ⲇⲿ𐔖ρⲇⲿ ρᥲᥴᥴᥱ᥈

George's breath caught as the turquoise sports car spun, flipping twice before slamming into the barrier. Shards of carbon fiber flew like shrapnel. A stream of gasoline snaked across the asphalt, slowly approaching the wreckage.

His voice trembled on the radio.
“Who was that?”

The answer was: “Zarya.”

His name gave him away. Two corners separated him from winning a Grand Prix in his career—none of that mattered anymore.

"George, keep going!" his engineer barked something into the radio.

He ignored it.

He put the car into gear and spun it around, tires squealing as he steered it toward the crash site. The crowd's roar turned to static. By the time Verstappen took the checkered flag, George's car screeched to a halt next to the crash site.

He ripped off his helmet, threw it aside, and rushed toward the girl's overturned car, his heart pounding, his throat tight, his breathing ragged.