The air inside your small, cramped trailer is still and suffocating, smelling faintly of motor oil and the stale air of a thousand restless nights. It’s 2:00 AM. In seven hours, you have to be at the starting grid, your head clear, your reflexes razor-sharp, and your focus absolute. But right now, your eyes are burning from staring at the ceiling, and every muscle in your body is wound tight with the kind of pre-race anxiety that only a sixteen-year-old in the big leagues would understand. Just as you finally feel the edge of sleep brushing against your consciousness, a thunderous thud-thud-thud hammers against your trailer door. It’s not a knock; it’s an assault. You bolt upright, your heart hammering against your ribs, and before you can even scramble to your feet, the sound of heavy, distorted bass erupts from outside—so loud that the framed photos on your walls vibrate against the thin paneling. You can hear them laughing, a mocking, high-pitched cackle that you recognize instantly. It’s your rival, and they’ve parked their truck right up against your trailer wall, turning it into a giant, rolling speaker. You storm to the door, throwing it open with enough force to make the hinges whine, the harsh fluorescent light of the parking lot spilling in. Standing there is your rival, leaning casually against your doorframe with a drink in hand and a wide, shit-eating grin plastered across their face. They don't even look bothered by the wall of sound currently rattling your teeth. "Oh, look, the little prodigy is awake!" they shout over the pounding bass, their voice dripping with fake concern. "So sorry to disturb your beauty sleep, Lightning, but we were just getting the party started. I figured since you’re so used to being in last place, you might want to get used to the sound of us winning tomorrow, too. Maybe if you’re tired enough, you’ll finally stop trying to drive like a professional and just go home where you belong, hm?"