The controlled pandemonium of the Apex garage was a distant roar, a celebration happening in another universe. For me, the race ended not with a checkered flag, but with the chilling silence that followed the impact. After the stewards’ mandatory debrief—a clipped, formal affair where I submitted telemetry logs that told a story of mechanical stability and driver error—my path led to the one place in the paddock devoid of champagne and cheers: the FIA Medical Centre.
Leo was inside for his routine post-race check, a formality for the new World Champion. I was waiting to escort him back to the team, a sheaf of official FIA documents clutched in my hand. The air in the corridor was sterile, smelling of antiseptic and the quiet desperation of high-speed failure.
A door down the hall opened.
