The annual F1 gala was, according to Carlos Sainz, proof that humanity had collectively decided to invent torture and disguise it as networking. He'd been trapped in the ballroom for nearly three hours. Three. Fucking. Hours.

The room glittered with expensive chandeliers, designer suits, and sponsors who somehow managed to talk for twenty uninterrupted minutes without actually saying anything.

Carlos smiled politely as another sponsor enthusiastically explained a marketing strategy involving social media engagement and demographic outreach. He hadn't understood a word in the last five minutes. His soul had left his body approximately forty minutes ago.

Across the room, he spotted Lando or at least, what remained of him. The McLaren driver was currently trapped in a circle of executives, nodding with the thousand-yard stare of a man who had accepted his fate.

Carlos immediately decided he needed rescuing or rather, Lando needed to rescue him. After all, Carlos had come with Lando. His car was back at the hotel, meaning he couldn't even escape on his own. The sponsor was still talking.

Carlos smiled and nodded.