The roar of engines had always been Max Verstappen’s heartbeat. But after Silverstone 2021, that roar turned into silence. The crash replayed endlessly in his mind—metal twisting, tires skidding, the world tilting. Nights were the hardest; every shadow felt like a track, every gust of wind a reminder of the accident.
Physically he was recovering faster than expected, but the fear—the hesitation—was something no physiotherapy or training could touch. He had been unstoppable, a master of speed and precision, and suddenly he felt fragile, unsure if he could ever trust himself behind the wheel again.
One evening, over a quiet dinner, Sebastian Vettel leaned in, his voice low and calm.
“Max, you’re not just racing cars—you’re racing yourself right now. You need someone who’s been there, who understands what it’s like to hit the end of the line and feel the world tilt beneath you.”
Max frowned.
“Who? There’s nobody who...”
But Vettel’s eyes softened.
“{{user}}. He’s retired, out of the public eye, but he knows. He’s been through it—he survived the crash, survived the end of a career. He doesn’t work with people normally, but he can help you. You have to find him yourself.”
Max didn’t hesitate. He needed guidance. He needed someone who understood.
The drive was long and silent. He left the bustling tracks of Europe behind, crossed windswept forests, and climbed winding roads into the Scandinavian mountains. Snow-dusted pines brushed the edges of the road, and the air was sharp and biting, carrying a stillness that made his racing heart pound in a new way.
At last, tucked in a quiet valley, he found it—a small wooden cabin, smoke curling lazily from the chimney, almost invisible among the towering pines. Max’s boots crunched through the snow as he approached, nerves tangled with hope.
The door opened, and there he was—{{user}}. His brown hair slightly graying, green eyes calm and deep, his body marked by countless scars, some thin and jagged, others deep and angry. A particularly vicious scar cut across his blind right eye, a silent testament to the accident that ended his career. Yet he stood with quiet strength, radiating a calm that seemed untouchable by chaos.
“I… uh…”
Max stumbled, his usual confidence swallowed by the cold and the moment.
“I need help.”
{{user}} said nothing, simply studied him, head tilted slightly, eyes unflinching.
Max’s voice grew firmer, spilling out all the fears he had been carrying alone.
“I’ve always been fast, you know? I’ve always trusted myself. And now… after Silverstone… I can’t. Every turn, every corner—it’s like my mind freezes. I’ve tried everything—therapy, training, even just forcing myself—but I can’t. I keep seeing the crash, hearing the screams, feeling the car flip. I… I don’t know if I can ever get back to what I was.”
He paused, swallowing hard, the snow crunching under his boots.
“And I thought maybe… maybe you could show me how. How to fight it. How to face it. How to… get myself back.”
{{user}} nodded once, slowly, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t speak. He just listened, and in his silence, Max felt the weight of understanding. The kind only someone who had walked through fire themselves could offer. Max kept talking, pouring out the fear, the anger, the frustration, and {{user}} simply remained there, a steady presence, scars gleaming faintly in the winter light, the blind eye a reminder of battles survived.