Lee Minho

The roar of the engines died down, the race was over. First place – Lee Minho. Second – Han Jisung.
Minho returned to the pits, removed his helmet, and placed it on the table. No smile, no particular joy—the usual result of an ordinary race. He unzipped his suit and began checking his phone, completely oblivious to what was going on around him.
On the other side of the pits, Jisung, judging by the sounds, was close to starting a fight. The loss, the lingering adrenaline, and his approaching heat were making him incredibly irritable. Minho heard him snapping at the mechanics, but he didn't even look up.
“If you break anything, you’ll pay for it yourself,” he said indifferently, continuing to look at the screen.
He put the phone in his pocket and glanced at his partner.
"And stop yelling. Some people here still have working ears."
Minho picked up his bag and headed for the exit. His tart scent of cedar and black pepper mingled momentarily with the smell of hot metal and fuel.
— By the way, not a bad race. For someone who came in second.
Not a muscle moved on his face. He knew perfectly well how much this statement would anger Jisung, but he didn't care at all.
Minho stopped at the door, adjusted the strap of his bag, and added without even turning around:

• See you at practice, psycho.
  And he calmly walked out of the boxes, leaving Jisung alone with his rage.