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Chapter Text

The floodlights of Yas Marina blur into streaks of white and blue as George Russell hurtles down the final straight. His hands tremble on the wheel, not from exhaustion, but from the kind of adrenaline that only comes at the end of a season-long war.

Fifty-eight laps.

Years of fighting.

A lifetime of waiting.

Now: one corner left.

Bono’s voice cuts in, “Okay George, checkered flag. That's P1 mate. P1. You’re the WORLD CHAMPION GEORGE! YOU DID IT!”

Then Toto, shaky and breathless, “George, son, that was mega. Congratulations, George. Really, really, really well done!”

George’s heart stops, or maybe the world does.

“Max P2, Lando P3.”

A laugh climbs out of George’s throat, “MAN–BONO–TELL ME AGAIN!”

“You are the World Champion, George. You are the champion!”

The British loosened one hand from the wheel to pump it into the air, a choked shout leaving his lips.

He did it!

He finally–

The dashboard lights up red.

Oil pressure.

ERS failure.

Rear-left tire pressure dropping.

Bono’s voice spikes, “George, slow the car–”

But before George could do anything, the car snapped. He barely has time to shout over the radio before disaster strikes: an engine failure, a sudden puncture, or a freak impact but whatever it is, it sends his car straight into the barriers after the finish line.

The radio goes silent.

Engineers freeze.

Screens flicker red.

Bono yells into his mic, “GEORGE! GEORGE TALK TO ME!”

Toto also yelled, full panic showed on his face, “GEORGE, GEORGE… Are you okay?”

Static.

Static.

Only static.

Toto rips off his headset, shouting for medics, marshals, anyone.

Crew members sprint. Cameras cut away. Broadcasters fall silent.

The world watches the wreckage of the newly crowned champion’s car, half-buried in shattered barrier foam and sparks.

George doesn’t move.

No podium.

No trophy lift.

Straight to the hospital.

Only sirens.

Only panic.

Only the sound of an entire paddock realizing that a World Champion may have just paid the highest price for the final lap of his life.

___

Miraculously, his body is intact. No broken bones, no critical injuries. But when he wakes up, he looks at his mother and asks: 

“What happened?”

George has amnesia. The hit to his head was catastrophic in a way doctors can’t fully explain. His brain has erased not only his racing career, but any memory of ever stepping foot into a cockpit beyond childhood karting. In his mind, he grew up, got homeschooled, graduated, and was supposed to help run the family’s seed and pulse distribution business. An entire alternate universe he must have unconsciously constructed to fill the blanks.

When the family tries to gently correct him, to tell him he’s a Formula 1 World Champion, George collapses into a stress-induced seizure.

The doctors warn: “Do not force reality on him again. You may risk permanent damage.”

___

The meeting room at the Abu Dhabi hospital is too cold, too white, too bright for what the Russell family is about to do. James Allison from Mercedes sits rigidly at the table. Toto Wolff hasn’t spoken in minutes. FIA representatives line the back wall, pretending this is routine, pretending they aren’t witnessing the quiet death of a career.

George is sleeping two doors down. It’s been three days since the massive seizure and the doctors already gave them clearance to discharge him but the Russells didn’t want to tell anyone about it. Thanks to millions of dollars that George has earned over the past years of being a Formula 1 driver and his family’s wealth, they asked the whole hospital, especially the doctor to shut anyone out and specifically asked them to not tell what happened to George. Not even to the Mercedes team. The hospital obliged.

His mother, Alison, looks like she hasn’t slept since the crash. His father, Steve, keeps wringing his cap in his hands like he’s praying for it to turn back time. And his older brother Ben can’t stop glancing toward the door, as if bracing for doctors rushing in with more bad news.

Toto breaks the silence first. 

“How bad?” His voice cracks mid-word.

Alison’s breath trembles. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. So Steve answers for her, steady but strangled.

“Bad enough that George… won’t be racing again.”

