F1: In Ferrari, Schumacher at the start.

Lin Feng stopped and looked at the French man in front of him, who seemed to have aged ten years in just one night.

Vaselle had heavy eye bags, and her face, which always wore a smile in front of the camera, was now filled with undisguised fatigue.

On the glass coffee table in front of Vassil lay a black folder, its cover bearing a golden prancing horse emblem that gleamed glaringly in the dim light.

Lin Feng walked over and sat down on the single sofa opposite Vassal.

"Fred, it seems your meeting didn't go very well," Lin Feng said calmly.

Vasseur gave a wry smile and rubbed his temples hard. "Lin, I've done everything I can. I even slammed my fist on the table with the chairman at the meeting. I told him that if we lose you, Ferrari will lose the world championship for the next decade. I'm using my team principal position as collateral, hoping to secure at least one spot for you during next year's official evaluation period."

Vasser paused for a moment at this point.

"But it's no use. The board's decision is not something I, as a team leader, can influence. Hamilton's joining next year is the most core business strategy of the entire Ferrari Group in the past decade. Coupled with Charles' long-term contract, Ferrari will not have a third car in the starting grid next year."

Vasel sighed and slowly pushed the black folder on the table toward Lin Feng.

"This is the final offer personally approved by John Elkann. A three-year official reserve driver contract. The base salary for the first year is two million euros, increasing by 15% each year thereafter. The condition is that you must unconditionally cooperate with the team's simulator and power unit development work, as well as comply with the team's commercial activities worldwide. In compensation, the team will guarantee you at least three races a year, with opportunities to drive in the first free practice session on Fridays."

Lin Feng looked at the black folder pushed in front of him and suddenly smiled.

Instead of opening the folder, he stretched out two fingers and gently tapped it twice, as if brushing off dust.

"Three years, two million euros, three FP1 contracts?" Lin Feng's voice echoed in the empty lobby. "Fred, do you know how the outside world will judge me if I nod and sign this contract right now?"

Vasser remained silent, his lips pressed tightly together.

"They'll say, 'Look, that Chinese guy named Lin Feng is just a nouveau riche who got rich by sheer luck. He won one race, and then, like a dog, he was chained up in Ferrari's basement in Maranello, where he didn't see the sunlight on the track for three years.'"

The smile on Lin Feng's face gradually disappeared. He leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees.

"Fred, I respect you because you were the one who put up the pressure of letting me get on the bus when Carlos collapsed. But that doesn't mean I, or my career, can be trampled on like a beggar by your higher-ups!"

Lin Feng's voice gradually rose: "Does John Elkann think that just because a car bears that horse's logo, all the racers in the world have to kneel down and thank him? Have you been living in small Italian towns for too long, becoming so arrogant that you can't see reality anymore?!"

"Lin, calm down..." Vasser tried to interrupt.

"I'm so calm! I've never been this calm before!"

Lin Feng retorted without hesitation: "Go back and ask your board of directors when Ferrari last won the Drivers' Championship? It was in 2007 with Kimi Raikkonen! A full seventeen years! In those seventeen years, you had Alonso, you had Vettel, you recruited the best drivers in the world, and then you ruined them one by one with your laughable political infighting, lousy strategies, and bottomless internal strife!"

Vasser's face turned ashen.

"Now, you've spent tens of millions of euros a year to poach a seven-time world champion who's almost forty. I admit Lewis is great, but is John Elkann really thinking about having him help Ferrari win the world championship? No! He's thinking about how many sky-high priced collaboration T-shirts Lewis can help Ferrari sell, and how many points Ferrari's stock can rise on Wall Street!"

Lin Feng grabbed the black folder on the table and tossed it back to Vassil's feet like trash.

With a muffled "thud," the folder opened, revealing several pages of a contract filled with densely printed English clauses scattered across the carpet.

"You don't care about pure speed; all you care about are financial reports and fame. You don't need a driver who can fight tooth and nail on the track; you just need an obedient business mascot. So, put away your ridiculous arrogance!"

Lin Feng stood up: "I'm a race car driver. My world is in the paddock starting grid, not in your dark and gloomy simulator room in Maranello. Go tell John Elkann he's not qualified to define my future."

After saying that, Lin Feng didn't look at Vasel again, turned around and strode towards the elevator.

Vasser sat there, staring at the contracts scattered on the carpet, motionless for a long time. He slowly bent down, picked up the papers one by one, and put them back into the folder.

The old Frenchman, who had spent most of his life in the paddock, felt a pang of sorrow in his heart.

"God bless..." Vassal murmured to himself, closing his eyes wearily.

……

"bite--"

The elevator doors opened on Lin Feng's floor.

Lin Feng walked expressionlessly to his room door, swiped his card to open it, and went inside.

Lin Feng didn't turn on the main lights, but only switched on a small wall lamp in the entryway.

He walked to the bar, poured himself a whole glass of warm water, tilted his head back, and gulped it down in one go.

The icy liquid slid down his throat into his stomach, gradually cooling down the blood that had been boiling with anger in the lobby.

He slammed the water glass heavily onto the marble countertop and exhaled a long breath.

happy.

Just then, that familiar voice rang out in my mind.

[Ding! Detected that the host has rejected the Ferrari team contract.]

[Long-term side quest: The Road to the Enclosure - Option A is now closed.]

Damn it, what kind of bullshit Ferrari legend skills are these? I don't care.

Lin Feng turned around and walked to the bedside. He reached into the pocket of his coat, which was lying on the bedside table, and pulled out a white business card with a fine texture and silver trim.

The business card only has a few simple lines of text:

Williams Racing

詹姆斯·沃尔斯

Team leader

On the back of the business card was a personal phone number handwritten in black pen.

Lin Feng glanced at the clock on the wall; it was 9:15 PM local time in Saudi Arabia.

Without the slightest hesitation, he picked up his phone and dialed the number on the back of the business card, one digit at a time.

I pressed the dial button, and a monotonous "beep-beep" sound came from the phone's earpiece.

The call was answered after only three rings.

There was no grogginess or hoarseness from someone who had just woken up. In the background noise, you could even hear very faint keyboard tapping. Clearly, the person on the other end of the line hadn't slept at all and had been sitting at their desk waiting.

Good evening, Lin.

James Walls’ signature London accent came through the receiver.

Lin Feng walked to the French windows and pulled back the heavy curtains.

Outside the window, the lights of Jeddah shone brightly on his face.

"Looks like you've been waiting for my call, James."

James's laughter came through the phone: "I just finished reading the damage report for the chassis we crashed at Turn Two, and I'm in a terrible mood. I need a strong cup of tea and some good news to salvage this awful weekend. Tell me, Lin, did you finish the champagne Ferrari offered?"

"The champagne tasted mediocre, and their bill was nauseating," Lin Feng joked.

James paused for a second on the other end of the phone, then the typing stopped.

The leader of Williams was extremely astute in grasping the unspoken meaning in Lin Feng's words.

"It seems Mr. John Elkann remains as arrogant as ever," James's tone turned serious. "So, what's your decision?"

Lin Feng didn't beat around the bush; he was straightforward and got straight to the point.

"Yesterday in the lobby, you said that if I agreed, you would buy out my current contract. Does that promise still stand?"