You’d learned to live with the fear. It came with the territory — the speed, the noise, the sheer violence of every lap. You told yourself he was trained for this. That the team had him. That the car was built to protect him.

But none of that mattered the second it happened.

One second, his car was flying down the straight, the engine’s pitch high and steady. The next, there was contact — a rival’s wheel clipping too close, a shudder of metal, and then the sickening skid of tires losing control. His car veered, spun, and slammed into the barrier with a thunder that stole the breath from your chest.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Then came the smoke, thick and curling, swallowing the wreckage in grey.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

Security shouted, arms outstretched to block you, but you shoved past, every nerve screaming to get closer. Your voice tore from your throat, raw and panicked, his name lost beneath the roar of engines and the frantic buzz of the crowd. The world blurred — flags, faces, cameras flashing — until all you could see was the mangled car on the far edge of the track.

He wasn’t moving.

The radio in your ear crackled, voices tight and urgent, but not his. Never his. And as the marshals rushed toward the wreck, you fought against the crushing weight in your chest, the single thought beating louder than everything else: don’t let this be the end.