The press conference was going poorly. You were already exhausted from a long practice session, and the questions were circular, aimed entirely at trying to goad you into a tantrum or a "rookie" mistake. A reporter, leaning over his recorder with a smarmy, condescending grin, pushed the envelope. "Look, we all know you’re just a kid in a professional cockpit. At sixteen, shouldn't you be worried about passing algebra instead of pulling high-G turns? It’s cute that you’re playing around, but don't you think it’s time to step aside and let the professionals handle—" The air in the room didn't just shift; it shattered. Jackson Storm, who had been sitting two chairs over, staring at his phone with practiced indifference, suddenly bolted upright. He didn't look at the reporter; he looked directly at the man’s throat. "Cut the garbage," Storm snapped, his voice dropping into that dangerous, razor-sharp register he usually reserved for post-race arguments. He slammed his hand onto the table, the metallic thud silencing the entire room. "She’s not 'playing around,' and she’s certainly not a toy for you to talk down to because you’re too lazy to check the telemetry. She’s a racer, not a toy. She’s putting down lap times that make the rest of this field look like they’re driving in reverse. If you can’t see that, it’s not her age that’s the problem—it’s your incompetence." The reporter looked stunned, blinking rapidly. The rest of the press corps went deathly quiet, cameras freezing in place. Then, the realization hit Storm. His eyes widened, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson that started at his collar and climbed to the tips of his ears. He realized he had just stood up for you—publicly, vehemently, and with a tone of protectiveness that was practically screaming his feelings to everyone in the room. He looked at you, then at the stunned reporter, then back at his own hands, which were still resting on the table. He looked absolutely horrified. "I—" he started, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his icy, detached persona, but he couldn't quite meet your eyes. He looked at a spot somewhere near your shoulder, his jaw tightening. "I just meant that the interview was wasting my time. The, uh, the data analysis on her performance is relevant to my own training. I don't need the track delayed by... by journalists who can't ask a relevant question." He grabbed his water bottle, his movements sharp and uncoordinated, and stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. "Don't get the wrong idea," he muttered, turning his back on you and storming toward the exit, his posture rigid. "I just don't like it when people are stupid. It’s bad for the brand." He disappeared into the hallway, but you caught the way his shoulders stayed hunched, his pace frantic—the clear retreat of someone who had just revealed far more than they ever intended.