A ripple of shock freezes the room.

James leans forward. “But the doctors just told us that there’s no spinal injury. No broken limbs. Once he wakes—”

“He won’t be waking the same,” Steve cuts in gently.

Toto’s jaw tightens. He looks from face to face, searching for something clarity, reassurance, and hope. He finds none. “Are you saying it’s neurological?”

Another long silence. The Russells exchange tight glances. They had rehearsed this, agreed on every word.

The truth is that George woke up screaming, unable to remember anything… When they told him he was a Formula One driver, his body seized so violently they nearly lost him… The truth… that his brain has erased an entire life… None of that can be spoken.

The doctors themselves had warned them: Stress could kill him.

Or lock him permanently in the wrong reality.

So they lie. Or rather they choose a version of the truth that hurts less.

Alison finally speaks, her voice thin and breakable. “The impact caused… significant cognitive trauma. He needs time. Quiet. Stability. No pressure. And definitely no driving.”

FIA Medical Director Dr. Roberts frowns. “What kind of cognitive trauma?”

Steve answers calmly. He has to. He’s the one they’ll believe. “He struggles with basic recall. Memory lapses. Confusion. The doctors think recovery is possible… maybe. But the environment he’s in now, the demands, the cameras, this sport—”

Alison finishes for him, barely above a whisper: “It will destroy any chance George has to heal.”

Toto leans back slowly, like he’s been hit. He rubs his face with both hands. “So… the season is over for him,” the team principal muttered.

Ben hisses a breath. Alison grips the edge of the table. “There won’t be another season. His career is over,” Steve said.

The room goes silent in a way that feels surgical. Mercedes and FIA executives stiffen. Some open their laptops. Others look at Toto in disbelief.

F1 does not lose drivers this young. 

Not without bodies or flames or headlines.

But this loss is quieter. Crueler.

The FIA rep tries to compose himself. “We will, of course, release a statement. With your approval.”

Steve nods and clarifies: “We want privacy. No specifics about his condition. Just say he suffered serious injuries from the crash and will not return to racing. I need everyone to sign an NDA.”

James swallows hard. “But people will demand answers. You’re not even telling us the truth. We deserve to know. He’s under contract!”

Toto finally rises to his feet. His eyes are glassy with grief he refuses to let fall. “Then we’ll give them nothing.” He looks to the Russell family, voice steadier than his hands. “We owe George that. Peace.”

The family exchange looks, relief mixed with devastation. Steve clears his throat. “We’re taking him away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one will find him or ask questions.”

Ben adds softly, “Far from racing. Far from pressure. Until he recovers.”

The FIA rep nods stiffly. “As long as it’s medically advised. We won’t interfere.”

Alison almost breaks. Steve grips her hand under the table.

Toto’s voice lowers to a near whisper. “Where will he go?”

A long, weighted pause. Finally Steve says:

“Home.”

Not the London home.

Not in Monaco.

Not the professional home.

But the old family estate.

Fields stretching to the horizon, neighbors who mind their own business, a place forgotten by time.

A place where a world champion might disappear.

___

Hours later, the FIA releases a carefully sanitized press release:

“Following the severe impact sustained after the checkered flag in Abu Dhabi, George Russell has suffered significant injuries that require an extended period of rehabilitation. On advice of medical professionals, he will step away indefinitely from Formula One competition.”

No mention of memory loss.
No mention of seizures.
No mention of the truth.

Reporters cry cover-up.
Fans demand clarity.
Teams scramble.

___

DRIVERS GROUP CHAT:

Lando: WTF HAVE U SEEN THE NEWS?

Yuki sent a photo.

Lewis: @ kimi have u heard from toto?

Kimi: nothing, radio silence from the team. they kinda shut me out. then they told me that i should go pack my bags and go home

Carlos: im still trying to talk to fia, they wont tell me anything

Fernando: been 2 days still no news from family?

