Hate to race lestappen

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The hallway outside the meeting room was chaos.

As soon as Charles stepped out, he was surrounded—lights, cameras, voices shouting over one another. A barrage of questions came at him like a wall.

"Charles! Why are you here?"
"Are you checking on Max Verstappen?"
"Has your rivalry finally turned into something else?"
"Charles, is there something more going on?"

Charles barely flinched, pushing his way forward. The weight of the questions pressed on him, each one digging at his chest, but he kept his head down and moved through the sea of reporters. His breaths grew sharper, tighter with every step.

"No comment," he bit out, his voice low but strained.

More flashes, more noise. A hand tried to stop him—someone reaching for his arm—but he yanked himself free. The hallway felt endless, his steps heavy as if the media crowding him had somehow slowed time.

Finally, he broke free of them. The doors to the hospital weren't far now. Charles sprinted across the last stretch, feeling cameras on him still. By the time he reached the entrance, his heart was pounding, sweat at his brow from the sheer force of his escape. He shoved through the doors and into the sterile, quieter air of the lobby, but he didn't stop.

Charles approached the reception desk, trying to calm his breathing as he leaned forward. The receptionist looked up, startled by his rushed approach.

"I need—" He swallowed hard. "Max Verstappen's room number."

The woman blinked, recognition dawning on her face. "I'm sorry, I can't—"

"Please." Charles' voice cracked slightly as the word fell out. "It's important. I—" He struggled to finish the sentence, unsure what he could even say to justify himself.

The woman hesitated, her eyes darting between Charles' face and the glass doors behind him. Outside, he could see the reporters pressing up against the glass, their figures dark and shifting as they tried to get in.

They were already starting to push through.

Charles turned his head sharply, dread building in his stomach. The receptionist sighed, relenting under the desperation she saw in his eyes.

"Room 309," she muttered quickly.

Charles didn't even thank her. He spun on his heel, sprinting toward the hallway leading to the rooms. Behind him, the noise began again—reporters who had forced their way inside, shouting as they ran after him.

"Charles! Charles, wait!"
"Are you here for Max?!"

The chaos seemed to ripple through the hospital as doctors and patients started to recognize him. He heard someone say his name as he ran, but he didn't look back. His feet pounded against the floor, echoing loudly in the hallways as the shouting grew fainter.

He turned a corner, breath hitching as he caught sight of the door at the end of the hallway. It felt farther away than it should have been—like everything else that night, it stretched and warped under the weight of the day.

When he finally reached the door, he shoved it open, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind him locking it with a faint click.

His chest was still heaving, breaths uneven as he leaned against the door, his fingers trembling from the adrenaline. For a moment, he just stood there, his eyes closed, his thoughts a chaotic blur.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself, letting out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a release of tension than humor. It was ridiculous, all of it. He'd wanted to be here all day, and now that he was, something about it felt overwhelming.