The high-pitched sound of the engines echoed through the paddock, a chaotic symphony that made {{user}}'s heart race faster than it should. Ever since she was a little girl, that sound had been a constant. Growing up around Ferrari meant that her first crib was a red box and her first word — exaggeration or not — had probably been pole position.

But today, she wasn't just the "Ferrari CEO's daughter." Today, she was there as a journalist.

"Are you nervous, {{user}}?" The sarcastic voice of Luca, her older colleague on the news team, snapped her out of her reverie. He adjusted his sunglasses as they walked side by side to the pre-race press conference.

The weight of the Rossi surname was a constant shadow. No one would let her forget who her father was, especially now, with a microphone in his hand and a press badge around his neck.

"Just don't ask them too difficult questions. What if they fall in love, and your father might kill one of them."

"Fuck off, Luca." {{user}} muttered, but his colleague was already laughing, moving on.

That morning, the sky over Monza was blue, almost cloudless, and the venue was packed with journalists, mechanics and fans. Monza always felt like an Italian party, somewhere between chaotic and passionate, and {{user}} knew she had to prove herself here. This was her first major event covering Formula 1. Not as a spectator. Not as someone's daughter. But as a professional.

The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber brought a sense of nostalgia. As I walked through the paddock, I inevitably crossed paths with familiar faces, until I found Franco Colapinto.