F1: In Ferrari, Schumacher at the start.

Friday morning at 10:00 AM, Shanghai International Circuit, FIA official conference room.

This modern conference room, which can normally accommodate 30 people, was packed with more than 20 team leaders, FIA technical representatives, and race directors today.

Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the track staff making their final pre-race preparations in the distance, but no one inside is in the mood to appreciate the scenery.

On either side of the long oval conference table, the leaders of the ten teams sat upright, with nameplates, bottled water, and thick folders of technical reports they had brought on the table in front of them.

The atmosphere was eerie.

FIA Race Director Niels Wittsch, seated at the head of the table, cleared his throat: "Gentlemen, welcome to Shanghai. This week's track restrictions have been sent to your inboxes, with a focus on the white line at the exit of Turn 1... If there are no objections, let's move on to the next topic."

"etc."

A voice came from the middle of the table.

All eyes turned to the speaker – Williams team principal James Wols.

The usually mild-mannered Englishman looked ashen-faced today. He slowly pulled a stack of eight-inch square photos from his inner suit pocket and slammed them onto the center of the conference table like dealing playing cards.

The photo shows a scene from Shanghai's Xintiandi last night: under the dim streetlights, Toto Wolfe, holding a coffee, stands less than two meters behind Lin Feng and Gu Ailing like a secret agent lurking in the shadows.

The photo was taken from an extremely tricky angle, clearly a candid shot by a passerby from the side, but Toto's angular face and signature white shirt were so clear they looked like an official promotional photo.

Everyone looked at each other in bewilderment, and the meeting room remained silent for a full three seconds.

Then, Ferrari team principal Vassell, sitting diagonally opposite James, chuckled rather unkindly.

"Toto," James said coldly, "I always thought there was a basic professional respect between us."

He pointed a finger and poked it hard into one of the photos: "But last night, at 10 p.m., on the streets of Shanghai, you were like a paparazzi, intercepting a twenty-year-old walking with a female friend...? Did you think your contract wasn't attractive enough, so you had to personally use your good looks?"

"Pfft—" This time, it was Red Bull team manager Christian Horner who burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair. "Handsome guy trap! James, you've got the word right! But to be honest, Toto's face can probably only fool girls who don't know anything about cars."

Toto Wolff was dressed today in a white shirt and dark gray suit jacket, his hair neatly combed. Facing James's questioning and Horner's taunts, the Mercedes team manager remained unfazed.

"James, you're being too sensitive," Toto said innocently, putting down his coffee cup. "I swear, it was pure coincidence. I just happened to be at that coffee shop, and Lin just happened to be there. We only exchanged a few words about the weather and the quality of the coffee. As for the contract? Not a word was mentioned."

"A coincidence?" James sneered, pulling another photo from the pile and showing it to everyone. "You're telling me this is a coincidence? Toto, do you think I'm new to the paddock? Everyone knows you guys have struggled this year, and Lewis will be out of the game next year. Look at any promising young driver in the paddock now, their eyes are practically glowing with envy!"

"Oh, come on, James." Before Toto could speak, Horner interrupted again, "Instead of blaming Toto for 'coincidentally' appearing on the street, you should go back and thank that kid Lin. Without him, your Williams would still be fighting with Sober for the back of the line. And to be honest—"

Horner then shifted his focus to Toto: "Toto, admit it, you're desperate. Your car has absolutely no downforce in high-speed corners, and the chassis issues haven't been resolved since preseason testing. You think poaching Lin Feng will save your season? That kid's smart; he's not going to leave a slow but at least not neck-straining Williams to drive your beat-up car."

"Christian!" Toto's face darkened. "Mind your own team! You can't even handle the internal strife within Red Bull, what right do you have to criticize me? At least no one in my team is constantly making veiled attacks in the media!"

"How my team is doing is none of your concern," Horner said, leaning back in his chair with an smug look on his face. "Because no matter how much we fight amongst ourselves, my two cars will still start in the front row this weekend. And you guys? You probably won't even make it into Q3."

"That's our business!" Toto's voice rose eight octaves. "I don't need you to teach me how to be a team leader!"

