Hate to race lestappen

Burned The Chains

Charles was okay.

It had taken forever for anyone to get there. Forever and a half. Max had been soaked to the bone and shaking, kneeling on the wet asphalt, holding a body that wasn't responding the way it should. He didn't even feel cold anymore—just hollowed out and sharp-edged, like something brittle and badly built.

And then someone had ripped him away.

He didn't remember who it was. Could've been a steward. Could've been no one at all and he'd just moved because the moment was over and Charles was being taken away—without him.

That part hurt most.

He came back soaked to the bone. The rain hadn't let up, turning pit lane into a mirror of puddles and chaos, his boots slapping against the concrete with every heavy step. The garage lights stung his eyes — too bright, too clean — like nothing awful had just happened out there.

His suit was soaked, clinging to his frame like a second skin, rainwater and mud streaked across his sleeves, grass and oil on his gloves. His helmet hung at his side, forgotten. He didn't meet anyone's gaze. Didn't say a word.

Silence waited for him inside. The kind that wasn't respectful — just afraid. Mechanics froze when they saw him, and no one asked him what happened. They'd all seen. And now they waited, like someone had died.

His engineer approached slowly, hands low, cautious.

"They've disqualified you."

Max blinked. His lashes were stuck together. He didn't even feel the water anymore.

"For ignoring the red flag," the engineer added, almost apologetically.

Max just stared past him, jaw tense, throat dry. A pause stretched.

Then, quietly, "Okay."

That was all. He didn't argue. Didn't care. Because Charles was gone, and that was the only thing that mattered.

He walked through the garage like a ghost in his own body.

He peeled off the suit as he moved — slow, methodical. The zipper stuck halfway down from the wet fabric, and he had to yank it until it came undone. He didn't stop moving. Just walked straight into the driver's room like it was muscle memory.

Inside, it was warm. The kind of dry, stale air that clung to his skin and made his soaked shirt feel even colder. He kicked off his boots, shrugged out of the rest of the fireproofs, and toweled off roughly with whatever was closest. His hair stuck up in all directions, his eyes red around the edges. He changed quickly — dry shirt, hoodie, — something neutral and silent like him.

He was going to the hospital. He didn't care what anyone said.

Even if Charles would scream at him. Even if he'd tell him to fuck off or shut the door in his face. Max would go.

He had to be there. He couldn't sit in this sterile room and wait for someone to maybe update him again.

Max had barely zipped up his jacket when the door burst open.

It slammed into the wall like it had been kicked, and Jos stormed inside like a wave crashing through the silence.

"I told you to stay away!" he roared, rain still dripping from his coat, voice louder than the storm outside.

Max didn't turn. He kept his hands busy, shoving things into his bag. Calm on the outside, but he could feel the fire crawling up his spine.

Jos kept going, pacing now. "Do you think you look like a hero? Is that what you think this is? You disobeyed orders, you got yourself disqualified, and for what?"