt fit in the elevator. i swer i tried with max, charls, even russel but aparntly evryone decidid to disapear at the same time. so now im stuk and if i try to do this alone ill eithr break my spine or end up trapd under it n die. u dont want that on ur consiense do u?? pls be a decnt human bein n help me, ill buy u a bier or idk a whole pizza if thats wht it takes 😭🙏 also if u say no i will haunt u 4ever just so u kno."

He blinked again, trying to process the grammatical crime he had just read.

For a second, he considered ignoring it. After all, he had spent weeks traveling, racing, training. All he wanted was to sleep in his own bed, eat something decent, and not move a single muscle for the next forty-eight hours.

But then he pictured Lena, somehow attempting to haul a couch up the stairs, probably cursing in three different languages, and with a ninety percent chance of actually managing it out of sheer stubbornness.

He sighed.

Oscar: "Give me 15 minutes."

His phone vibrated almost instantly.

Lena: "thankiu ily"

Oscar let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. But as he put his shoes back on and grabbed his keys, he couldn’t ignore the strange warmth that settled in his chest at those three little letters.

No.

Lena Bauer definitely had no idea what she was doing to him.

Oscar arrived at Lena’s building with the address she had sent him in a message. He didn’t need to call her or let her know he was there; the commotion in the stairwell was already guiding him straight to his target.

There she was, locked in battle with a couch.

The piece of furniture was stuck on the first landing, wedged at an angle that defied all logic. Lena, sweating and with the sleeves of her T-shirt rolled up to her shoulders, was pushing with all her strength, muttering German curses under her breath. Every time she tried to turn it, the couch got even more stuck.

Oscar stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching in silence for a few seconds.

"Are you winning?" he finally asked, the calm tone of someone arriving at a crime scene after the disaster had already happened.

Lena let out a frustrated huff and rested a hand on her hip, momentarily conceding defeat.

"Too late. It’s already knocked me out."

Oscar stepped closer, analyzing the situation with a critical eye. He crouched down, measuring the space, and within seconds, he was already formulating a plan to get the couch out without demolishing the building in the process.

"You tried lifting it sideways, didn’t you?"

"Of course I did," Lena shot back, rolling her eyes. "Do you think I’m an idiot?"

Oscar didn’t respond to that. In his mind, the scene spoke for itself.

"Alright," he said simply. "Then we’re doing this another way."

He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, getting ready for the task.

"What’s the plan, genius?" Lena asked, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed.

"First, we’re going to rotate it. But instead of pushing, we tilt it upward and slide it at an angle."

Lena eyed him skeptically.

"That sounds exactly like what I already tried."

"Yeah, but I’m not going to let the couch win."

Just before getting to work, Oscar couldn’t resist.

He pulled out his phone, and with the ease of someone who already knew exactly what they were going to do, opened the camera and pointed it at Lena.

She, standing there with her arms crossed, brows furrowed, and the couch hopelessly wedged in the stairs, looked like a live-action meme.

"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhere between suspicion and exasperation, hearing the shutter click.

"Documenting the moment," Oscar replied with a smirk, not even glancing up from his phone as he typed a caption.

Lena immediately straightened, trying to snatch the phone from him.

"Don’t you dare."

But it was already too late.

Oscar turned the screen toward her with a triumphant look before posting the photo to his Instagram story. In the image, she was in all her glory—sweat on her forehead, absolute frustration on her face, and the couch putting up a fight.

The caption read:

"The pole position never resists her, but feng shui is a different story."

Lena let out an outraged groan.

"Delete that. Right now."

"It already has likes."

"How long has it even been!?"

"Twenty seconds."

Lena shot him a deadly glare, but Oscar, unfazed, slid his phone back into his pocket, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Alright. Now, let’s deal with the couch."

Lena muttered something in German that probably wasn’t a compliment but gave in.

They worked together, though "worked together" was a generous way to put it. Oscar directed the operation with methodical patience, while Lena tried to brute-force her way through at every opportunity.

"Stop, stop, stop," Oscar said, halting when she attempted to push with her shoulder. "If you do that, you’ll just jam it even more."

"Or I’ll shove it through once and for all," Lena countered, trying again.

Oscar let out an exasperated sigh.

"Lena, please."

She huffed but eventually relented and followed his instructions. With a bit of coordination—and a lot of corrections from Oscar—they finally managed to get the couch past the first flight of stairs.

Once they set it down on the next landing, Lena collapsed onto one of the cushions with a dramatic sigh.

"I am never moving again," she declared, staring at the ceiling. "I’ll die in this apartment."

Oscar leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.

"Could’ve been worse."

Lena turned her head to look at him in disbelief.

"Worse? How? With the couch tumbling down the stairs and taking someone out with it?"

"For example."

Lena let out a breathless laugh.

"Give me five minutes, and we’ll keep going."

Oscar nodded, though deep down, he knew this was going to take longer than expected.

When they finally managed to squeeze the sofa through the apartment door, Oscar collapsed onto it with a heavy sigh, feeling the exhaustion take over his arms.

“I thought lifting weights at the gym had prepared me for anything,” he muttered, massaging his forearm.

Lena, leaning against the wall as she tried to catch her breath, let out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, well, two-meter sofas have their own agenda.”

For a few moments, only their labored breathing filled the space, along with the distant hum of the city drifting in through the open balcony. Now that the sofa was in place, the frantic energy of the moment faded, leaving behind something else entirely.

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, feeling his shirt sticking to his skin.

“You said there was beer.”

Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Are you implying I don’t keep my promises, Piastri?”

Pushing off the doorframe, she disappeared into the kitchen. Oscar took the opportunity to glance around the apartment. It was practically empty, save for a few stacked boxes in the corner and the sofa they had just hauled up by sheer force.

There were no paintings on the walls, no decorations—just the space in its purest form. He didn’t know why, but it suited Lena. Practical. Functional. Nothing that wasn’t strictly necessary.

She returned with two beers in hand, tossing one at him without warning. Oscar caught it on reflex, shooting her a pointed look, but she only smirked before dropping onto the sofa beside him.

“Don’t look at me like that. If you’d dropped it, that would’ve been on you.”

Oscar shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a small smile.

Silence settled between them again as their bottles popped open. They drank in sync, both gazing out at the balcony, where Monaco’s lights shimmered against the night sky.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

It was that strange middle ground, where their usual dynamic wavered between familiarity and something Oscar hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I didn’t think you’d move here,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

Lena turned the bottle in her hands.

“Neither did I, until I didn’t have much of a choice. Monaco is convenient. No taxes and all that.”

“Yeah, that’s why we all end up here.”

She shot him a lazy smile.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m still not sold on it. I prefer places with more soul.”

