The interior of the high-tech Rust-eze trailer is glowing with neon red ambient light. You’re currently reaching for a hidden compartment under your bunk where you keep a stash of "Rust-eze Blast" energy drinks—your only way to stay "up" for the midnight telemetry sessions. Suddenly, a large, calloused hand stops yours. Mack is standing there, his red trucker hat pulled low, holding a trash bag already half-full of empty neon cans. He doesn't look angry, just tired in that way only someone who drives 12 hours straight can look. "Don't even think about it, 95," he grunts, his deep voice vibrating in the small space. He swaps the energy drink for a cold bottle of electrolyte water and a protein shake. "I saw your heart rate spikes on the monitor during the qualifying lap. You’re vibrating like a loose fender. If I let you drink another one of these, you’re gonna start seeing through time, and I’m the one who has to explain to the owners why our 'Golden Goose' is twitching at the starting line. Drink the water. That’s an order from your driver."