Lewis: @ alex

Alex: unc steve isnt replying to any of my messages. idek if theyre still in the hospital in ab

Ollie: looks like he got discharged?

Ollie sent a link.

Max typing…

Oscar: huh, no more fans and media roaming around the hospital

Charles: last i heard, toto left fred on seen

Nico: step away indefinitely? what does that even mean

Fernando: lets pray for his fast recovery

Carlos: i cannot believe they wont answer my calls! im a gpda director!

Isack: where trying to get some news online, especially from the fans lurking around the hospital or the media

Gabriel: true, been scrolling on twitter for hours

Charles: chances of getting news on twitter is higher than fia answering your calls carlos

Lance: i’ll ask dad if he can pull some strings

Pierre: where are the others?

Isack: liam’s with me, he’s busy checking online and getting ragebaited

Franco: im reporting all the trolls under fia’s post regarding george’s news

Lando: others are probably on their way home

Ollie: me and esteban on our way to hq. esteban is sleeping rn

Yuki: i just hope george is okay, i like that guy

Max typing…

Charles: damn it max youve been typing for 5 minutes spit it out

Max typing…

Max typing…

Charles typing…

Lando typing…

Max: he’s not coming back

Max typing…

Lewis: fuck u man not funny

Lando: seriously mate, not the time to beef with george

Alex: bloody hell max

Carlos: thats low

Charles and others typing…

Max: i asked someone from my team to sneak into the hospital, they said the whole floor was closed. and then i asked another to sneak into the fia office, they heard dr. roberts say ‘george is done. career is over’... thats all i know coz thats what my staff heard. not clear coz fia people were only whispering or whatever

Max: and fuck u all for thinking i don’t care about george

Max has left the group.

___

The car ride feels too long. George sits in the backseat, forehead leaning against the cold window, watching endless flat fields blur past. Winter in Norfolk means everything is gray except for the occasional patch of stubborn green, but to him it feels… familiar. Comforting, even. That should soothe him but it doesn't because nothing else feels familiar.

He knows the names of the roads they’re on.

He knows the smell of wet soil and diesel from tractors.

He knows the distant silhouettes of old barns and grain silos.

But the memories behind that knowledge?

Gone.

Hollow, like someone scooped them out with careful, cruel precision.

Steve Russell has spent the past week pulling every string within his reach. The family buys back their old, sprawling farm in King’s Lynn, Norfolk that is miraculously still operational and purchases the entire business from its current owner. Behind another set of closed doors, Toto Wolff agrees to provide a substantial sum to the Russells, something between a severance package and a quiet tribute to George’s years of service to the team. In just seven days, they quietly pull George away from the world, away from cameras, away from the sport that would sooner chew him up than let him heal. Chaos erupts in the media and FIA. Questions. Investigations. Endless pressure.

Ben drives slowly, like he’s afraid sudden movement might break George. His mother sits beside him, constantly turning around to check on her youngest son, as if expecting him to disappear. George offers a small smile, but even that feels stiff, borrowed.

“We’re almost there,” she says softly.

He nods, though he has no idea where “there” is.

___

They turn onto a gravel path lined with ancient trees. Oaks older than any of them, branches arching over the lane like stooped old women bowing in greeting. The sound of tires crunching over stones echoes through the still winter air. Ahead, the landscape opens like a memory too faded to grasp. The farmhouse emerges slowly. First the roofline, dark and moss-kissed. Then the weathered stone walls, patched in places, proud in others. Finally the wide porch, boards warped with age but still elegant in a quiet, ancestral kind of way.

It looks old.

But it also looks… expensive.

Like time has touched it, but money has kept it upright.

George stares. “Wow,” he murmurs. “Feels like it’s been so long since we lived here.” He tries to make it sound like a joke. It comes out thin and uncertain.

Alison beams, though her eyes shine with something far heavier. “You grew up running around these fields.”

