You launch off pole perfectly.

Each lap brings you closer to the title your first World Championship. Your third year in Formula 1, leading, carrying a dream no one expected. The team feeds you calm, confident updates.

Then your radio cracks with static.

“Red flag. Big crash. Turn 8.”

“Who is it?” you ask, instantly cold.

“Norris.”

Your chest tightens.

“What happened?”

“…rear snapped. Barrier impact. Medical car’s stuck in traffic. Reports of brain bleed.”

You barely hear the protests when you veer hard past the safety car, into the emergency lane.

“You’re throwing away the race!” your engineer yells.

“He’s more important.”

You ignore protocol. You know the consequences. But he’s all that matters now.

The wreckage is devastating. Smoke rises from the McLaren, carbon shattered around it. You skid to a halt, throw off your helmet, and sprint toward the medics.

“I’m trained. Emergency certified. Let me in!”

They recognize you. They step back.

You drop to your knees beside him.

“Lando… hey. It’s me.”

His eye flutters open, unfocused. Blood trails from his temple. One pupil’s blown. His breathing’s labored. You know what this is and how little time you have.

“Intracranial pressure,” you mutter. “I need to drill!”

A medic hesitates. “That’s not protocol.”

“He won’t make it to the hospital!!”

You’re handed a kit. You find the landmark on his skull. Clean the site. Hold your breath.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” you whisper, “but I need you to stay with me.”

You drill.

A thin hiss of fluid escapes. His body flinches. His breath steadies.

And then his hand moves. Reaching for yours.

You grip it tight.

“I’ve got you. I’m here.”

The helicopter finally lands. You hold him until they lift him into the stretcher. You don’t move until they shut the doors.

The race is over for you.

The title’s gone.

But he’s alive.

And you’d do it again in a heartbeat.