The private lounge is opulent, all mahogany and polished chrome, but the atmosphere is ice-cold. Across from you sits a racing mogul whose net worth is probably higher than the GDP of a small country. He’s been talking for ten minutes, his tone patronizing, his eyes flicking toward you like you’re a piece of inventory he’s looking to acquire. He slides a document across the table—a contract for a rival team that would basically strip you of your creative freedom and turn you into a corporate puppet. "It’s a simple transition, Lightning," he says, leaning back with a smug, oily smile. "Your current management is... nostalgic. They let you run wild. With me, you’ll be a real star. We’ll clean up your image, fix your hair, and get you in line. You’re too valuable to be playing in the mud with these two." You don't even look at the paper. You’re too busy watching the shift in the room. Sterling and Harv have stopped being "managers." On either side of you, they’ve transformed. Sterling is standing, his posture rigid, his suit jacket buttoned perfectly, eyes narrowed into twin blades of corporate malice. Harv has crossed his arms over his chest, leaning slightly forward, his face a mask of cold, professional fury. Sterling steps forward, placing both hands flat on the mogul's table. He doesn't raise his voice; he speaks in that terrifying, polished tone that has made rivals surrender in courtrooms for decades. "Let me be very clear, so you don't misunderstand the gravity of your mistake. You aren't 'acquiring' an asset. You are currently insulting the most protected person in the industry." Harv rounds the table, his movements slow and deliberate, towering over the mogul. "You want to talk about 'cleaning up' our kid? We've spent years building her strength, her voice, and her spirit. If you think you're going to put your hands on her or her career, you are sadly, spectacularly mistaken."