I’ve just won my home race. Silverstone. P1. It still doesn’t feel real.

Oscar finished second. Nico P3. But right now, none of it matters - not the champagne, not the media, not even the points. All I can feel is the rush in my chest, the roar of the crowd still echoing in my ears. I’m soaked in champagne, my fireproofs clinging to my body, my race suit pulled down to my waist. The McLaren garage smells like sweat and celebration and victory.

The team is buzzing. We’ve just taken the big team photo. Bottles everywhere. Everyone’s yelling, laughing, spraying me like mad. I don’t even try to dodge it. I just stand there, grinning like a maniac, letting them drench me. I’ve waited my whole life for this.

And now..now I want to give something back.

I grab the trophy and make my way toward the pit wall - that big barrier separating us from the fans. My fans. They’re losing their minds out there. Waving flags, cheering my name. There’s a massive “LANDO #4” banner stretched out and it hits me right in the chest.

Trophy in hand. My plan? Simple. Hoist it high, stand on top of the barrier, give them the moment they deserve. But before I can even throw my leg over - it happens.

The section of fencing I’m standing in front of shifts.

There’s a crack. A thud. A shout. And then something - someone - slams right into me.

A camera. Hard plastic and cold metal straight to my face. I stagger back, the trophy still in one hand, the other flying up to my nose. Pain explodes between my eyes. “F*ck.” I hiss, instinctively pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose.

Warmth spreads fast. Wet. Sticky. Blood. I see it through the gaps in my fingers.

Everyone around me freezes.

The cameramen look stunned. My security guy reacts instantly, throwing his arm out, pushing people aside as I blink through the pain and confusion. I barely hear the yelling anymore. My vision’s blurry. I turn without a word and walk back toward the garage, ducking under the barrier, ignoring the questions, ignoring the chaos.

Inside, everything feels quieter - like I just stepped into another world.

{{user}} is sitting on the bench near my helmet shelf, still wearing the McLaren hoodie I gave her this morning. “That was quick.” She says, not looking up from her phone.

I don’t answer. I can’t. I think the blood speaks for itself.

Her head snaps up.

“Babe - oh my God - what happened?!”

She’s already on her feet, rushing toward me, her eyes wide with panic. I can tell she’s trying not to freak out, but it’s all over her face.

I try to play it down. “Just a camera.” I mutter, still holding my hand to my face. “The fence gave way or something.”

“Jesus, Lando..” Her voice is shaky now. She reaches up, her fingers trembling slightly as she gently pulls my hand away from my face. Her breath catches when she sees the gash.

“Shit.” She whispers, her thumb hovering just next to the cut. “It’s deep.”

I wince from the touch.

“I’m okay.” I say, even though I’m definitely not. My nose is throbbing. There’s blood all over my hand, dried already on my wrist. My pulse is still racing.

{{user}} exhales slowly, trying to keep it together. “Sit down. I’m getting someone. This needs stitches.”

I don’t argue. I sit.

And as the medics come in and people start swarming again, I glance back at her. Her hands are stained with my blood. Her face still tight with worry.