He searches the walls, the windows, the crooked barn door, anything. He checks for any spark of recognition. But it’s only just bits of pieces. Running around with his siblings. Tagging along with his older brother… karting.

His chest tightens and turns to his brother. “I remember you used to drive karts, right?”

Steve and Alison both stiffen in their seats but George catches it anyway. Ben doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes stay forward, jaw working silently before he forces himself to nod.

“Uhm… yeah,” he says quietly.

“Right right, i remember forcing dad to let me come with you and–”

But the car rolls to a stop before he can finish. Ben parks beside two rusting tractors, their faded paint peeling like sunburnt skin. He pulls the keys out slowly, turns around, and forces a brightness into his voice that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“C’mon, Georgie. Let’s show you the grand tour.”

George’s hand hovers over the door handle. He hesitates. Stepping out feels like committing to this new version of his life. Like admitting that the memories he should have here, the childhood that should feel warm and foundational, are nothing more than faint echoes. He finally pushes the door open. The cold air stings his skin.

Behind him, the truth remains unspoken: He barely lived here. At nine years old, his father had sold the family business to fund the rising star that George was becoming. Everyone saw the potential even though Ben had been the one who fell in love with racing first. The sacrifice was made quietly, decisively. The family moved away. His father worked endlessly. All so George could chase a dream. So the farm never held years of memories for him.

Just fragments.

Just flashes.

Barely enough to fill a single afternoon, let alone a childhood.

And now, they were bringing him back to a life he never really lived, hoping it might anchor him when everything else had been stripped away.

___

Night falls quickly in winter. The wind picks up, rattling the windowpane. George lies in bed, listening to the creaks of the old farmhouse.

He closes his eyes…

…and the world violently shifts.

Sudden flashes of blinding light.

Roaring crowds.

Engines screaming.

A steering wheel vibrating in his hands.

He jerks upright, gasping.

His heart races. His vision blurs. His head pounds so hard he feels sick.

He grips the sheets.

What was that? 

Footsteps rush down the hall. Ben bursts in. “George? Are you alright?”

George nods too fast. “Bad dream. Just… just a dream.”

Ben doesn’t argue and sits beside him, anchoring him with a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’re safe. You’re home.”

The words settle like warm weights on his chest.

Safe.

Home.

He repeats them silently like a prayer.

Eventually, his heartbeat slows.

George doesn’t know.

He can’t know that somewhere in the house, his mother sits at the kitchen table, holding back sobs. He doesn’t know that his father is on the phone, telling relatives not to mention racing. Ever. He doesn’t know that they’ve scrubbed every trace of Formula One from their lives. Books, posters, model cars, even the TV channels he might stumble onto. Known as a kind and loving family to their small town, they tell the townspeople to keep quiet. They explain just enough for neighbors to understand. And because this is a town that protects its own, they do.

And George…

He only knows this:

A farm.

A family.

A life he can almost remember.

Something simple.

Something quiet.

Something safe.

And for now that is enough.

They let him believe the gentle universe his brain built where he never became a racer.

___

George thrives in the silence of fields and animals.

He learns to repair tractors with calloused hands.

He manages crops alongside Ben, dirt gathering under his nails.

He talks with elderly farmers on morning walks.

He laughs easily, without the weight of lap times or contracts or millions watching his every move.

He lives simply.

He lives quietly.

He lives.

And as the seasons pass, winter softening into spring, spring bursting into summer, summer falling into amber autumn, the world slowly moves on.

The 2025 World Champion becomes folklore.

A ghost story whispered in paddocks.

A tragedy with no answers.

And George, unaware of all of it, sleeps peacefully in a small farmhouse in Norfolk.

🏁

Chapter Text

TOTO WOLFF

It’s been a month since George Russell vanished.

