Chapter Text
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Victoria Verstappen
Ana:
He’s awake.
Victoria:
OH THANK GOD.
How awake is awake?
Ana:
Eyes open. Recognised me. Asked for water. Complained about the lights.
Victoria:
That tracks.
How does he look?
Ana:
Bruised. Very drugged. Still Max.
Victoria:
Still Max is the important part.
Is he talking nonsense yet?
Ana:
Define nonsense.
Victoria:
Ana.
Ana:
…
Victoria:
Ana Wolff.
Ana:
He proposed.
Victoria:
I KNEW IT.
Ana:
You absolutely did not.
Victoria:
I 100% did.
You don’t survive that crash, wake up high on morphine, and not confess something dramatic.
Ana:
It wasn’t even dramatic.
He just… said it. Very sincerely. Slightly slurred.
Victoria:
Oh my god.
Ana:
Before you say anything —
I am not holding him to it.
Victoria:
You don’t have to explain that to me.
Ana:
He was on an insane amount of painkillers.
This does not count as informed consent.
Victoria:
You are impossible.
Ana:
I’m serious.
If he still wants it when he’s clear-headed and not hallucinating hospital ceiling tiles, then we’ll talk.
Victoria:
And what did you say?
Ana:
I said yes. He smiled. Then fell asleep again.
Victoria:
Of course he did.
Ana:
Vic… he’s really hurt.
I don’t want this moment tangled up in trauma and medication.
Victoria:
I know.
And you’re right. Annoyingly so.
Ana:
Still.
He’s awake.
Victoria:
That’s everything.
I’m so relieved I could cry.
Ana:
Me too.
I just… not right now.
Victoria:
That’s okay.
I’ll cry enough for both of us.
Ana:
Thank you.
Victoria:
Tell him I love him when he wakes up properly.
Ana:
I will.
Victoria:
And Ana?
Ana:
Yes?
Victoria:
Whether he was drugged or not —
He meant it.
Ana:
…I know.
Victoria:
We’ll talk later.
Go sit with him.
Ana:
Already am.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Gianpiero Lambiase
Ana:
He’s awake.
GP:
…properly awake?
Ana:
Eyes open. Conscious. Knows who he is. Knows who I am.
GP:
Thank fuck.
Ana:
Very drugged. Complained about the lights. Asked for water. Tried to sit up.
GP:
That sounds like him.
Did you stop him?
Ana:
Immediately.
He was deeply offended.
GP:
Good. He’s alive enough to be annoyed — that’s a very strong sign.
Ana:
They’re optimistic. Leg is bad, but manageable. Neuro looks okay so far.
GP:
I don’t think I’ve unclenched my jaw since yesterday.
Ana:
Neither have I.
GP:
Tell him—
Actually. Don’t. He doesn’t need engineering updates right now.
Ana:
I won’t.
I’m just sitting here.
GP:
That’s exactly where you should be.
Ana:
Thank you for… everything. Even when you weren’t allowed to be there.
GP:
He’s my driver. Gardening leave or not.
That doesn’t switch off.
Ana:
I know.
GP:
Let me know when he’s properly lucid.
And Ana?
Ana:
Yes?
GP:
I’m very glad he woke up to you.
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Valterri Bottas
Ana:
Max is awake.
Valtteri:
Awake awake?
Ana:
Yes. Conscious. Responsive. Very medicated and grumpy.
Valtteri:
Thank fuck.
How bad?
Ana:
Leg is bad but stable. Surgery went well. Neuro looks okay so far.
Doctors are cautiously optimistic.
Valtteri:
I’m telling everyone. They’ve all been on edge.
Ana:
Please do.
Just… keep it factual. No speculation.
Valtteri:
Of course.
The grid’s been asking nonstop. Lando especially looks wrecked.
Ana:
Tell them he knows what happened. He asked about the race before he asked about his phone.
Valtteri:
That tracks.
I’ll update the group chats.
Ana:
Thank you. Truly.
Valtteri:
Anytime.
We’re all pulling for him. And for you.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Dr. Edward Moran-Portman
Ana:
Surgery went well.
He’s out. Awake. Talking.
Still very… Max, just heavily medicated.
Edward:
Thank God.
I’ve been thinking about you both nonstop.
What’s the status on the leg?
Ana:
Open fracture stabilized.
Aggressive intervention, plates, external fixation for now.
They’re optimistic about long-term recovery, but it’ll be months.
Edward:
That was the right call. Young, strong, excellent baseline fitness.
Aggressive is exactly what you want.
Ana:
That’s what you said earlier. You were right.
They’re keeping him here overnight for monitoring, but we’re already talking about transfer.
Edward:
Good. He doesn’t need to recover long-term in Baku.
