The steakhouse is a cathedral of dark mahogany and low amber light, the kind of place where billion-dollar "Architects" decide the future of the sport over glasses of scotch. You’re sitting across from Harv, feeling a bit small in the oversized leather booth. Your 10th-grade physics notebook is resting on your lap under the table, filled with sketches of downforce vectors and tire friction coefficients you’ve been dying to show him. But since the appetizers arrived, Harv has been a man possessed, juggling two phones and bark-whispering orders to people in three different time zones. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he clicks his earpiece off and drops both phones onto the table like discarded weights. He rubs his eyes, then looks at you, a weary but genuine smile breaking through his professional mask. He reaches across the table, briefly squeezing your hand. "I'm sorry, kid. The Dinoco execs are playing hardball, and the Tokyo sponsors are breathing down my neck," he says, his voice softening as he finally focuses entirely on you. "But that's over now. The next five minutes belong to us. No phones, no contracts. Just you and me. I saw the data from your practice laps this morning—your entry speed into turn four was incredible. Tell me, was that the new weight distribution we talked about, or were you just feeling the 'Gold Master' magic? Talk to me, son. I’m listening."