Oscar took another sip, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

“And where has more soul, in your opinion?”

Lena leaned her head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the answer was written somewhere in the empty room.

“Berlin. Maybe London. Maybe somewhere where no one knows who I am, where I can disappear for a while.”

Oscar nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he entirely understood. He had never felt the need to disappear.

“So why didn’t you go to one of those places?”

Lena turned to look at him, studying him for a moment before shrugging.

“I guess, in the end, I like having a little bit of chaos nearby.”

The way she said it, without thinking, made Oscar pause for a second longer than necessary.

Because she said it while looking at him.

He held her gaze for a beat longer, sensing something in her words that unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place what it was.

Lena was the first to look away, refocusing on her bottle, drumming her fingers lightly against the glass.

“Anyway, thanks for the help.” Her tone was back to its usual lightness, as if the last few minutes of conversation hadn’t happened at all. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come. Probably left the sofa downstairs and used boxes as chairs.”

Oscar let out a quiet snort.

“That could’ve been a creative solution.”

“Nah. I want this place to at least somewhat resemble a home.”

He frowned slightly, something about the way she said “home” not quite sitting right with him. Like the word felt foreign to her.

“Isn’t it?”

Lena turned to him again, eyes sharp, as if seeing more than she let on. Then she smiled, but it was one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Not yet.”

Silence returned between them, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Oscar took another sip of his beer, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat as he tried not to overthink everything they had just said.

Outside, Monaco continued to glow like a movie set. Inside, Lena shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under the other as she turned toward him.

“By the way, how long are you staying before you have to travel again?”

Oscar blinked at the abrupt change of topic but decided to play along.

“A couple of days. Why?”

“Because now that you’ve helped me with the sofa, it’d be a waste not to take advantage of your handyman skills.”

Oscar eyed her suspiciously.

“Lena…”

She held up her hands in mock innocence.

“Nothing complicated. Just a few more things. A table. A couple of chairs. Maybe a bookshelf.”

“You want me to do your entire move?”

“No, I want you to help. Not the same thing.”

Oscar sighed, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from twitching slightly.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Lena tapped his arm with her bottle, as if sealing a deal.

“We’ll see.”

The following days tested Oscar’s patience.

What initially seemed like a simple favor—helping with a few pieces of furniture—quickly spiraled into something much more chaotic. Lena had absolutely nothing organized. Her boxes were stacked haphazardly in the living room, some half-open, others sealed with an absurd amount of tape.

“Why do you have so many boxes when you basically live in a paddock all year?” Oscar asked the day she dragged him back to her apartment under the pretense of “just helping me move one thing.”

“I don’t know, most of them are books.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“You read?”

Lena shot him an offended look.

"Why do you say that like it’s some kind of miracle?"

"I don’t know. Do you see how you write in your phone? I just never pictured you sitting still long enough to read."

"I have my quiet moments, Piastri. Few, but they exist."

He wasn’t entirely convinced of that—until he saw the stacks of novels, biographies, and even a few technical essays in Lena’s moving boxes. It was a chaotic mix of genres, ranging from thrillers to books on applied F1 mechanics.

"You actually read all of this?" he asked, pulling out a book on aerodynamics with pages filled with handwritten notes in the margins.

"Most of them. Some were gifts I never got around to reading."

Oscar shook his head in disbelief before opening another box. That was how they spent the afternoon—drifting from one conversation to another, moving furniture back and forth, and pausing every now and then when Oscar, with infinite patience, had to explain the correct way to use a power screwdriver.

"Give me that. You’re making me nervous," he muttered at one point, taking the tool from her hands before she could drill straight through the table they were working on.

"You’re such a control freak," she shot back, crossing her arms.

"I’m efficient."

By the end of the day, Lena’s apartment was still far from organized, but at least she had a table, chairs, and a bookshelf that wouldn’t collapse at any second.

They both collapsed onto the couch with a tired sigh.

"Tell me that’s the last of it," Oscar mumbled, eyes closed.

Lena elbowed him.

"Almost."

He groaned.

"I knew you were lying to me."

"Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. Besides, I gave you beer and free food—what more do you want?"

Oscar cracked one eye open, amused.

"A written contract guaranteeing you won’t drag me into this again."

Lena stuck out her tongue.

And for some reason, Oscar realized he wouldn’t mind coming back.

The next few days in Monaco passed far too quickly. Before he could even process it, he was back to his usual routine—simulator sessions, meetings with engineers, workouts, flights to the next circuit.

But something had changed.

It was subtle, like background noise he couldn’t quite tune out. A recurring thought creeping in at the most unexpected moments—while reviewing telemetry data, while pulling on his gloves before heading out on track, while trying to fall asleep in yet another uncomfortable hotel bed.

Lena.

Not because he was analyzing her as a rival. Not because he was trying to figure out how to beat her on track.

Just because she was there.

Because every time he scrolled through Instagram, he stumbled upon clips of their interview together, the comments flooded with people loving their dynamic. Because every time he opened WhatsApp, their chat was never too far down the list. Because every time someone mentioned her name in a conversation, he felt something close to… anticipation.

And now, when he arrived at the paddock, he found himself looking for her without even realizing it.

The next Grand Prix was a brutal reminder of why he couldn’t afford distractions.

From the first practice sessions, it was clear that the margins were razor-thin. Red Bull had the edge, sure, but McLaren and Ferrari were right behind, waiting for any opportunity. And amid all the tension, there was Lena—with that infuriatingly relaxed attitude that somehow managed to get under his skin.

"Ready to lose again, Piastri?" she teased with a smirk when they crossed paths near the hospitality area before qualifying.

"I’m not losing today," he shot back, folding his arms.

"We’ll see about that."

And they did.

Qualifying was chaos. Session after session, the times tightened until there was barely any room for error. In the final moments of Q3, Lena put in a blistering lap, claiming provisional pole. Oscar was still on his flyer, pushing the limits of the track with every turn.

When he crossed the line and saw his time flash on the board, adrenaline surged through him.

P1.

On race day, the tension on the grid was almost tangible.

Oscar was on pole, Lena right beside him in P2. From inside his cockpit, he could see her through the visor of her helmet—leaning slightly forward, hands resting on the wheel, fingers barely perceptibly tightening around the grips.

He knew her too well. He could tell she was planning something.

He also knew she wouldn’t give him a single inch.

When the lights went out, the world shrank to the sound of his own heartbeat and the deafening roar of the engines.

His start was good. Hers was better.

They went wheel to wheel into the first corner, neither backing down, neither willing to be the first to yield.

The battle raged on for lap after lap. Every overtake was met with an immediate counterattack. Every attempt to pull away was thwarted by the other’s relentless defense.

