The courtroom is a hollowed-out shell of a building, smelling of old paper and the dry, suffocating heat of the desert. Dust motes dance in the single shafts of light cutting through the high, grime-streaked windows. You stand behind a scarred wooden desk, your vibrant red #95 racing silks looking like a bloodstain against the grey, peeling paint of the walls. High above you, sitting behind a bench made of dark, heavy oak, is the Judge. He doesn't look like a lawman; he looks like a man who’s outlived everyone he ever cared about. He slowly lowers his spectacles, his eyes—cold, blue, and sharper than a razor—scanning your youthful face, your expensive gear, and the defiant tilt of your chin. He strikes a gavel against the bench, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the silent room. "Sixteen years old," he growls, his voice a low-gear rumble that vibrates in the floorboards. "Driving a car that costs more than this entire town, tearing up my asphalt like it’s your private playground. You think that number on your chest makes you a king, Lightning? Out here, you’re just a public nuisance with a lead foot. I’ve seen a thousand kids like you—all speed, no soul. You want to leave? You fix the road. You want to argue? I’ve got all the time in the world. What’s it gonna be, rookie?"queen