"Then stay away from my drivers!" James slammed his hand on the table, causing the water glass in front of him to jump and splash water onto the folder of Alpine team leader Oliver Oakes next to him.

Oaks frantically tried to salvage his documents.

McLaren team principal Andrea Stella, sitting at the other end of the table, finally couldn't help but speak up.

This Italian man, who is usually mild-mannered and loves to smooth things over, now showed an expression of someone who enjoys watching the drama unfold.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Stella raised her hands in a reassuring gesture, "could we focus on the track issues first? For example, I have a proposal regarding the kerb height at Turn 1—"

"Andrea, what are you pretending to be a good guy for?" James glared at him, annoyed. "You McLaren drivers have improved incredibly fast this season, haven't you? What, have you been ambushing other drivers in the middle of the night too?"

Stella immediately raised her hands in surrender: "Absolutely not! Norris and Piastrie are both our own protégés, with impeccable lineage, no deception whatsoever!"

"Ha," Horner let out a cold laugh that was hard to decipher. "Develop him yourself? If you hadn't poured money into him early, that chatterbox Norris would have been snatched away by Red Bull long ago."

"So what?" Stella was unusually assertive for once. "At least we won't have internal strife mid-season, with the two drivers exchanging sarcastic remarks in TR!"

Horner's smile froze.

Seeing that the situation was about to spiral out of control, Haas team principal Reio Komatsu, who had been sitting silently in the corner, timidly raised his hand: "Um... could we discuss tire management? Haas's long-distance performance this weekend wasn't ideal..."

No one cares about him.

Aston Martin's team principal, Mike Clark, adjusted his glasses, trying to steer the conversation back on track: "Actually, I think we should first verify the facts regarding the rumors about Lin Feng. Maybe it really is just a coincidence?"

"Mike, you're being incredibly naive," James sneered, tossing a photo at him. "Coincidence? Look at this one, Toto's hand is even on Lin Feng's shoulder!"

The photos were circulated around, and a chorus of apprehension echoed throughout the conference room.

Toro Rosso team leader Laurent Meqis whispered to the Sauber representative next to him, "This photo is quite well-made, with a good composition."

Sauber team representative Alessandro Arrooni Bravi rolled his eyes.

Alpine team principal Oliver Oakes, who had been silent until now, finally found an opportunity to speak. He cleared his throat: "Actually, I think instead of arguing about transfers here, we should think about how to make our cars run faster. After all, F1 competition is ultimately a competition of technology, not—"

"Oliver, you're saying this because Alpine has already given up on the season this year and is starting to prepare for next year, right?" Horner retorted without holding back.

Oakes' face flushed red: "We haven't given up! We're just strategically reallocating resources!"

"That sounds nice, but it's just slacking off." Horner shrugged.

"you!"

As the battle escalated from a three-way contest between Mercedes, Williams, and Red Bull into a chaotic free-for-all involving ten different teams, FIA Tournament Director Niels Wittsch, seated in the main seat, finally lost his patience.

"Gentlemen!" Vystrčil's voice amplified through the microphone, echoing throughout the conference room. "This is an official FIA technical meeting, not your team's press conference! We will discuss the compliance issues regarding driver transfer contacts separately after this meeting! Now, let's get back to the main topic!"

The meeting room finally quieted down, but the air was still thick with the smell of gunpowder.

Vitesse took a deep breath and opened the agenda in front of him: "Next topic, track restrictions. The white line at the exit of Turn 1..."

"I have another question," James raised his hand again.

Wittsch's eye twitched slightly: "James, please speak."

"I'd like to confirm whether it violates the FIA's code of ethics if a team principal contacts other teams' contracted drivers in unofficial settings, outside of working hours, or through informal channels?" James said, enunciating each word clearly, his gaze fixed on Toto.

Toto finally couldn't sit still any longer and leaned forward: "James, I'll say it again, I didn't talk about contracts! We just—"

"Just what? Exchanging coffee tips?" James sneered. "Toto, your coffee tips are worth tens of millions of euros? I'd like to have a chat with you next time."

"Enough!" Vittoria slammed his hand on the table. "Regarding the transfer negotiations, I'll reiterate: we'll discuss it separately after this meeting! Now, anyone who mentions transfers again will be asked to leave the meeting room!"