And then—it happened.

It wasn’t a major mistake. It wasn’t a desperate move.

It was a matter of… ten millimeters.

Oscar tried to close the door in a high-speed corner, expecting Lena to back out. But Lena never backed out.

Their rear wheels touched.

And in the blink of an eye, both cars were out of control.

The world spun in a blur of radio static, gravel, and the sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting the barriers.

The impact was brutal. Not in sheer force, but in the inevitability of it.

Their cars—now little more than shattered debris scattered across the runoff—were the culmination of something that had been brewing for years.

When Oscar tore off his steering wheel and sat up in his seat, the deafening roar of the crowd was muted by the blood pounding in his ears. His hands, still shaking with adrenaline, unfastened the harnesses with a sharp tug.

He jumped out of the car.

And there she was.

Lena had already climbed out of her Red Bull, brushing dust off her fireproof suit as if the crash hadn’t fazed her at all. But Oscar knew better. He saw the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled into fists, the tight clench of her jaw as she swallowed down barely contained frustration.

They locked eyes in silence, their breathing still ragged, the echoes of the crash still hanging between them.

Around them, track marshals rushed in, ensuring they were both unharmed, stepping between them before either could do something they might regret.

There was no need for words.

What had just happened wasn’t a mistake.

It was the result of every on-track clash, every maneuver pushed to the limit, every time one had tried to prove they could beat the other.

It was the inevitable outcome of ten years of war.

When they were taken back to the paddock, the tension between them was so thick that even the FIA officials seemed to want to stay out of it. Their team principals were too busy analyzing replays of the crash, debating over the radio, searching for arguments to either defend or condemn what had happened.

So they were left in a room. Alone.

The silence was suffocating.

The only sound was their breathing—still ragged, still laced with fury.

Oscar ran his hands through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to steady the storm of emotions tearing through him.

But when he looked up and saw her standing there, arms crossed, eyes burning, brows furrowed in pure defiance…

He knew.

This wasn’t about the race.

It had never been just about the track.

And then, the storm broke.

The door shut behind them with a sharp thud.

Silence.

Heavy, stifling, ready to shatter.

Lena ran a hand over her neck, clenching her jaw, her breath still unsteady. She didn’t know if it was from the crash, the anger, or the lethal combination of both.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, her voice rough.

Oscar, who had been standing with his hands on his hips, turned his head toward her like he’d been waiting for the first shot to be fired.

"What’s wrong with me?" He let out a dry, incredulous laugh—a sharp, cutting sound. "Are you fucking kidding me? You shoved me into the wall, Lena."

"Oh, fuck off. You left me with no space first."

"There was no more space to give you."

"There’s always space, Piastri, but of course, if you're the one who has to yield, suddenly it becomes fucking nonexistent."

Oscar took a step toward her.

"Oh, I’m sorry—should I applaud you? Should I fucking bow for your sacrifice? If you want to win, maybe try not launching yourself like a goddamn kamikaze."

"And maybe you should try driving like you don’t have a stick up your ass!"

The air crackled between them.

The crash, the scrape of tires, the sound of shattered carbon fiber—it didn’t matter.

What mattered was everything behind it.

Years and years of pushing each other to the edge. Of locking eyes and knowing neither of them would ever back down. Of a rivalry so deeply poisoned that they no longer knew whether they wanted to beat each other or destroy each other.

Oscar took another step.

Lena didn’t move an inch.

"You always do this," he muttered, voice lower now but no less intense.

"Do what?"

"Put me in this fucking situation."

Lena tilted her head, a razor-sharp smile curling her lips.

"Don’t play the victim. It’s not just me."

"Oh, no?"

"You know it’s not."

Oscar clenched his jaw. Lena saw the tic in his temple, the way his fists tightened and relaxed, like he was holding something back—something he had no fucking idea how to deal with.

"Admit it pisses you off," she murmured.

"What pisses me off?"

"That I have you so figured out I know what you're feeling before you do."

Oscar let out a tense, fractured laugh.

"You have no idea what I’m feeling."

Lena stepped closer.

A single damn millimeter.

"Of course I do."

A flicker in his jaw.

"No. You don’t."

"I know it’s not about the race."

Oscar swallowed.

"Shut up."

"I know it’s not about the fucking crash."

"Lena."

"I know you want to kiss me."

Oscar felt something drop in his stomach—an unfamiliar, furious vertigo.

"Shut up."

Lena laughed, but there was no amusement in it. Only a blade, only the undeniable certainty that she was right.

"Why? Because it pisses you off to hear it out loud?"

Oscar gritted his teeth.

"Because it’s bullshit."

"No, it’s not."

"Yes, it is."

"Oh, really? Then why—"

She leaned in just a fraction more, pushing him without even touching him.

"Why do you look at me like that every time we’re on track?"

"I don’t look at you in any way."

"Why do you pick fights over stupid shit, but never over what actually gets to you?"

"Because you’re unbearable."

Lena clicked her tongue.

"Liar."

Oscar felt something in his chest pull impossibly tight.

"Drop it."

But she didn’t.

"Why can't you stand it when others congratulate me? When someone else says I did well?"

Oscar didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the answer was there, lodged in his throat, so obvious it almost made him sick.

Because the truth was spilling through the cracks of his denial, seeping into the fractures of his damned mind until everything fell into place.

It wasn’t competitiveness.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t that she won.

It was that she was there, always, messing up his existence since they were kids.

It was that every time he saw her passing him, he felt something that made no sense.

It was that when she laughed, with that smile that was so unmistakably hers, his chest tightened.

It was that he had spent years convincing himself that all he wanted was to beat her, when what he really wanted was to touch her.

And she knew it.

Lena saw the shift in his face, in his dark, glinting eyes, in the way his breathing turned just a little deeper.

"See?" she whispered.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, his fists clenched, his pulse pounding at his temples.

"No," he said.

But it sounded like what it was—a lie.

Lena smiled, but it wasn’t mocking. It was something heavier, more dangerous. Something that sent Oscar’s pulse racing.

"Yes," she whispered. "You see it."

Oscar didn’t move, but he didn’t step back when she leaned in closer. Ten millimeters less.

"Shut up."

His voice came out rough, ragged, completely useless.

"Make me."

Oscar swallowed hard.

The air between them was thick, suffocating. No space. No escape.

They had spent years fighting. Years pushing each other to the limit. Years forcing themselves to believe that all they felt was anger, rivalry, fury.

But fury didn’t burn like this.

Fury didn’t make his hands tingle with the urge to grab her.

Fury didn’t leave him like this, with his jaw clenched and his thoughts in complete chaos because Lena was so close, because he could feel her breath, because he knew—he knew—this was inevitable.

