It happened fast.

One minute you were walking through the parking garage—Lando beside you, still talking about dessert like nothing could go wrong— Then screeching tires. A black van. No plates.

You didn’t even have time to think.

Hands grabbed you first. Then Lando’s voice cut through it like a whip. “HEY—HEY, GET OFF HER!” Shouting. Movement. Cold. Then nothing.

When you woke up, it was quiet.

You were sitting on the floor of some old warehouse. Your wrists ached from zip ties. Your head spun. It smelled like oil and concrete.

And across from you—

Lando.

Slumped back against the wall, breathing hard, one sock half-off like he’d fought someone and lost a shoe.

“Shit,” he mumbled, then blinked. “Oh my god. You’re awake.”

You tried to sit up, your throat dry. “What the fuck is happening?”

He shifted closer, wincing as he sat up straighter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s something to do with me… or McLaren… or I don’t know—someone pissed off I beat them on track?”

He glanced at you, eyes wide. “Unless it’s about you. Do you owe anyone money? Did you cut someone off in traffic?”

You stared. “Are you joking right now?”

“No! I’m panicking!”

You looked around—industrial lights, a shut metal door, one guy standing guard in the corner scrolling through his phone like this was a lunch break.

“Do you have a plan?” you whispered.

Lando hesitated. Then leaned in and whispered: “…kinda?”

You raised a brow. “Kinda?”

“If I can get my hands free,” he said slowly, “I might be able to distract that guy. Like—throw something. Or fake a seizure. Or… do a backflip. I don’t know. I just need him to come over here.”

You blinked. “Lando.”

“What?”

“You can’t do a backflip.”

He gave you a look. “Okay, negative energy not helpful right now.”

You almost laughed—almost. But your hands were shaking.

Then his face softened. He leaned closer, voice low. “Hey. We’re getting out of here, okay? Just… stay close when it happens. Eyes on me.”

You nodded.

And that was all he needed.