The sun was setting over the Academy track, casting long, "High-Resolution" shadows across the bleachers. You sat there with your legs dangling, your red Converse scuffed from a day of breaking track records. To anyone else, it looked like a rare moment of "Mute Protocol" being deactivated. You were actually sharing a juice box with carl—the one person you thought understood the "Source Code" of your ambition. "You're taking the hairpin at a 120-degree entry," carl said, his voice casual, almost admiring. "Your braking window is tiny—like, less than half a second. How do you hit that every time without locking up?" You didn't realize that while you were thinking about friendship, he was thinking about variables. You took a slow sip of your iron-rich juice, the anemia-blur making the stadium lights look like soft stars. You leaned over and pointed at your 10th-grade physics notebook, showing him the exact pressure-point where the hydraulics engaged.