"Say you don’t want this."

Lena’s voice was a challenge, a provocation that curled down his spine.

Oscar closed his eyes for a second.

If he said it, maybe they could pretend this never happened.

That none of this existed.

That they could keep waging their damn war on the track without the truth tearing them apart.

But when he opened his eyes, when he saw the way Lena was looking at him, something inside him just… gave in.

The last barrier shattered.

The final ten millimeters disappeared.

And Oscar kissed her.

The impact was brutal.

No hesitation, no second-guessing, no restraint. Just pure momentum, an inevitable collision that trapped them in a fierce, definitive moment.

Lena gasped against his mouth, startled but not resisting, because her fingers clenched in the fabric of his race suit, pulling him in, seeking more, seeking everything. Oscar didn’t think. He couldn’t. His body reacted before his mind could process it, before he could remember that just minutes ago, he had been shouting at her.

That they had been arguing, that they had been furious, that they had spent years hating each other.

But had they really?

His back hit the wall, and he barely had time to catch his breath before Lena kissed him again—deeper, hungrier, as if they had just crossed a line they would never be able to step back from.

"Son of a bitch…" she murmured against his lips, but she didn’t sound angry. She sounded defeated.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to something, to any rational thought that could pull him out of this whirlwind.

But everything was Lena.

Her breath, her scent mixed with the adrenaline of the race, the feel of her hands gripping his neck.

He wanted her with an intensity that terrified him.

His entire world narrowed down to this moment, to this kiss, to the small, shaky exhales slipping from her mouth when he deepened it.

Lena laughed, barely a whisper against his skin.

"I knew I was right."

Oscar clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around her waist on instinct.

"Don’t ruin it," he growled.

But she did anyway.

"I always knew you’d break one day," she whispered, with a shameless confidence that should have infuriated him.

But there was no anger left in him.

Only this.

This vertigo, this need.

This something that had been pushing him for years—something that, now he understood, had never been hatred.

Lena pulled back just a fraction, her gaze locked on his. The last traces of defiance were still in her expression, but something else had seeped through the cracks.

"And now what, Piastri?" she asked, her voice lower than usual.

Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, still trapped in the spiral of what had just happened.

He looked into her eyes, at her swollen lips, at the shadow of a smile threatening to return.

And then he knew.

"I have no fucking idea."

Lena laughed, and Oscar kissed her again.

The door creaked open.

Oscar and Lena pulled apart at the last second, his pulse still hammering in his ears. Lena recovered faster—she lifted her chin, ran her fingers along the collar of her race suit, and slipped into her usual mask of arrogant indifference, as if they hadn’t just been pressed against the wall, devouring each other with the urgency of people who had waited too long.

The FIA steward entered, oblivious, an iPad in hand and the frown of someone who had spent too much time analyzing replays.

"Alright, both of you need to give your statements on the on-track incident. Bauer, you first. Piastri, wait here."

Lena cast a quick glance at Oscar before moving.

A fleeting look, barely a couple of seconds. But enough.

He held her gaze, trying to read what wasn’t being said.

No regret. No hesitation. Just something sharp, expectant.

When Lena turned and walked out of the room, her scent still lingered in the air.

Oscar ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, as if that could restore control over something he had lost a long time ago.

Ten millimeters.

They had crossed them.

And there was no turning back.

Oscar was still pulling off his gloves when Andrea intercepted him in the hallway.

"Doctor. Now."

"I'm fine."

"Doctor. Now."

Stella’s look left no room for argument, so Oscar let out a frustrated sigh and nodded, peeling off the top half of his race suit as he followed.

But his mind wasn’t on the medical check-up.

She had slipped away.

Lena was already gone when he finished his statement, and no matter how much he searched for her among the crowd of mechanics, team principals, and paddock staff, she was nowhere to be found.

And the scene in that room—the heat of her breath, her lips mere millimeters from his, the echo of her voice tearing apart every excuse he had tried to hide behind—kept replaying in his head like a damn broken record.

"Piastri."

Oscar blinked, realizing he was already in the medical room. A doctor stood in front of him, pointing at the examination table.

"Sit down."

"Is Lena here?"

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"Bauer? No, she already came through. She’s fine."

Oscar pressed his tongue against his palate, frustrated.

Where the hell had she gone?

He climbed onto the table without complaint and let them check his blood pressure and reflexes, but he barely paid attention. His mind was still trapped in that room, in the way Lena had looked at him before walking out.

Because now he knew.

She had been right.

And that pissed him off. It pissed him off so much.

But what pissed him off the most was that, despite everything—he wanted to see her again.

The flight back to Monaco was a blur.

He didn’t remember packing, leaving the circuit, or walking through the airport with the team. His body moved on autopilot, repeating mechanical gestures, nodding at the right moments when someone spoke to him. But his mind was elsewhere.

The corner. The impact. The fire in his chest when he saw Lena’s helmet move inside the car, when he saw her climb out unscathed.

The room in the paddock.

Her sharp voice. The way she had stepped closer. The way she had disarmed him effortlessly, ripping a truth from him that even he hadn’t realized.

By the time he landed in Nice, his jaw was so tense it ached.

He got into the waiting car without bothering to say anything. The radio played in the background, a mix of music and news, but he didn’t listen. His own silence was louder.

He got out at his building and took the elevator up with the same inertia that had carried him through the last few hours. When the doors opened, he walked to his apartment, disabled the alarm, and stepped into the dimly lit space.

The room was silent except for the faint murmur of the sea in the distance.

Oscar dropped his suitcase by the door and stood still in the middle of the living room.

The weight of everything crashed into him all at once.

He exhaled, running a hand down his face.

He knew sleep would be impossible.

He didn’t even think. He just pulled out his phone, opened their chat, and sent his location.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Seen.

Nothing else.

No message. No reaction.

Just the damn double blue check marks, glowing on the screen like a reminder of how much of an idiot he was.

Oscar clenched his jaw and tossed the phone onto the table. He sank onto the couch, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.

It had been a bad idea.

No, it had been a fucking terrible idea.

What the hell was he thinking?

He shut his eyes. The crash. The fight. The kiss.

Everything they had held back for years had exploded in that room. But now, after the frenzy of the race, after the adrenaline and the rage, all that was left was the emptiness.

The hum in his chest wouldn’t quiet.

And then the doorbell ringed.

Oscar opened his eyes.

He froze.

Didn’t move at first, as if his brain needed a few extra seconds to process it.

Doorbell. Again.

This time, he got up. Walked to the door, feeling his own pulse in his fingertips.

He opened it.

Lena.

Standing in the doorway, that same unreadable glint in her eyes.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her.

And then, everything unraveled.

