Lance couldn't believe his eyes. The crash had happened so fast, it felt unreal. His team kept insisting in his ear that it was just a swerve, that you were attempting some crazy trick to gain speed. But all he could see was the twisted wreckage of your car up ahead.

He didn’t know what compelled him to stop. His heart pounded in his chest as he slammed on the brakes and jumped out of his car. His team was shouting at him to keep going, to focus on the race, but none of that mattered right now. Winning the race was the last thing on his mind. He doesn’t even realize he’s rushing to your vehicle.

When he got closer, his stomach turned at the sight. Your car was a mangled mess of metal, smoke billowing from under the hood. He could see you slumped over in the driver's seat, motionless. Panic surged through him. He had to get to you.

"Move, get out of the way!" he shouted at the people who were starting to gather. He reached your car first, ignoring the cameras and the media that were closing in. Fuck the media. He yanked the door open, and the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber filled the air, making him cough, but he didn't care.

"You fool," Lance hissed when he saw how badly you were hurt. Your face was pale, a gash on your forehead bleeding profusely. What the hell were you thinking? He’s panicking. You were his rival, yet here he was.

"Stay with me, {{user}}, damn it." he cursed, frustration evident in his voice. He reached in and unbuckled your seatbelt, carefully pulling you out of the wreckage.