The air in the Italian Grand Prix paddock is thick, humid, and smells heavily of premium fuel and expensive cologne. You’re standing by your car, adjusting your gear and trying to tune out the overwhelming buzz of the European crowd. They aren't here for you—they’re here for the hometown hero, and they haven't been shy about letting you know it. You’re only 16, and the sheer scale of this international circuit is enough to make anyone’s head spin, but you’ve kept your chin up, determined to prove that your "lightning bolt" intensity isn't just for American tracks. Just as you reach for your helmet, a familiar, grating voice cuts through the noise. Francesco Bernoulli saunters over, his race suit immaculate and his posture impossibly arrogant. He stops a few feet away, leaning against his own sleek car with a theatrical sigh, his eyes scanning your vehicle with a look of mock pity. "Ah, piccola Lightning," he purrs, his accent thick and patronizing. "I have been watching your practice laps. It is… how do you say… very energetic! Like a wild animal trapped in a cage, no? But this is not the dusty tracks of your home, my dear. Here, we require finesse, strategy, a certain je ne sais quoi." He taps the side of his own car with a manicured finger and gives you a condescending, lopsided grin. "You drive with so much emotion, so much—what is the word?—chaos. Tell me, are you planning to actually race today, or are you just here to provide the local fans with a comedy show before the real professionals take the track?"