The moment the door clicked shut, the silence between them became unbearable.

Lena didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. She reached for him first, hands gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him down into a kiss that was anything but soft. It was raw, demanding—filled with every word they hadn’t said, every feeling they had swallowed for years. Oscar barely had time to react before instinct took over. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, as if the space between them was something offensive, something that needed to be erased.

She tasted like adrenaline and defiance, like the echoes of their fight still lingered between their teeth. He could feel her pulse hammering against his fingertips, mirroring his own. Every inch of his body was wound tight, coiled with tension that had nothing to do with the race and everything to do with her.

Lena backed him into the living room, their steps clumsy, uncoordinated in a way that betrayed just how frayed their control was. They hit the edge of the couch, and Oscar barely managed to turn them, pressing her back against the armrest as his weight settled over her. She didn’t protest. If anything, she arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp.

A shiver ran down his spine at the sensation, sharp and electric. It made him want more.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged. Her lips were swollen, parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. There was something wild in her eyes, something reckless and unguarded, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Lena smirked, tilting her head just slightly. “Are you going to overthink this, Piastri?”

Oscar exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh escaping him. “Shut up.”

She did. But only because his mouth was on hers again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over the familiar lines of her body with a newfound urgency. The couch wasn’t enough. The room wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed all of her.

Without breaking contact, he lifted her, ignoring the way she gasped in surprise before her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He carried her through the dimly lit apartment, only stopping when her back hit the bedroom door. The impact made it rattle, but neither of them cared.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”

Lena’s fingers traced the edge of his jaw, her touch softer now, more deliberate. Her voice was quieter when she answered. “I won’t.”

That was all he needed.

The door gave way behind them, and they stumbled inside.

And then, everything really unraveled.

Clothes hit the floor in a messy, frantic rhythm. Hands moved with the kind of desperation that only years of restraint could create. Oscar traced the curve of her spine with his fingertips, committing every detail to memory. Lena’s breath hitched when his lips found the sensitive skin of her collarbone, her fingers tightening around his shoulders.

The night stretched on, filled with whispered names and stolen breaths. Every touch, every movement was a conversation in itself, a language they had long denied speaking. And when they finally collapsed together, bodies tangled in the sheets, neither of them spoke for a long time.

Because for once, there was nothing left to say.

The room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic sound of their breathing and the distant murmur of the sea drifting through the open window. A soft breeze ghosted over their damp skin, cooling the lingering heat between them.

Oscar lay on his side, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Lena’s bare waist. He watched as goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch, fascinated by the way her body reacted to him even now. She didn’t move, only observed him in silence, her dark eyes half-lidded, unreadable in the dim light.

He followed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, moving slowly, deliberately. There was something intoxicating about it—about this rare, quiet moment where neither of them had to fight or prove anything. Here, in the sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breaths, they were just themselves.

Lena exhaled softly, shifting slightly under his touch. ““How long?” she finally asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Oscar knew exactly what she was asking. He exhaled slowly, his fingers stilling against her skin.

“Always.”

Lena’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Oscar turned on his side to face her fully, his eyes scanning hers for any sign of hesitation.

“Since the first race. Since before I even knew what this was,” he admitted, voice rough. “I thought it was competition. I thought it was rivalry. I told myself that wanting to beat you was all there was. But it was more than that. It was always more.”

She held his gaze, unreadable for a moment, then let out a quiet breath. “I hated you for so long,” she murmured. “Or at least, I wanted to.”

His lips twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that?”

She huffed a short laugh, shaking her head. “I told myself it was just about winning. About proving I was better. But then, when you weren’t there, when you moved up first, it felt… wrong. Like something was missing.”

Oscar’s fingers curled around her wrist, thumb brushing against her pulse. “I felt it too.”

Lena swallowed, then shifted closer, their foreheads nearly touching. “I don’t know what to do with this,” she admitted. “I’ve spent so long pushing it down, convincing myself it didn’t matter.”

Oscar’s grip tightened slightly. “Then don’t push it down anymore.”

A beat of silence.

“And if it ruins everything?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar inhaled sharply, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Then at least it was real.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if letting the words settle. When she opened them again, something in her expression had shifted. Resolved. Certain.

“No more running,” she said.

His fingers tangled with hers beneath the sheets. “No more running.”

And this time, when she kissed him, it was slow. Certain. Like something inevitable finally falling into place.

A few moments passed before Lena broke the silence again, a smirk playing at her lips. “I have to say, for all that tension, you weren’t half bad.”

Oscar scoffed, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist. “Not half bad? That’s all I get?”

She let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “I don’t know… I might need another round of evidence before I make my final judgment.”

Oscar groaned, burying his face in her neck, his laugh muffled against her skin. “You’re impossible.”

“You like that about me,” she teased.

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze with something softer now, amusement and something deeper mixing together. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

She sighed, stretching out beneath him. “God, I can’t believe it took us this long.”

Oscar leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder. “Guess we were too busy trying to destroy each other.”

“Healthy,” she deadpanned.

He chuckled. “Extremely.”

Another pause, comfortable now, before Lena turned her head to look at him again. “So… what now?”

Oscar traced a lazy circle on her hip. “I guess we figure it out.”

She snorted. “That sounds dangerously close to a plan.”

“I can be responsible sometimes.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “You literally just sent me your location instead of saying actual words.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “Fine. Not my best moment.”

She grinned. “But it worked.”

He smirked. “Yeah. It did.”

And as the night stretched on, tangled together in the quiet of the room, the weight of ten years finally felt lighter.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog

[tvmblrsillyman]

Blued it then added a kitty

I'm so fucked

[cgtg]

looking @ all of this godtier stuff, i wanna say i dont rlly think classpecting is all that. it's a fun analytical tool for exploring a character's themeing and role in a narrative. but it's fundamentally impossible to assign an "arc" 2 a living person, & within sburb itself the godtier system has a very questionable view of what its characters arcs mean/should be. like. you can 100% interpret classpects as bullshit within the text.

that being said, again, they're still a fun narrative tool to bring outside of homestuck itself, & if you remove them from the intelligence/structure of SBURB they are rlly fun for vibes-based introspection. they aren't made up of nothing, they have clear inspiration & meaning to hussie.

i view classes like roles in a play. anyone can pick any of them for any reason, multiple at different times even, but you only know for sure if one fits you by playing it. my perspective on it is rly close to funk mclovin's theory.

i view aspects as a bit more immutable bc i feel like they speak to more core traits rather than the shit u operationalise, which is much more up to personal choice.

i have always felt a distinct calling to the space aspect, for well over a decade. i relate heavily to a lot of the core themes it portrays. i could ramble for ages abt that, legit.

