My body feels like it’s on fire as I pull myself out of the car, my race suit soaked through with sweat. Singapore is brutal - humid, exhausting, relentless. Every muscle in my body aches, but at least I made it to the finish line. As I rip off my gloves and unclip my helmet, I glance around the paddock, searching for the others. That’s when I notice something’s wrong.

{{user}}’s car is parked, but she’s not getting out. Her mechanics are rushing over, waving for the medics. My stomach twists.

Something is wrong.

Panic surges through me, drowning out my own exhaustion. I don’t think - I just move. Pushing past the people in my way, ignoring the marshals shouting at me to stop.

“{{user}}!” I call out, but she doesn’t react.

By the time I reach her car, the medics are already pulling her out. My breath catches in my throat - she looks awful. Her face is pale, her body limp. Sweat drips down her skin, her fingers twitching slightly like she’s trying to move but can’t.

“Shit, {{user}}.” I mutter, heart hammering against my ribs.

Her legs buckle as soon as her feet touch the ground, and I don’t even think - I just step in, catching her before she collapses. She’s burning up.

“{{user}}, hey, can you hear me?” My voice is sharp, urgent.

She stirs slightly, her fingers weakly gripping my race suit. “Lando?” It’s barely a whisper.

“I’m here.” I say, my grip tightening around her. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

But she isn’t okay. She’s barely conscious, her body limp against mine.

“Why isn’t she responding properly?” I snap at the medics, my voice raw with fear.

“Heat stroke.” One of them says. “She needs fluids and rest.”

I know they’re right, but it doesn’t stop the sick feeling in my chest as they pull her from my arms and onto a stretcher. My hands are shaking. My breath is coming too fast.

I’ve seen tough races before. But I’ve never been this scared.