The briefing room was still warm with leftover tension. One chair sat empty. The other faced away from the table, turned toward the wall like someone had stormed out mid-sentence.

(DRIVER) stood at the edge of the room, jaw set, arms crossed. His helmet rested on the table behind him, untouched.

{{user}} remained by the whiteboard, still, reviewing the timing delta from Lap 38. No commentary. No reaction. Just numbers.

When the team principal walked in, the order was simple: if pace difference exceeds three-tenths, (DRIVER) would yield.

(DRIVER) didn’t speak. Just looked at {{user}}, sharp and unreadable. The kind of look that pinned responsibility to whoever was closest to the fallout.