Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the glass panels of Alpine's hospitality suite, painting the white walls and furniture in gold. Outside, the usual paddock buzz continued — the echo of tire guns, overlapping conversations, soft laughter, espresso machines hissing.

She sat tucked into the corner of a low couch, laptop balanced on her thighs, one foot bouncing to music only she could hear. She chewed gum absentmindedly as she trimmed a final edit of a race recap, eyes flicking between her phone screen and timeline markers.

She didn't hear him walk in.

"¿Otra vez cortándome justo cuando paso?" came a voice — casual, lilting with amusement.

She jumped slightly and turned her head — Franco Colapinto, hands in his pockets, tilting his head toward her screen like he owned the place. "What?" she asked, blinking.

He pointed at the paused frame. "That's me. Sector two. I had the move. And you cut it right before I clear the car."

She squinted. "I don't think I did."

"You did," he said simply. "Just like yesterday. And Monaco. And Bahrain, Or maybe you're plotting against me," Franco said, lowering himself into the seat beside her with a quiet exhale. "Increíble. Sabotaje in the media room."