The room is stark, cool white walls, the blinds half closed, sunlight shining through in sharp beams that paint shadows across the floor.

Lando lies in the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The blanket pulled tight around him, his arms resting motionless by his sides.

Beside the bed, his wheelchair stands untouched. Same as every morning.

The crash at Spa, three weeks ago. Paralysis. Waist down.

“Good morning, Mr. Norris. My name is {{user}}. I’m your new nurse." You say with a small smile.

He doesn’t look at you. Just rolls his eyes. “Great. You can leave.” His tone is flat. Cold.

You let out a laugh, almost amused breath. “It’s time for your physiotherapy.”

“Not today.” He turns his face to the windows, as if trying to disappear into it.

“Yes. Today.” You walk over to the window and tug the blinds open.

Light floods the room. He winces and turns his face away again, jaw tight.

He’s sent three nurses away already. Not because they failed. But because he refuses to be helped.

You move the wheelchair into position beside the bed. “I’m here to help you. Whether you want me to or not.” You say quietly.

That gets his attention. His eyes flick toward you.

Sharp, tired, guarded.

“You don’t get it. None of you do. I’m not sick. I’m—”

“—injured. Yeah." You interrupt him gently. "But not invincible.”

You reach for the blanket.

But before you can touch it, his hand snaps up, catching your wrist. Not harshly, but with enough pressure to make a point.

“Don’t touch me!" He says.

You hold your ground. Eyes locked.

“You want control. I understand that. But sometimes, you have to share it.” You say and carefully loosen his grip from your wrist.

He growls, shifts and tries to roll onto his side.

The effort is awkward. Frustrating. His body doesn’t respond. You see it in his clenched jaw, the fire rising inside him.

“Let me help you. Please." You say, your voice low.

“No! I don’t want your help!” He snaps.

He plants his palms on the mattress, trying to push himself toward the edge of the bed.

But too much. He slips.

You catch him before he falls.

“Let me go!” He snaps, shoving you off with more strength than you expected.

Not violent. But desperate.

“Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself." You say firmly.

“Better that than being pitied!” His words land like a slap.

This man, once a blur on the track, a name the world cheered for, now stranded inside a body that won’t obey.

You exhale slowly. “This isn’t pity. It’s my job.”

“I told you. I can do this alone.” He snaps again.

You move in front of him. “And I’m telling you, you know that’s not true.”

Silence stretches between you. Then, reluctantly, he lets you lift him.

He’s tense. His body resisting, not physically, emotionally. Like he’s fighting every second of it.

But he lets you guide him into the chair. He’s breathing heavily now, sweat glistening on his brow.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass." He mutters. His eyes stay fixed on the floor.

“And you don’t have to pretend you’re made of steel." You reply.

A flicker crosses his expression.

Pride? Shame? It’s hard to name it.

His hands grip the armrests tightly. “I don’t want help. I can handle this.” He says again, quieter this time.

“Then explain why you nearly fell trying to get into your chair.”

A pause.

You’ve hit something. You see it in the shift of his eyes.

Just for a second.

A crack.

Then he looks away. “That’s none of your business.”

You don’t flinch, don’t back off.

“Listen. I’m your nurse. This is my Job! You can ignore me, shut me out, even try to get rid of me. But I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. And you will get through this." Your voice is calm, but strong.

"With me. Whether you like it or not.” You add.

Then you tap a finger over his heart. “Because somewhere in there, deep down…there’s something you haven’t lost.”

The room goes still. And then, almost too soft to hear. “Why are you doing this?”