Hate to race lestappen

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Charles had no idea how he was still driving.

His hands trembled against the steering wheel, his vision blurred with a mix of sweat and sheer panic. His pulse thundered in his ears as he watched the Red Bull car veer dangerously close to him, swerving like it was drunk. He'd nearly been hit three times already, and Max was still out there, pushing like a maniac.

"Fuck, fuck—he's going to kill himself," Charles muttered, his voice cracking. His foot slammed the brake into the next corner, giving Max room to slide wide again.

He clicked the radio, desperation spilling out of him. "I'm telling you, he's not okay! Max is dangerous! Please, just... just stop the race! Get him out! Do something!"

The engineer's response came back too calm, too detached for the terror consuming him. "Focus on your race, Charles. Keep your line. Avoid him."

Avoid him? Avoid him?! How the fuck do I avoid him when he's about to crash into me?!

"He's going to fucking die!" Charles yelled, slamming a hand on the wheel as he weaved out of Max's path again. His voice cracked, breaking into something raw. "Please. I'm begging you—stop him! This race is fucking dangerous! For everyone!"

The heat bore down on him like a suffocating blanket, each breath heavier than the last. His gloves were soaked with sweat, and his head pounded from dehydration. Two drivers had already retired from the race due to the conditions, but Max—Max was still out there.

Charles's heart clenched as he realized it wasn't just Max's driving that scared him. It was Max himself—how pale he'd been, how hollow his eyes looked, how he seemed like a shadow of the relentless fighter he usually was.

Why didn't I stop him yesterday? Why didn't I check on him? He hadn't seen Max since they'd left the paddock after qualifying. He'd looked exhausted then, but Charles hadn't said anything. He hadn't done anything.

Now, all he could do was watch the disaster unfold.

Guilt twisted in his stomach, hot and bitter. He could barely focus on his own car anymore. Every glance in the mirror was a fresh stab of dread, watching Max's car wobble and drift unnaturally.

They approached the corner, Charles on the inside. He braked early, trying to give Max space. But Max didn't turn.

He didn't brake.

Charles barely felt the glancing blow as Max's car clipped his front left tire, sending sparks flying. His car jerked to the side, the impact minor compared to what unfolded ahead. He slammed the brakes, his heart in his throat as he saw Max's car plow straight into the barriers at full speed.

Time seemed to slow. Charles barely registered the sound of metal crunching or the puff of smoke beginning to rise from the wreckage.

His own car had come to a stop, his team was yelling in his ears, commands and questions he couldn't hear. His entire focus was on the wreckage ahead, the mangled remains of Max's car, smoke rising ominously.

Everything became a blur. The red flags waved frantically.

"Max." The word escaped his lips like a prayer, low and breathless.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Charles ripped off his harness, shoved the steering wheel aside, and leapt out of the cockpit.

The heat hit him immediately, the air oppressive and thick, but he ran, legs carrying him faster than he thought possible.

He barely registered the other cars flying past him, barely registered the shouts from marshals trying to stop him. All he knew was that Max was in that car. And he couldn't lose him.