The sound of impact still echoed in your ears—a brutal, unmistakable thud as Charles’s car slammed into yours, sending you spinning violently into the barriers. The world narrowed to a chaotic blur of metal, screams, and flashing lights. When you finally came to a halt, the pain blossomed sharply across your body—bruises blooming where the car had fought against you, ribs aching, and a throbbing in your head that refused to fade.

Back in the garage, the adrenaline crashed hard, and with it came a storm of fury. You punched the wall once, twice—your knuckles stinging, the sharp sting grounding you as frustration boiled over. It wasn’t just the pain; it was everything that had led to this moment—the months of training, the dreams of a strong home race, the pressure that felt suffocating, and the cruel end snatched away in an instant.

Engineers and team members hovered nervously nearby, their concern clear but unsure how to breach the wall of rage and hurt you’d built around yourself. Your breaths were ragged, chest heaving as you paced, fists clenched so tight your nails dug into your palms. A muffled curse escaped your lips, the sound raw and bitter.

Eventually, someone gently handed you an ice pack, the cold biting against your bruised skin, grounding you in the moment. You stared into the reflective visor of your helmet sitting on the bench, seeing the red-rimmed eyes staring back—tired, angry, and broken.

Hours later, you made your way to the post-race interviews, cap pulled low, jacket zipped tight, every movement weighed down by the heavy disappointment etched on your face. The camera caught the traces of tears you’d tried to hide—the redness beneath your eyes, the tightness in your jaw. You answered questions with clipped professionalism, the words stiff and measured, hiding the chaos inside. Every glance felt like a reminder of the crash, the loss, the fight that ended far too soon.

Later that night, the Mercedes garage was quiet. The engineers had long since left, tools packed away and lights dimmed save for a single bank of monitors casting a cool glow across the empty space. There you were, sitting alone, shoulders slumped, eyes locked on the slow replay of the collision. The footage played over and over—the exact moment Charles’s car clipped yours, the spin, the impact. You traced every second with tired eyes, searching for answers, questioning what you could’ve done differently.

The door slid open softly and Lando stepped in, his usual brightness tempered by the seriousness of the scene before him. He hesitated for a moment, then sat on the edge of the workbench nearby without interrupting. His voice was low, gentle, the kind of voice that never tried to fix but simply offered presence.

“Rough day, huh?”

You didn’t look away from the screen. The silence stretched, heavy but not empty—something shared in the quiet between two racers who knew all too well the weight of crashes, heartbreaks, and lost opportunities.

Lando shifted, glancing over at you, ready to listen when you finally chose to speak.