The world collectively holds its breath, waiting for a man who, deep down, everyone knows will never walk back into the paddock again. Mercedes HQ looks like a besieged kingdom. Fans camp outside headquarters with candles, posters, and prayers written in languages Toto Wolff doesn’t have the strength to translate. Journalists circle like vultures desperate for scraps of truth. They climb fences, camp on sidewalks and shove microphones into every crack of the building like weeds growing out of concrete. Every mechanic has been interrogated, PR agents shadowed, interns followed to their car.

The same questions ricochet like bullets:

“Where is George?”
“What happened that night?”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Is he alive?”

“Is he dead?”
“Is he conscious?”
“Is he coming back?”

No answers. Just a suffocating silence that gets heavier as the days crawl by. Even the FIA stays silent. And Toto gets ambushed every time he steps outside. It doesn’t matter if he’s entering the factory, leaving the simulator block, or simply fetching paperwork from his car.  Every photo taken of him this month has the same look: Hollow eyes. Clenched jaw. A man holding himself together with the last threads of authority. And then there is Kimi Antonelli, barely out of his teens. Not even old enough to rent a car in some countries is now being chased by paparazzi demanding answers he doesn’t have. 

Mercedes is spiraling.

Toto hasn’t slept properly since Abu Dhabi. He drifts in and out of restless half-dreams where George walks through the door smiling, picking up a helmet and saying, “Alright, boss. What’s the plan?”

But morning always comes, and the chair across from him remains empty.

His office has become a funeral wake of its own:

• untouched coffee gone cold hours ago
• abandoned strategy meetings paused indefinitely
• manila folders stacked like gravestones where each one contains a name he doesn’t want to consider.

He hasn’t announced a replacement for George.

Because how do you replace him?

How do you replace a driver who wasn’t just fast, but frighteningly intelligent behind the wheel? Someone who can adapt despite the car’s shortcomings? Someone who looked Toto in the eyes with quiet certainty: “I’ll bring you another championship.”

His reserve driver, Valtteri Bottas, is already locked into another team.

His wonderkid rookie, Kimi Antonelli, is suddenly the team leader. Nineteen years old, brilliant, but still soft around the edges. A boy being shoved into a role meant for a man who is no longer here.

And Toto refuses to throw another child into the fire. He needs experience. Firepower. A driver who won’t crumble under the weight of a silver car built for champions… and ghosts.

His shortlist is brutally small.

Yuki Tsunoda. Sharp. Explosive. A cobra of a driver, deadly when he strikes, erratic when he doesn’t.

Frederik Vesti. Reliable. Smart. Loyal. But steady hands aren’t always enough when you’re asked to tame a machine designed for the extraordinary.

And then there’s the name he’s tried very, very hard not to consider.

Doriane Pin. Fresh off her F1 Academy title. Raw. Fearless. Unapologetically quick. A storm condensed into a single human being.

Every time he opens the file labeled PIN, he feels that old part of him: the gambler, the visionary, the man who placed helmets into rookies and whispers: Do it.

But his eyes never linger on the file. They drift, inevitably, to the photo frame on his desk.

George.

Smiling. Alive. Unbroken. A face full of potential he thought he had years to mold. A legacy he was ready to build brick by brick. He wanted to make him a multi-title driver.

The next Lewis.
The next Max.
Someone the sport wouldn’t just admire but fear.

Instead… the sport swallowed him whole. And now Toto sits alone, surrounded by silence and strategy sheets that no longer matter, finally accepting the truth he’s resisted for thirty days:

He must move on without his star.

Even if it breaks him to do so.

_____

ALEX ALBON

Alex Albon has tried everything.

At first, it was simple.

A call.

Then another.

Then ten more.

When none connected, he switched to texting. Long messages, short messages, voice notes, desperate half-coherent ones sent at three in the morning when fear tightened his chest too tight.

Then emails.

Pages and pages of them.

Updates. Jokes. Memories. Pleas.

And when all that failed, he went back to calling, hundreds of times, because maybe, just maybe, the universe would glitch and George would pick up.

But the universe stayed silent. So he tried visiting.

