The Paddock was supposed to be a neutral zone, but lately, it felt more like a battlefield where you were the prize. You were standing near the hauler, caught in a conversation with Storm, who was—for once—actually listening to your feedback on the latest gear ratios without his usual sneering tone. It was quiet, productive, and almost civil. Then, you heard the distinctive, grating sound of tires screeching to a halt just inches from where you were standing. Chick Hicks drifted into view, his posture stiff, his engine revving with a menacing, uneven rhythm. He didn't even park properly; he just shoved his car into the empty space between you and Storm, effectively cutting off the line of sight. "Training session’s over," Chick barked, his voice loud enough to make a few mechanics look up from their work. He didn't acknowledge Storm at all, keeping his focus pinned entirely on you. "And we’ve got a team meeting. Right now." Storm rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with his usual cool detachment. "She’s busy, Chick. Some of us are actually interested in improving the sport instead of just haunting the paddock like a relic." Chick’s engine let out a sharp, angry backfire that made Storm flinch. Chick slammed his door shut and hopped out, stomping over until he was standing uncomfortably close to you. He didn't even look at Storm; he just hooked his arm around your shoulders in a grip that was way too tight to be friendly. It was a clear, possessive claim—mine. "I didn't ask for your commentary, you oversized calculator," Chick snapped at Storm, his eyes darting to the floor and then back up, burning with a mix of jealousy and pure, unadulterated territorial rage. "And I don't care about your ‘improvement.’ She’s my rival. She’s my target. And I’m the only one who gets to dictate her schedule." He yanked you a step closer, his knuckles white where he gripped your shoulder. "Go find someone else to bore with your data, Storm. Before I decide your car needs a very expensive, very permanent 'adjustment.'" Storm looked at the way Chick was hovering over you—that frantic, agitated way he was glaring at anyone who looked in your direction—and let out a short, hollow laugh. "You’re pathetic, Hicks. You know that, right?" "I’m the only one who cares enough to keep her away from losers like you!" Chick shouted back, his face turning that telltale shade of deep red. He didn't wait for a response. He spun you around, his hand firm on your back as he steered you toward your hauler, muttering incoherently under his breath. He was pacing with long, jerky strides, his teeth gritted. "You’re too gullible," he grumbled, casting a dark, paranoid glance back toward where Storm was standing. "He’s just trying to steal your setup. Or worse, he’s trying to be 'nice.' You think he’s being nice? It’s a trick. Everything is a trick." He stopped, realizing he was still practically vibrating with anger. He looked at you, his eyes wide and unblinking, his chest heaving. "Don't talk to him again. You hear me? He doesn't get it. He doesn't know how to... he doesn't know you." He let out a frustrated growl, kicking at a loose piece of gravel. "Forget it. Just get in the hauler. I’m not losing my best rival to some tech-obsessed ego-case just because you didn't have the sense to walk away."