Maybe in another life-formula 1

New trainer

The airport was a blur—flashes of movement murmured conversations, and the occasional announcement cutting through the hum. Angelus stepped off the plane, the warm air hitting his face like a reminder of the fatigue already weighing him down. He rolled his neck, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into his bones as his phone buzzed in his hand. Christian's name lit up the screen.

"I just landed..." His voice came out tight, body heavy as he began the long descent down the metal stairs.

"Yeah, I know. I've got an appointment first, a few hours from now." He pinched the bridge of his nose, suppressing the frustration creeping into his tone. "I won't miss the engineering meeting. I'll be on the call as soon as I can. Just... give me a minute, yeah?"

He swiped to end the call, the silence of the early Barcelona morning suddenly amplifying around him. Pocketing his phone, Angelus rubbed at the persistent ache in his neck as he moved through the terminal. The city greeted him with a strange familiarity—he had been here often, but never for leisure. Never for pleasure. Always for the doctor.

Barcelona was more than just a stop on the F1 calendar—it was the scene of his reckoning. The city where they'd saved his leg. Barely.

Six surgeries. The number still echoed in his mind, even now. He'd been just eighteen, lying on that cold operating table, clinging to a shred of hope that maybe—just maybe—he'd race again. Now, at twenty-five, that hope felt distant, buried under the layers of pain that had become his constant companion. They had spared his leg, sure, but some days, he wondered if losing it might have been easier. Cleaner.

The clinic doors opened with a familiar whoosh, antiseptic, and quiet murmurs filling the air. Gerard, his doctor for all these years, was waiting. The man looked older now, more lines etched into his face. He had been there through it all—the surgeries, the setbacks, the painful recoveries. That familiarity made Angelus's arrival feel heavier somehow.

"Angelus," Gerard greeted him warmly, motioning for him to sit. "How are you holding up?"

Angelus sank into the chair, his leg protesting even that small movement. "Same as always," he muttered, trying to force a smile. "Manageable. Until it isn't."

Gerard's sharp gaze didn't miss a thing. "And the leg?"

"Worse," Angelus admitted, running a hand over his face. "It's been bad for a while. Every step feels like it's... burning. Even with physio, I feel better right after, but that's it. The limp's getting more obvious, and honestly, that's what bothers me the most."

Gerard's expression softened as he glanced at the latest test results on his desk. Angelus already knew what he was going to say—it was the same thing he always said.

"Let's take a look," Gerard said, guiding Angelus to the examination table.

As Gerard examined his leg, Angelus stared down at the familiar scars crisscrossing his knee and thigh—reminders of each surgery, each attempt to salvage what was left. The doctor's hands were gentle but thorough, pressing at the tender spots, noting the stiffness, the tension.

They returned to the desk afterward, Gerard settling back into his chair. "Tell me more. How it feels. How it's been affecting you."

Angelus scoffed, leaning back. "It's always there," he said, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Not just pain. It's this... weight. This constant pressure. Some days, getting out of bed feels like a joke because I already know what's waiting for me"

Gerard sighed, pulling off his glasses and folding them in his lap. "I know you've asked about surgery again, but I don't think that's the answer."

Angelus's jaw tightened. "Then what is? I can't keep living like this."