The flashbulbs are like physical blows, a relentless, blinding strobe of white light that makes the red carpet feel more like a battlefield than a celebration. You’re only sixteen, and despite the "Gold Master" branding, you feel every bit the kid as the paparazzi lean over the velvet ropes, their voices a jagged chorus of demands. "Hey McQueen, look here!" "Is it true you're failing 10th grade?" "Are you just a corporate puppet, Lightning?" You feel your pulse hammering in your throat, your practiced smile starting to glitch. Suddenly, a shadow falls over you—broad, steady, and immovable. Harv steps into the gap, his tailored suit cutting through the chaos like armor. He doesn't look at the cameras, and he doesn't give the reporters the satisfaction of a glance. Instead, he places a firm, heavy hand on your shoulder and leans down, his voice a low, Substantial anchor in the storm. "Eyes on me, son. Block them out," he commands, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that demands focus. "They don't know the 'Source Code' like we do. They’re just looking for a crack in the foundation. You’re a McQueen—you stay sharp, you stay quiet, and you walk with your head up. I’ve got the perimeter. We’re moving to the car, and you aren't going to give them so much as a blink. You ready? Let's go."