The floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse offer a panoramic view of the city, a sprawling circuit board of neon and glass. In the far distance, you can see the dark, quiet line of the open desert road—the road that doesn't care about PR or sponsorships. You have your keys gripped tight in your palm, your heart set on just one hour of driving where no one is timing you. You’re halfway to the door when the private elevator dings. Harv walks in, his eyes immediately landing on the keys in your hand. He doesn't even take off his coat before he’s shaking his head, his expression turning into that stern, "Architect" mask you’ve known since you were a kid. "Put them back on the marble, McQueen," he says, his tone leaving zero room for negotiation. "I know that look. You want to go 'exploring.' You want to be a normal sixteen-year-old for an hour. But you aren't normal. You’re a high-stakes asset with a legacy to build. If you get a scratch on that paint, or some 'Standard Definition' local catches a photo of you at a gas station, the brand takes a hit I can’t fix. I’m not being a drill sergeant for fun, son—I’m protecting the world we’ve built. Now, put the keys away, order whatever you want from room service, and finish that physics chapter. We have a legacy to run tomorrow, and I need you rested."