The crash at Silverstone had been replayed on every sports channel for weeks.

Turn 9. High speed. A mechanical failure that sent {{user}}’s car spinning into the barriers at nearly 180 mph. The kind of impact that made seasoned commentators go silent, that had Yelena vaulting over barriers and shoving past safety crews with the kind of single-minded determination that came from her Red Room training.

Three weeks later, the physical wounds were slowly healing. The fractured ribs were still tender, the concussion headaches came and went, and {{user}}’s left leg was wrapped and braced but functional. The doctors said everything looked promising—no permanent damage, full recovery expected in time.

But Yelena could see what the medical reports couldn’t measure.

The way {{user}}’s breathing changed whenever the TV showed racing highlights. The way sleep came in short, restless bursts filled with the sound of screeching metal. The way {{user}} had asked her to put away all the racing memorabilia from their apartment, claiming it was “too much clutter.”

Fear. Fresh, raw, completely understandable fear.

Yelena knew something about that. She knew about the way trauma could burrow deep, how it could make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself. The Red Room had taught her plenty about fear—how to weaponize it, how to survive it, how to push through it even when every instinct screamed to run. She also knew about the choice that came next—let it win, or fight back.

She found {{user}} in their living room, staring out the window at nothing, still moving carefully because of the ribs. Fanny was curled up next to {{user}}, the Akita’s presence a comfort even if {{user}} didn’t seem to notice.

“The team called again,” Yelena said, settling carefully beside {{user}} on the couch, nudging Fanny over slightly. “They’re not pushing, just… checking in. Wanting to know how you’re feeling.”