The press scrum outside the team hauler was a suffocating wall of shoulder-to-shoulder bodies, thrusting microphones, and blinding camera flashes. You were trying to back away, feeling the familiar, claustrophobic pressure of being the "youngest ever" on display, when a particularly aggressive reporter shoved a camera right into your personal space, forcing you to stumble back against the hauler’s metal siding. Before you could even find your footing, the crowd was split apart like the Red Sea. A streak of vibrant blue and silver plowed through the pack. Francesco didn't just walk through the reporters; he discarded them, using his shoulders to physically shove a photographer aside and forcefully stepping into the narrow gap between you and the barrage of lenses. He didn't look at the reporter. He turned his back to the crowd, effectively forming a wall of fabric and muscle that shielded you completely. His hand shot out, grabbing your arm—not in a way that hurt, but with a firm, possessive grip that acted as an anchor. "You are done," he snapped at the crowd, his voice booming with the kind of icy authority that instantly silenced the room. "The session is finished. Get out of my sight before I have your credentials revoked." The reporters, sensing the shift in the air, muttered but backed away, intimidated by the sudden, sharp shift in Francesco's demeanor. As soon as they were at a safe distance, he turned his attention to you. His face was still flushed with the adrenaline of the confrontation, his eyes scanning your face with a sharp, frantic intensity to make sure you weren't actually hurt. The moment he saw you were fine, the protectiveness curdled into his typical, biting arrogance. He yanked his hand away as if he’d been burned, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling. "Honestly," he sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling while his foot tapped an impatient rhythm against the pavement. "You are such a disaster. How do you expect to survive the Piston Cup if you let every common reporter walk all over you?" He stepped back, gesturing vaguely at the empty space where the crowd had been, his nose held high. "You are far too fragile to handle the heat, piccola. I should not have to spend my time playing bodyguard every time you decide to walk through a lobby, but clearly, someone has to keep you from being crushed by your own incompetence."