the course of picking "witch" has been a progression to me. "seer" encapsulates how i am/was when trapped in passivity both internally & externally. relegated to a problem solver, advice friend, helper. a role which i perform well but am deeply unfulfilled & drained in.

the "witch" class encapsulates my fundamental need to have my own autonomy, function, control, freedoms in my life for myself & not for others. that is ultimately what i desire to be, & i feel that the "witch" encapsulates it well. i also fuck heavily with the archetypal "lonesome magician who is feared & revered for their wisdome and power" character. kid me would've fuckin *loved* being a wicked witchman.

like, i think it's worthwhile to work backwards from what you think of yourself & *then* put the godtier jammies on. bc fundamentally it is impossible to put humanity in all these little boxes, especially when we don't have enough evidence to prove the true validity of those boxes or their limitations. & they purely operate within the limitations of a piece of fiction made by one person.

this is why, although i don't put much stock in the actual system of classpects, my classpect is deeply personal to me. bc it culminates from extensive introspection. i also find it incredibly interesting 2 see how others classpect themselves, bc it is a fundamental expression of the self to place yourself in these grids, & *requires* personal interpretation of the system by a means that *also* says something about you as a person. like, it's a net gain if you're interested in how people live their lives & define themselves, which i am.

uh... basically have fun & be yourself

[aleleck]

Hey guys, I was thinking about the Harry Potter houses and the question came to me, which houses do you think the pilots in the current grid are from? So, I decided to ask chatgpt because I never watch HP so I don't have the authority to give my opinion (but I know the story a little so it's not completely unknown)

This was the answer that chatgpt gave me:

🦁 Gryffindor

Traits: brave, daring, competitive, bold

Lewis Hamilton (Ferrari) – A fearless racer and activist; emotionally driven and courageous.

Pierre Gasly (Alpine) – Resilient, bold, and intense—he thrives on emotion and comebacks.

Carlos Sainz (Williams) – Gutsy under pressure and not afraid to fight for every inch.

Jack Doohan (Alpine) – Known for taking bold moves in junior categories; confident and gutsy.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli (Mercedes) – Very early to judge fully, but his confidence and rapid rise suggest a brave and bold Gryffindor core.

🐍 Slytherin

Traits: ambitious, cunning, strategic, driven

Max Verstappen (Red Bull) – Ruthless, ambitious, and laser-focused on domination. Textbook Slytherin.

Fernando Alonso (Aston Martin) – Master of mind games and long-term strategy; cunning and proud.

Lance Stroll (Aston Martin) – Maintains his spot through persistence and savvy behind the scenes.

Isack Hadjar (RB) – Confident, calculated, and rising quickly; likely to fit the Slytherin archetype.

Esteban Ocon (Haas) – Tactical racer, doesn’t shy away from rivalry; plays the long game.

🦅 Ravenclaw

Traits: intelligent, analytical, innovative, curious

Charles Leclerc (Ferrari) – Thoughtful, precise, and often philosophical in his interviews and approach.

Oscar Piastri (McLaren) – Calm, analytical, and intelligent beyond his years.

Alexander Albon (Williams) – Very sharp, articulate, and insightful both on and off the track.

Gabriel Bortoleto (Sauber) – A student of the sport, thoughtful and composed in his rise.

Oliver Bearman (Haas) – Intelligent and mature for his age; approaches racing with clarity and poise.

🦡 Hufflepuff

Traits: hardworking, loyal, humble, kind

George Russell (Mercedes) – Loyal to his team, professional, and hardworking with strong ethics.

Lando Norris (McLaren) – Down-to-earth, loyal to McLaren, and consistently puts in the work.

Yuki Tsunoda (Red Bull) – Emotionally honest, hardworking, and full of team spirit.

Nico Hülkenberg (Sauber) – Long-serving, reliable, and respected; a quiet stalwart of the grid.

Liam Lawson (RB) – Resilient, patient, and team-oriented—waited for his opportunity with grace.

I know I don't know much but this surprised me a little, I wouldn't imagine George in Hufflepuff and Gabriel in Ravenclaw, Esteban is so Hufflepuff to me and about Charles… I'm in doubt now…

Do you agree with this? I want to know your opinion!!!

[electronalytics]

Distribution Feeder Automation Market Business Research, Types and Applications, Demand by 2032

Market Overview: The Distribution Feeder Automation Market refers to the market for advanced technologies and systems that automate the monitoring, control, and management of distribution feeders within an electrical distribution network. Distribution feeder automation improves the efficiency, reliability, and resiliency of power distribution by utilizing sensors, communication networks, and automation software to monitor and control power flows, fault detection, and restoration. These solutions enhance the performance of distribution feeders and enable utilities to deliver electricity more effectively.

Feeder Automation Market is projected to be worth USD 7.85 Billion by 2030, registering a CAGR of 8.2% during the forecast period (2022 - 2030)

Demand: The demand for distribution feeder automation is driven by several factors, including:

Distribution feeder automation solutions help utilities improve the reliability and resiliency of their distribution networks. By automating fault detection, isolation, and restoration, these systems minimize outage durations and enhance the overall performance of the grid, ensuring a more reliable power supply for customers.

Distribution feeder automation systems streamline operations by reducing manual interventions, optimizing power flow, and enhancing network monitoring capabilities. These solutions enable utilities to manage distribution feeders more efficiently, reduce costs, and improve the overall operational performance of their networks.

The increasing integration of renewable energy sources, such as solar and wind power, into the distribution grid presents operational challenges. Distribution feeder automation helps utilities manage the intermittent nature of renewables, optimize power flow, and ensure grid stability, facilitating the integration of clean energy sources.

Latest technological developments, key factors, and challenges in the Distribution Feeder Automation Market:

Latest Technological Developments:

Intelligent Sensors and IoT Integration: Distribution feeder automation is leveraging intelligent sensors and Internet of Things (IoT) integration to monitor real-time data from various points along the distribution feeders. These sensors provide insights into voltage levels, current flow, fault detection, and other parameters, enabling quicker fault localization and resolution.

Advanced Communication Protocols: Modern distribution feeder automation systems are adopting advanced communication protocols like for seamless data exchange between field devices and control centers. This facilitates real-time monitoring, remote control, and efficient data transmission.

Decentralized Control and Edge Computing: Distribution feeder automation systems are moving toward decentralized control and edge computing. This allows decision-making and control to occur closer to field devices, reducing latency and enhancing responsiveness.

Distributed Energy Resource (DER) Management: With the integration of distributed energy resources like solar panels, wind turbines, and energy storage systems, feeder automation systems are being developed to manage these resources effectively, ensuring grid stability and optimal energy distribution.

