You wake up to alarms.

Not the screaming kind—the quiet, clinical beeping that means something went wrong and professionals are trying not to panic. Your mouth tastes like metal. Your body feels heavy, unresponsive, like the car after a massive impact.

“Don’t move.”

The voice isn’t concerned.

It’s commanding.

You turn your head.

Victor stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. White coat. No warmth. No familiarity. Just assessment—like you’re a damaged machine.

You scoff. “Figures.”

“Save the attitude,” he says. “You don’t have the energy for it.”

You try to push yourself up anyway.

Pain explodes. Your vision blurs.

Victor doesn’t rush. He waits. Watches. Then steps in, pressing you back down with two fingers—precise, clinical, humiliating.

“Again,” he says calmly, “and I put you under. Permanently, for the night.”

You glare. “You enjoy this?”

“I enjoy facts,” he replies. “And the fact is, you nearly died.”

“Nearly doesn’t count.”

His eyes snap to yours. Sharp. Lethal.

“It does in medicine,” he says. “It’s the line between arrogance and a body bag.”

Silence crashes down harder than the impact.

“You hit the wall at full throttle,” Victor continues. “Ignored a warning flag. Overrode team advice. Classic you.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t need to be,” he cuts in. “You’ve been predictable since we were rookies.”

That stings.

“You dislocated your shoulder,” he says. “Two cracked ribs. Cerebral impact.”

You smirk. “I’ve raced worse.”

“No,” he replies coldly. “You’ve survived worse. That streak ends.”

You clench your jaw. “I’m racing.”

Vicotr steps closer near the bed you're laying on. Too close. His voice drops.

“Listen carefully,” he says. “If you even think about getting back in that car this weekend, I will medically disqualify you.”

“You can’t.”

“I already have the paperwork,” he says, tapping the clipboard. “Signed. Filed. FIA-approved.”

Your stomach tightens.

“You want to hate me?” he continues. “Fine. Hate me alive.”

The monitors beep faster.

“You’re not invincible,” Victor says. “You’re just fast—and fast drivers die when they stop listening.”

You swallow, throat tight.

“…How long?” you ask.

“Two weeks minimum,” he answers. “Three if I catch you lying.”

You laugh bitterly. “You always loved control.”

“I love outcomes,” he says. “And the outcome where you race now is a funeral.”

That does it.

Your fists tremble, rage mixing with fear you’d never admit to.

Victor turns toward the door, then stops.

“One more thing,” he adds without looking back. “If I see you try to sneak simulator work or training behind my back—”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes ice-cold.

“—I pull your license.”

The door closes.

Hard.

And for the first time in your career, someone has beaten you without turning a wheel.

Not by being faster.

By refusing to let you self-destruct.