George’s Monaco apartment is supposed to feel like him. Warm. Lived-in. Slightly chaotic in a way only a Formula 1 driver with too many commitments and not enough floor space can manage. Alex remembers it clearly: running shoes kicked off by the door, protein bars half-opened, engineering notebooks scattered. A jacket slung over the couch. A single mug always by the sink because George insisted he only needed one.

But when Alex unlocks the door now, a cold draft slips past him, brushing against his skin like a warning.

He steps inside. 

Stops.

Everything is wrong.

The air feels still. Like no one has breathed here in months. The apartment is empty, not lived-in empty, but deliberately cleared empty. Scrubbed clean down to the bones. Nothing. Not one trace of the person who had laughed here, cooked here, complained about debriefs here. It’s too clean. Too perfect. Too intentional. A space made to look as if George Russell never existed at all.

Alex’s stomach twists. He backs out of the apartment slowly and leaves the building trembling from fear, from frustration, from the realization settling like ice in his spine: Something is very, very wrong.

He flies to London next.

The plane touches down under a heavy, gray sky. Alex barely remembers the drive from the airport to the countryside. All he can think about is the estate George bought after his first Mercedes podium, how he’d joked about finally repaying his parents for every karting bill.

Alex expects to pull up to the familiar gates and hear life inside. He expects laughter spilling from the windows, lights glowing in every room, or just something. Instead, the entire place is still. The estate looks almost abandoned with curtains drawn, garden overgrown, not even a dog barking. A cold breeze whistles through the hedges, carrying the smell of rain and something emptier.

He knocks once. A caretaker welcomes him. “Mr. Albon,” he says quietly.

Alex’s stomach tightens. “Where are they?” he asks.

The caretaker lowers his head, “They left, sir,” he says softly. “For Sir George’s recovery.”

For a moment, Alex can’t breathe. George. Recovery.

He’s alive.

Hope sparks in his chest. “When will they be back?” he asks quickly. “Did they leave a date? A message? Anything?”

A long pause follows. The caretaker’s eyes soften into pity. “They didn’t say.”

The hope in Alex’s chest flickers. The caretaker gently closes the door.

Another dead end. So Alex escalated.

He checked every hospital in Monaco and London. The receptionist at the private clinic even knew him by name by the fourth visit.

Not even in the elite facilities where patients didn’t have names, only codes.

No record.
No suspicious admission.
No coma under a false name.

No George.

He hired private investigators and told them money didn’t matter.

“Find him,” he said.

Days passed. Nothing.

Alex went to FIA headquarters next. He stood outside the building long enough to watch employees switch shifts. Security approached him gently, “Sir, you’ll have to leave.”

He didn’t fight them. But the worst moment came at Mercedes HQ. He waited by the side entrance until he spotted the tall figure he’d been hunting like a shadow.

Toto Wolff.

Alex didn’t think. He stepped into the hallway and blocked his path.

And today… he breaks.

He stands in front of Toto like a man held together with thread. His eyes are red and shoulders slump. He shakes, not from anger, but exhaustion so deep it borders on despair.

“Toto,” Alex breathes. “I’m begging you. I need you to tell me where George is.”

Toto freezes. He doesn’t look at him. He just exhales and folds his arms tightly across his chest, muscles tense like he’s holding something in place that might spill out if he loosens his grip.

“You know, Albon…” Toto says quietly, voice rough around the edges, “if I could tell you, I would. But I really can’t.”

The words strike like a slap.

Alex’s jaw trembles. “He’s my best friend,” he whispers. “I need to know what happened to him. The Russells… his family… they’re not answering me. Not one person.”

Slowly, painfully, Toto turns and Alex wishes he hadn’t. Because Toto’s eyes that are normally sharp and commanding, are now bruised with sleepless nights. Hollow. Haunted. And when he speaks again, it feels final.

“Then that’s your answer.” He walks away with no hesitation.

