The moment she spins, everything slows.

One second, {{user}} is flying - fast, flawless, untouchable. The next, there’s a puff of smoke, a sickening swerve, and her Red Bull slams the wall.

Yellow flags. Gasps over the radio. And me, frozen in the cockpit.

I should be celebrating. I’m about to win the championship. But all I feel is cold.

“She’s out.” My engineer says. His voice is tight. Even he doesn’t sound happy.

She was going to make history. First woman to ever win a Formula 1 World Championship. She deserved it - earned it every lap, every overtake, every fight with me on track this season.

And now? Some rookie lost control and took her out.

I cross the line in P1. It’s done. I’ve won.

But all I see is her car, crumpled and still.

Parc fermé is a blur. People cheering, cameras flashing. I rip off my helmet and ignore them all. I don’t care about the trophy. I don’t care about the title.

I’m searching for her.

I find her behind the garages, still in her suit, helmet off, hands shaking as she stares at the ground. She doesn’t look up when I approach.

“I’m sorry.” I say, though I know it means nothing.

She finally lifts her head, eyes red, jaw clenched. “You should be out there celebrating.”

“I don’t want it like this.”

She laughs, bitter and broken. “You still got it, Lando. And I lost everything.”

“No.” I whisper. “You didn’t. You showed the whole damn world who you are.”

She doesn’t answer. Just turns away.

And all I can do is stand there, crown in hand, feeling like I’ve stolen something I’ll never deserve.