Advanced Analytics and AI: Distribution feeder automation is incorporating advanced analytics and artificial intelligence to analyze data from various sources. AI algorithms can predict and prevent potential faults, optimize energy flows, and enhance overall feeder performance.

Key Factors:

Reliability Enhancement: Distribution feeder automation improves the reliability of electricity distribution by enabling quicker fault detection, isolation, and restoration. This minimizes outage durations and enhances overall grid reliability.

Efficient Grid Management: Feeder automation allows utilities to manage the distribution grid more efficiently. Load balancing, voltage regulation, and fault management can be automated, leading to optimized energy delivery.

Integration of Renewable Energy: As the penetration of renewable energy sources increases, distribution feeder automation becomes crucial for managing the intermittent nature of these resources and maintaining grid stability.

Grid Resilience and Outage Management: Feeder automation systems enhance grid resilience by providing real-time data on grid conditions and faults. This facilitates faster response and restoration during outages, minimizing customer impact.

Challenges:

Interoperability: Integrating various devices and protocols into a cohesive feeder automation system can be challenging due to the need for interoperability between different vendors and technologies.

Cybersecurity: With increased connectivity and data exchange, distribution feeder automation systems face cybersecurity threats. Ensuring the security of these systems is paramount to prevent unauthorized access and data breaches.

Cost and Infrastructure: Implementing distribution feeder automation can involve significant upfront costs, including hardware, software, and training. Retrofitting existing infrastructure for automation may also pose challenges.

Complexity of Data Management: Feeder automation generates vast amounts of data that need to be effectively managed, analyzed, and acted upon. Handling this complexity can be demanding.

Change Management: Transitioning from manual to automated processes requires change management efforts to train personnel, address resistance, and ensure smooth integration.

Maintenance and Upgrades: Ensuring the proper functioning of feeder automation systems over time requires regular maintenance and potential upgrades to keep up with technology advancements.

Distribution feeder automation is at the forefront of modernizing electricity distribution networks. While it offers significant benefits in terms of reliability, efficiency, and resilience, addressing technical challenges and ensuring a smooth transition is crucial for successful implementation.

By visiting our website or contacting us directly, you can explore the availability of specific reports related to this market. These reports often require a purchase or subscription, but we provide comprehensive and in-depth information that can be valuable for businesses, investors, and individuals interested in this market.

“Remember to look for recent reports to ensure you have the most current and relevant information.”

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Market Segmentations:

Global Distribution Feeder Automation Market: By Company

• ABB

• Eaton

• Grid Solutions

• Schneider Electric

• Siemens

• Advanced Control Systems

• Atlantic City Electric

• CG

• G&W Electric

• Kalkitech

• Kyland Technology

• Moxa

• S&C Electric Company

• Schweitzer Engineering Laboratories (SEL)

Global Distribution Feeder Automation Market: By Type

• Fault Location

• Isolation

• Service Restoration

• Automatic Transfer Scheme

Global Distribution Feeder Automation Market: By Application

• Industrial

• Commercial

• Residential

Global Distribution Feeder Automation Market: Regional Analysis

The regional analysis of the global Distribution Feeder Automation market provides insights into the market's performance across different regions of the world. The analysis is based on recent and future trends and includes market forecast for the prediction period. The countries covered in the regional analysis of the Distribution Feeder Automation market report are as follows:

North America: The North America region includes the U.S., Canada, and Mexico. The U.S. is the largest market for Distribution Feeder Automation in this region, followed by Canada and Mexico. The market growth in this region is primarily driven by the presence of key market players and the increasing demand for the product.

Europe: The Europe region includes Germany, France, U.K., Russia, Italy, Spain, Turkey, Netherlands, Switzerland, Belgium, and Rest of Europe. Germany is the largest market for Distribution Feeder Automation in this region, followed by the U.K. and France. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing demand for the product in the automotive and aerospace sectors.

Asia-Pacific: The Asia-Pacific region includes Singapore, Malaysia, Australia, Thailand, Indonesia, Philippines, China, Japan, India, South Korea, and Rest of Asia-Pacific. China is the largest market for Distribution Feeder Automation in this region, followed by Japan and India. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing adoption of the product in various end-use industries, such as automotive, aerospace, and construction.

Middle East and Africa: The Middle East and Africa region includes Saudi Arabia, U.A.E, South Africa, Egypt, Israel, and Rest of Middle East and Africa. The market growth in this region is driven by the increasing demand for the product in the aerospace and defense sectors.

South America: The South America region includes Argentina, Brazil, and Rest of South America. Brazil is the largest market for Distribution Feeder Automation in this region, followed by Argentina. The market growth in this region is primarily driven by the increasing demand for the product in the automotive sector.

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Reasons to Purchase Distribution Feeder Automation Market Report:

 Comprehensive Market Insights: Global research market reports provide a thorough and in-depth analysis of a specific market or industry. They offer valuable insights into market size, growth potential, trends, challenges, and opportunities, helping businesses make informed decisions and formulate effective strategies.

Market Analysis and Forecasts: These reports provide detailed analysis and forecasts of market trends, growth rates, and future market scenarios. They help businesses understand the current market landscape and anticipate future market developments, enabling them to plan and allocate resources accordingly.

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In general, market research studies offer companies and organisations useful data that can aid in making decisions and maintaining competitiveness in their industry. They can offer a strong basis for decision-making, strategy formulation, and company planning.

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[fatehbaz]

"Industry" as a frame of meaning is [...] relevant from the beginning of [modern-era labor advocacy and the general practice of intentionally "taking it easy" or "slowing down" while at work in order to advocate for and take care of oneself] [...], a form of "working badly" [...]. This close link is understandable given the absolute focus on efficiency that marks management thinking - Taylorism [Frederick Taylor's time studies and his support for using stopwatches to micro-manage in the workplace], the Gilbreths' time and motion studies [...]. [W]e can feel that trace of disgust, a certain sneering affect [...]. The sneer gathers around the word "motionless," [...]. The promise of the “upstanding citizen” is posed against the figure of the cripple, etymologically bound to the one who creeps, who stays low, to the one who is not proud and erect and in public view. In this way, that figure - along with the hobbled, the mute, the blind, the mad, the deaf, the chronic, and, of course, the paralyzed - becomes the exemplary negative definition. [...] [T]he only culturally sanctioned options are to be hidden from public life or recuperated [...]. That [...] fantasy of [a] return to previous levels of mobility that aligns easily with ableist conceptions of normal function and health [...] is also grounded in the specific idea of a return to ["productivity"] [...].