Ana:
Exactly.
Toto asked whether moving him closer to home would be medically reasonable once he’s stable.
Edward:
It would be preferable.
Listen—there’s an excellent orthopedic and trauma unit in Nice.
Centre Hospitalier Universitaire de Nice. I know the lead surgeon personally.
Ana:
You do.
Edward:
I trained with him. Brilliant hands. Conservative ego. Exactly what you want.
If Max is stable enough to transport, I can make a call tonight.
Ana:
That would mean Monaco is… an hour away.
Edward:
Yes.
And continuity of care, privacy, better rehab planning.
Ana:
I like all of those words.
Edward:
Of course you do.
How are you, Ana?
Ana:
Functioning.
Edward:
That wasn’t the question.
Ana:
…Ask me again in a week.
Edward:
Fair enough.
I’ll make the call. Discreetly.
Once he’s stable for air transfer, it’s the right move.
Ana:
Thank you. Truly.
And—Edward?
Edward:
Yes?
Ana:
I’m glad Henry married you.
Edward:
He says the same thing when I stop him from catastrophizing.
Get some rest if you can. I’ll message once I’ve spoken to the surgeon.
Ana:
Okay.
And thank you—for translating the medical reality when my brain couldn’t.
Edward:
Anytime.
***
Group Chat: WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)
Valtteri:
Update: Max is awake.
Leg looks good considering everything.
Neuro checks are good too.
Lando:
Oh thank fuck.
Oscar:
That’s the best message I’ve read in 24 hours.
Alex:
I didn’t realize how tense I was until just now.
Charles:
Merci, Valtteri. Truly.
Lewis:
Good. That matters.
Yuki:
Okay but WHAT is going on here
I was literally questioned by police like 20 minutes ago??
Lando:
Wait—what??
Yuki:
Yeah. Actual questions. Names. Times.
I thought it was a joke. It was not a joke.
Charles:
…questioned about what?
Alex:
Have you SEEN the paddock??
It’s crawling with cops.
Oscar:
This is not normal. At all.
Fernando:
For what it’s worth—
The FIA is suddenly being very apologetic about the GDPA statement.
Carlos:
Yeah. This morning they were dismissive and hostile.
Now it’s all “we understand your concerns” and “thank you for your cooperation.”
Lando:
That’s… ominous.
Fernando:
It tells me something is happening behind the scenes.
Institutions don’t change tone unless they’ve lost control of the narrative.
Yuki:
So you’re saying I wasn’t questioned for fun.
Carlos:
Correct. Extremely not for fun.
Lewis:
I’ve seen this before.
When it stops being sporting politics and starts being legal.
Alex:
Jesus.
Valtteri:
I don’t know details.
But I know this isn’t about racing anymore.
Lando:
Yeah.
This feels… darker.
Fernando:
Whatever it is, we were right to stop that race.
Carlos:
And we’ll stand by that.
Oscar:
Seconded.
Yuki:
Same.
Also I would like ONE normal race weekend please.
Lando:
Denied by the universe, mate.
Valtteri:
I’ll update if I hear more.
For now—Max is alive. That’s the headline.
Lewis:
Agreed.
Everything else can burn later.
Fernando:
Exactly.
****
Twitter Thread: What’s up with the Police?!
@/gridlockgossip:
🚨 uh. why does the Baku paddock look like a crime drama this morning
there are POLICE. like… actual police. plural.
@/pitlanepanic:
just walked past the media entrance and counted THREE uniformed officers + plainclothes
since when is F1 doing Law & Order: Motorsport Unit???
