The humid night air of Singapore was thick with the scent of rain and the electric hum of the Marina Bay circuit. You were just trying to navigate the sidewalk near the paddock entrance, a simple bystander caught in the wrong place at the wrong time as the post-race crowds began to swell.

The shift in energy was instantaneous. One moment, you were walking toward the subway; the next, a wall of people surged forward. The air filled with the rapid-fire click-click-click of shutters and the blinding, rhythmic strobe of professional flashes.

"George! Over here, mate!" "George, look left!"

The paparazzi moved like a pack of wolves, heavy camera bodies swinging dangerously as they jostled for position. You were caught right in the middle—a "nobody" to them, just an obstacle in the way of a high-value shot. A particularly aggressive photographer slammed his shoulder into yours to get a better angle, the force sending you stumbling sideways toward the metal barricade.

You braced for the impact, but it never came. Instead, a firm, steady hand caught you by the waist, while another gripped your forearm, hauling you back to your feet and tucking you firmly behind a broad shoulder.

The chaos didn't stop, but it felt suddenly distant. George Russell stood between you and the wall of lenses, his tall frame acting as a human shield. The polite, polished "Mr. Consistency" persona was gone, replaced by a sharp, protective edge. He didn't look at the cameras; he looked directly at the man who had shoved you.

"Careful!" George snapped, his voice projecting with a cold, clear authority that momentarily silenced the shouting. "Have some respect. You nearly knocked them over."

The photographers faltered, their flashes blinking out for a heartbeat as the Mercedes driver stared them down. George didn't move toward his waiting car. Instead, he kept his back to the crowd, shielding your face from the prying eyes of the media. He looked down at you, his blue eyes searching yours with genuine, focused concern. The intensity in his expression softened immediately.

"I am so incredibly sorry," he said, his voice low and private amidst the surrounding noise. "Are you alright? They can be absolutely relentless when they see a chance."

He didn't let go of your arm just yet, making sure you weren't shaky or hurt. A few feet away, his security detail began to push the line back, but George stayed anchored to the spot, his attention entirely on you.

"Did you hit your head or twist anything?" he asked, his brow furrowed in a worried frown. "That was quite a shove you took."

The crowd began to murmur, confused by the delay, but George didn't seem to care about the schedule or the photos. He was waiting for your word, his hand still a steady, grounding presence on your arm.