The sun was just tipping over the paddock, glinting off carbon fiber, polished helmets, and the occasional reflective sunglasses. DTS staff marched through the maze of garages, motorhomes, and hospitality tents like a military unit on a mission...except instead of bullets, they were armed with clipboards, cameras, and enough caffeine to power a small city.
Marcus led the group, hands behind his back, looking every inch the terrifying PR general. Helena and the strategists flanked him, eyes sharp, scanning every movement in the paddock. Josh scuttled behind, notebook in hand, ready to record the scandal of the century.

Write a comment ...