Alex stands frozen on the spot. His chest tightens and hands shake.

That night, he lies awake until dawn paints the walls a pale gray. His phone rests in his hand, screen burning his eyes as he scrolls through every corner of the internet, forums, fan accounts, rumor threads, and news articles. He is that desperate for even a whisper of George.

Somebody must have seen him.
Somebody must know something.
Somebody must—

His thumb freezes.

A video.

A fan edit. It’s him and George. A moment from behind the scenes, years ago. Alex hesitates only a second before pressing play.

“So, I may be leaving you.”

“Forever? Forever ever?”

“Never leaving forever.”

Alex’s chest caves. Because somewhere out there, George has broken that promise. Or someone has forced him to.

The next day, he tries again.

And the next.

And the next.

He chases ghosts for weeks.

Every road leads to silence.
Every silence leads to fear.

Because for the first time since he met George Russell, Alex Albon truly believes he might never see his best friend again.

_____

PRE-SEASON TESTING 

2026 GRAND PRIX

Alex sits on the cold concrete floor of the Williams garage and Carlos spots him from the doorway. He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should approach, then walks over with slow, careful steps.

“Still no George?” he asks quietly.

Alex doesn’t react. Not even a blink.

Carlos shifts his weight, awkward. “Do you… want to be a GPDA director?”

That does it. Alex’s head snaps up. His eyes are sharp, red around the edges. He shoots Carlos a glare so sharp it could cut carbon fiber.

Carlos immediately raises both hands in surrender. “I’m just asking, man.” Just trying to lift up the mood, he thought.

The anger drains out of Alex almost instantly, leaving only exhaustion. He rubs at his face, palm dragging down his cheek.

“I’m worried, Carlos,” he whispers.

Carlos nods. “We’re all worried.”

“Accidents happen in F1,” Alex says. “We know that. But every accident, we see a body. We see a stretcher. A thumbs up. Something.”

Carlos slowly lowers himself to the floor beside him. “But George just vanished,” he says gently.

Alex’s eyes close. “Right? And his family cutting contact…” He drags a trembling hand through his hair. “Their numbers don’t exist anymore. Emails bounce. It’s like they changed everything overnight.”

“What did Toto say?” Carlos asked.

“Same bullshit.”

Carlos winces, “And Kimi?”

“He’s under too much pressure,” Alex mutters. “I won’t add to it.”

“I heard Yuki’s in talks for the seat,” Carlos says.

Alex scoffs instantly, “Toto will probably do anything to bury this,” he says. “A bold move.”

Carlos’s brow furrows. “Move like…?”

Alex slumps back against the wall and exhales before he speaks again.

“I don’t know. Just a big bold move.”

Carlos hums in agreement. “Well, Toto better hurry. Pre-season testing is weeks away.”

But Alex doesn’t seem to hear him anymore. His voice softens to a ghost.

“When I visited Mercedes… his trophy is just sitting there.” His breath wavers. “We didn’t even see him hold it. Celebrate. Jump.”

Carlos reaches out and places a warm, steady hand on Alex’s back, rubbing gently in slow circles. “Someday, Alex,” he says, voice low but firm. “Someday we’ll see him on the podium again. Jumping with his trophy.”

But Alex doesn’t look convinced and deep down, neither does Carlos. Not when the brightest rising star of Formula 1 has disappeared without a trace.

_____

On the day of the pre-season testing, Toto Wolff finally breaks the silence. The decision wasn’t easy. It had been weeks of closed-door meetings, tense negotiations with sponsors, PR teams crafting every possible narrative, engineers refining a car that suddenly felt like a monument to absence. Strategists had questioned every option, every risk, every implication. Everything hinged on optics. On perception. On burying the truth of a man who had vanished without a trace.

Mercedes needed a bold move. Something decisive. Something that would steer the story away from the gaping hole George left behind. And Toto chose Doriane Pin, the sixth woman ever to step into a Formula 1 car since 1992. Raw talent, fearless, brilliant, a risk but a risk calculated to perfection, a spark to redirect the world’s attention.

