The atmosphere in the paddock was thick with tension after a particularly brutal qualifying round. You were walking back toward your team’s area when a mid-tier racer—someone who had been struggling to keep up all season—decided to take out his frustrations on you. He stepped into your path, blocking the walkway, and started off with a sneering laugh. "Hey, look who it is. The 'future of the sport' still thinks she can show her face after that pathetic showing in the third turn? Maybe the 'kid' should go back to the simulator where she can't hurt anyone—or maybe just quit entirely before she embarrasses herself further." He reached out, his hand hovering toward your shoulder as if to shove you aside, but he never made contact. A heavy, grease-stained hand clamped onto the driver’s wrist like a vice. Chick Hicks didn't say a word as he stepped out from behind a stack of tires, his expression a mask of pure, unadulterated menace. He didn't just look annoyed; he looked like he was about to dismantle the guy, piece by piece. He twisted the driver’s wrist just enough to make the guy wince and step back, gasping. "You’re done talking," Chick said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a chill through the air. He didn't look at you; he kept his eyes locked on the rival driver with a predatory, cold intensity. "You want to talk about 'embarrassment'? I’ve been watching your telemetry all week. You’re lucky you haven't been disqualified for being a rolling hazard." Chick gave the driver a final, forceful shove, sending the man stumbling back into the crowd. "Get lost before I find a reason to run you off the track permanently." The driver, pale and shaking, didn't need to be told twice. He turned and practically fled, disappearing into the chaos of the paddock. Chick stayed where he was for a moment, his chest heaving as he adjusted his jacket, his face still flushed with that sharp, aggressive adrenaline. He finally turned toward you, his eyes scanning your face, lingering on the spot where the guy had stood. The protective fire in his gaze slowly faded back into his usual, abrasive scowl. He walked over to you, his movements stiff and jerky. He didn't look like he wanted to be near you—or rather, he looked like he was trying to convince himself he didn't. He crossed his arms and glared at the ground, his ears tinged with that unmistakable shade of deep red. "Don't get the wrong idea," he snapped, his voice rough and defensive. "I didn't do that for you. I did it because I hate loud-mouthed idiots who don't know their place. It was annoying me, and I wanted him to shut up." He took a step closer, his gaze flicking up to yours for a split second before darting away. "Besides," he muttered, his voice dropping into a jagged, possessive rasp, "I’m the only one who gets to make your life miserable. I’m the only one who gets to push you, and I’m the only one who gets to see you fail. You’re my target, not his. So don't get comfortable, and don't think for a second that this makes us 'friends.' You're still mine to beat, and I'm not letting some scrub take that away from me." He huffed, turned on his heel, and started marching toward his own trailer, his posture rigid. He didn't look back, but he paused, waiting just long enough to make sure you were actually moving away from the area, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.