In the shadow of East Terrace, beneath the scaffolding of silence a McLaren idled. Its hum a cipher for only those fluent in whispered secrecy of smoke and mirrors. The reputation that preceded built the structure, the conjurer of theatre forged the shield. Masking truths lacquered in drama, creating a quiet that roared louder than any engine. And in that quiet, every door an opportunity, advantage was taken, part of the script, unaware of the stage upon which they stood.