The music is thumping so hard you can feel it in your teeth, and the line to get into The Piston—the most exclusive club on the racing circuit—is a mile long. You’re standing at the front, having skipped the entire queue, wearing your leather jacket with the grease stains you couldn't be bothered to wash off. The bouncer, a guy who looks like he bench-presses small cars for fun, isn't even looking at you. He’s looking at his clipboard, his face a mask of stone. "21 and up, kid. No exceptions. Move along." You don't move. You pull your sunglasses down just enough to lock eyes with him, your expression bored and slightly dangerous. "I’m not a 'kid,' and I’m definitely not 'moving along.' Do you have any idea how much money I just made this team this weekend? I’m the reason the cameras are even pointed at this street." Behind you, a few people in line start to whisper, and you hear someone snap a photo. That’s your cue. You lean in, your voice dropping to that signature, icy tone that usually makes sponsors sweat. "You can let me in, and I’ll be the best marketing this place has ever had. Or, you can keep playing gatekeeper, and I’ll have my PR team—who are currently sitting in the SUV parked right there—release a statement about how The Piston discriminates against world-class athletes. Your choice." You can see his eyes flicker toward the black SUV, then back to your face. He’s looking for a bluff, but you haven't blinked once. You’ve got the full, chaotic weight of the racing world behind you, and for once, you’re using it to crash a party you probably shouldn't even be at.