But there was more to it than just burying George’s absence. The generation was changing. Fans, sponsors, the media. They demanded progress, representation, and inclusivity. Mercedes knew it had to evolve with the times, to reflect the world outside the paddock. A woman on the grid wasn’t just a novelty; it was a statement. Bold and brave. The move resonated far beyond the asphalt. It was a declaration that the sport, too, had to grow with its audience.

The announcement hits like a thunderclap. Speculation surges, theories fly, headlines spin around the new driver. The ghost of George Russell is no longer the story. Toto exhales, a mixture of relief and regret weighing on him. The disappearance is buried, the optics managed. But in every glance cast toward the Mercedes garage, in every calculation the engineers make, in the quiet spaces where strategy meetings used to include George’s name, the memory lingers. 

The grid moves on. The world forgets or at least pretends to. But for Toto, for Alex, for the drivers who once raced beside him, George Russell is gone from the track but never from their memories.

_____

DRIVERS GROUP CHAT:

Yuki sent a photo.

Ollie: omg dori!

Isack: gotta call her to congratulate

Kimi: can i add her to the group? @ carlos

Carlos: of course, she’s one of us now

Oscar: lets congratulate her

Franco: wow the gc is alive

Pierre: gonna drive, brb

Charles typing…

Nico liked an image.

Esteban liked an image.

Lance loved an image.

Arvid loved an image.

Valteri: 👍

Fernando: 👏👏👏

Checo: 🍾

Liam: eyy sheesh 🔥🔥

Gabriel sent a photo.

Gabriel: oh same ss ✌️

Charles typing…

Lewis: damn toto really knows how to play ball

Fernando: he just wants people to stop talking about george

Lewis: doriane is a good driver, congrats btw

Lando: @ alex any news about george?

Seen by Alex.

Carlos: alex is under the weather right now but to answer your question, none

Lando: talk later

Carlos: 👍

Charles typing…

Lewis: charles you type so slow mate

Charles added Max to the group.

Kimi added Doriane to the group.

Charles: dont you dare leave the gc again @ max

Charles: im tired of passing fia and gpda memos to you

Max: 👍

Charles: congrats doriane!

Max liked an image.

Doriane: uhm hi? 🥹

________

MAX VERSTAPPEN

Meanwhile, in the Red Bull garage, Max Verstappen sits on the edge of the pit wall, helmet resting beside him, eyes fixed on his phone. He scrolls up through the drivers’ group chat but there’s nothing to read. The chat hasn’t been active ever since he left.

No memes.
No dumb arguments.
No chaotic voice notes from Lando.
No annoyed paragraphs from Carlos complaining about GPDA paperwork.

Just… silence.

The only activity came earlier when Yuki dropped a screenshot of the breaking news that Mercedes was signing Doriane Pin. Max scrolls to it again. Beneath the image, messages flood in: reactions, congratulations, surprise, the occasional joke, he doesn’t type anything. He just watches the thread and moves on but something catches his eyes. It was when Lando asked for any news about George.

The new season is about to begin, but something feels… off. Two months have passed since Max last saw George right before the crash but in his mind, it feels like an eternity. The garage feels emptier without him. No rival to push him harder, to force the edge just a little further. No familiar irritation, no subtle jabs that somehow chipped away at his carefully constructed nonchalance. Press conferences feel hollow. 

Max knows it, though he doesn’t voice it. George was the one who could unravel him. The one who could push him out of autopilot. The one who made every lap, every strategy session, every minor on-track incident sharper. Without him, the season threatens to feel muted, like a race with only half the thrill.

He grabs his helmet and mutters under his breath: “This season’s gonna be boring.”

And for the first time in months, the statement carries a weight beyond mere bravado because George Russell isn’t there to make it interesting.

🏁