We can find this dynamic in especially dramatic form in the influential work of early twentieth-century “scientific management” theorists Frank and Lillian Gilbreth, known both for their time and motion studies of labor processes [...]. [T]he Gilbreths are relentlessly devoted to the reduction of inefficiency in labor to save energy, reduce unnecessary fatigue, and, above all, neutralize the fundamental “waste” of effort and time hidden within every human movement, particularly when at work. According to Frank and Lillian, “there is no waste of any kind in the world that equals the waste from needless, ill-directed, and ineffective motions, and their resulting unnecessary fatigue.” The battle against this “waste” gets posed as a civilizational battle stretching back across human history, only now conquerable with modern means, yet theirs is also a project with explicitly nationalist overtones that can be strategically couched to suit a war economy and a desire for American imperial hegemony.

---

The solution they propose is a total analytical dissection of labor processes, breaking single tasks into discrete parts to detect the little gaps in time that could be closed. Such minute lags and “micromotions” will necessarily get missed without the tools the Gilbreths turn to, like moving picture cameras - turned to face workers with chronometers in front of the lens and reticular grids on the wall behind for scale - and a “chronocyclegraph,” which allowed them to zoom in on a single gesture to see its tiny deviations and wasted movements frame by frame. In their methodology, delays and breakdowns take a form almost directly counter to simple malingering or the kind of willful self-stasis that Spargo denounced. Rather, what causes the inefficiency that the Gilbreths target is too much movement, an excess of animacy and motions that need not be done to complete a task, resulting in unnecessary fatigue and wasted opportunities for profit.

Yet at the heart of this, there is one figure seen to most embody this “wasted” energy and time in full - not in a specific action, badly choreographed task, or laziness, but in their entire being. This is what they designated as the “cripple,” [...].

---

“What,” the Gilbreths ask, “is to be done with these millions of cripples, when their injuries have been remedied as far as possible, and when they are obliged to become again a part of the working community?” [...] The “cripple” therefore emblematizes the waste of America’s “human resources” for the Gilbreths. It manifests a physical limit - the body that is conventionally seen to be unable to do productive work - but also a political one that they cannot even fathom, or at least allow publicly: the idea that anyone might challenge either the supposed utility of this frenzy of streamlined work or the very category of what constitutes “waste” itself. For the Gilbreths, the “elimination of waste” is not merely a project of capital. It is a civilization-scale undertaking that benefits all involved in the process: “All workers are sharing in the savings made possible by the elimination of waste.” [...]

It is not mere surveillance, increased policing, or something that openly oppresses and invites a revolt. Instead, it is a mode of management and control that seeks to saturate every step of the process, all the while insisting that what’s good for profit is good for those whose stolen time generates that profit.

---

All text above by: Evan Calder Williams. "On Paralysis, Part 3". e-flux Journal Issue #147. September 2024. Published online at: e-flux dot com slash journal/147/624989/on-paralysis-part-3/. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity/context. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism.]

[tiredwitchplant]

Everything You Need to Know About Crystals: Carnelian (Red)

Carnelian (The Sunset Stone)

Color: Red, orange, pink, brown

Rarity: Common, easy to obtain

Hardiness: 7

Type: Agate or Chalcedony

Chakra Association: Solar-Plexus, Sacral, Root Chakra

Angels: Michael

Deities: Isis

Astrological Signs: Leo, Taurus, Aries

Element: Fire

Planet: Sun

Origin: Britain, India, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Peru, Iceland, Romania

Powers: Success, Confidence, Motivation, Courage, Sexual Energy, Vitality, Action

Crystals It Works Well With: Aquamarine, Beryl, Super Seven

How It is Created: It is part of the chalcedony family. It is made up of silicon dioxide colored by different levels of iron impurities, with specks, banding, or stripes in many shades of brown or orange-red. The stone itself has a beautiful warm orange color that is best appreciated when it is polished.

History: Since ancient times, carnelian has been polished and worn as jewelry. The Egyptians used it to contrast with onyx and lapis lazuli in the making of collars and necklaces. The Romans were fond of it set in gold, using small beads in earrings or larger polished stones in finger rings for men and women. In the Middle Ages, carnelian was also popular as a healing stone. It was said to dissolve anger or rage, protect the wearer from negative influences, and promote courage.

What It Can Do:

Can be used in spell for success, confidence, and motivation

Can bring a burst of inspiration and energy

Is good for sex magic and sometimes menstrual support

Can cleanse and restore other crystals

Can help those in abusive situations by providing inner strength and movement to the right path

Help with mental preparation with childbirth

Calms angry emotions and puts a stop to mental lethargy

Can restore vitality and remove the fear of death

Was used to protect the dead to their journey to the afterlife

Dispels apathy and motivates success

Improves analytics abilities and clarifies perception

Removes extraneous thoughts in mediation and tunes daydreamers into reality

Can stimulate metabolism and improve your life force

Can influence reproductive organs and increase fertility

How to Get the Best Out Of: Use as a pendant or belt buckle, or place in contact with the skin as appropriate.

How to Cleanse and Charge: You can cleanse and charge carnelian with the sun.

Crystal Grid:

Creativity Grid

Shape: Flower of Life or Vesica Piscis

Mantra: “Creativity flows through me.”

Center Stone: Carnelian sphere or tumbled stone

Secondary Stones: Rainbow moonstone, larimar, kunzite, orange calcite

Moon Phase: Waxing phase or full moon

Day: Wednesday

Sources

[rocketinthesky]

//Rant//

I was just discussing about mercedes’ future and their priorities/decisions and it’s so fucking painful realizing that toto actually just doesn’t care about George?

If toto was going to support George in winning a WDC (like george is definitely CAPABLE of winning with the right car and support) toto wouldn’t have gotten a literal child rookie on the grid. Probably would’ve gotten someone with more experience within F1 itself if he even thought about the possibility of supporting George as a championship winning driver.

It irks me so much cuz George has so much potential and worked so hard to get here and he’ll most likely forever be Number 2 and a support driver in Toto’s mind.

Cuz les be real Toto is either: a) delulu and still has his hopes up for Max potentially leaving RB and joining merc or b) looking into a distant future where he’s trying to shape kimi up as the next wdc (with alllll the hype surrounding kimi from everyone saying he’s similar to a young lewis etcetc).

Makes me so fucking sad that the existing talented hardworking drivers are being overlooked just cuz the team principals think they’ll somehow strike gold with a new generation max verstappen.

This isn’t hating on Kimi jr. btw all power to him, i’m happy for the kid and i’ll support him. But even if i weren’t a George fan (which i am cuz the world hates me and wants us both to suffer) i’d still feel bad for George lol. Toto’s such a pos man. Fuck that guy. Feel free to disagree with me this is all just my opinion (as a very green f1 fan like i’m still super new to the sport so my understanding is surface level and more intuitive than analytical).