@/f1overcaffeinated:
me yesterday: wow what a horrific crash
me today: why is the paddock being treated like a crime scene
@/sector3stress:
no because this isn’t normal “we’re asking questions” police
this is “cordons + notebooks + very serious vibes” police
@/wifiofthewindtunnel:
why are people acting like this is normal
I have been watching F1 for 20 years and the only time I’ve seen police like this is AFTER A DEATH
@/tiresmokeandtears:
someone pls explain why there are cops going in and out of team hospitality
this is a RACE WEEKEND not a Netflix true crime pilot
@/garagepsychology:
the fact that the paddock is QUIET says everything
no joking, no laughing, no media chaos
everyone looks like they know something we don’t
@/f1detectiveagency:
okay THEORY TIME 🧵
– horrific crash
– immediate black flag after driver revolt
– Red Bull statement blaming driver
– police swarm next morning
this is not coincidence
@/nothisturntobechaotic:
are we seriously pretending this isn’t about sabotage
because I am not that stupid and neither is anyone else here
@/pitwallprofessor:
for context: police don’t just “check things out” in F1
if they’re here, someone filed a report that crossed from sporting issue → criminal issue
@/mercedescryaccount:
saw officers near the Red Bull garage specifically
not saying anything
just saying 👀
@/redflagpsychology:
this is giving “we found something in the data” energy
and I don’t like it
@/systemsandsecrets:
I watched three mechanics go pale when the police walked past
like FULL color drain
whatever this is, it’s serious
@/holygridmess:
yesterday we were arguing about penalty points
today we are watching a literal investigation unfold
formula 1 has fully left the chat
@/paddockrentfree:
remember when people said “let the FIA investigate”
yeah well apparently someone skipped them and went STRAIGHT to the cops
@/oversteerenthusiast:
if this turns out to be sabotage i am never shutting up again
NEVER
@/gridgaslight:
I feel sick
if someone messed with that car knowingly
and we all watched it live
that’s not sport anymore
@/burnbookbutpolite:
the silence from Red Bull this morning is deafening
no updates
no outrage
no “we’re cooperating”
nothing
@/monacopsychoanalysis:
Max is still in hospital
and the paddock looks like this
I need everyone to sit with the implications for five seconds
@/f1femmes:
whatever happened
someone crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed
@/cryingovercars:
this isn’t gossip anymore
this is history happening in real time
@/gridlockgossip:
no official statements yet
but yeah
the Baku paddock is swarming with police
and nobody looks surprised
which might be the scariest part
***
PRIVATE CHAT — Secure channel
Andromeda 🛰️ is online
JadeQueen 👑 is online
JadeQueen:
It was George Russell.
I have proof. Financial. Direct. Multiple mechanics.
It’s him, Ana.
JadeQueen:
Listen to me.
This isn’t internet sleuthing. This isn’t fandom bullshit.
This is criminal. This is prison-level criminal.
It’s attempted murder.
Andromeda:
I am aware.
JadeQueen:
Annie—
You’re not reacting.
Andromeda:
I am.
JadeQueen:
No, you’re not yelling. Or spiraling. Or asking for more proof.
You’re just… flat.
Andromeda:
Because if I let myself feel this, Xia, I will break something that cannot be put back together.
JadeQueen:
…that scares me.
Andromeda:
Good. It should.
JadeQueen:
Okay.
Okay, listen to me very carefully.
I can package this. Quietly. Securely. I can drop it anonymously to journalists, to the FIA, to—
Andromeda:
No.
JadeQueen:
Annie.
Andromeda:
I don’t want leaks.
I don’t want threads.
I don’t want speculation or public bloodsport.
JadeQueen:
Then what do you want?
Andromeda:
I want it done properly.
JadeQueen:
Meaning?
Andromeda:
Police.
Courts.
Evidence chains that cannot be questioned.
Consequences that are permanent.
JadeQueen:
…Jesus.
Andromeda:
He put money into a system to make a machine fail at 300 kilometers per hour.
My partner almost died.
There is no version of this that ends with a PR apology.
JadeQueen:
Ana, I’ve known you a long time.
I’ve seen you angry.
This is different.
Andromeda:
Yes.
JadeQueen:
You sound like you’re standing in a vacuum.
Andromeda:
I am thinking clearly.
JadeQueen:
That’s what terrifies me.
Andromeda:
Xia.
JadeQueen:
Yeah?
Andromeda:
I don’t know what to do with this knowledge yet.
JadeQueen:
Okay.
Andromeda:
But I know exactly what cannot happen.
JadeQueen:
Which is?
Andromeda:
He does not get to walk away.
Not quietly.
Not loudly.
Not ever.
JadeQueen:
…I’m with you.
Andromeda:
I know.
JadeQueen:
Whatever you need—data, timelines, cross-verification, legal packaging—
I’m here.
Andromeda:
Thank you.
JadeQueen:
Annie?
Andromeda:
Yes.
JadeQueen:
Promise me something.
Andromeda:
What.
JadeQueen:
Don’t burn yourself alive to keep him safe.
Andromeda:
I won’t.
Andromeda:
I will make sure George Russell never does this to anyone again.
Andromeda 🛰️ is offline
Chat archived
***
Hospitals had a way of stripping time down to something thin and cruel.
Minutes stretched. Hours folded in on themselves. Everything smelled faintly of antiseptic and overheated machines, like the building itself was holding its breath.
Sophie sat in the chair beside Max’s bed, fingers wrapped around a paper cup she’d forgotten to drink from. The monitors hummed steadily. Too steadily. She’d learned, over years of racing, to distrust silence almost as much as noise.
Max lay pale against the sheets, dark lashes stark against skin that still looked wrongfully still. Tubes. Bandages. The immobilized leg that made her chest tighten every time she looked at it.
Alive, she reminded herself. He’s alive.
Ana sat on the other side of the bed, close enough that her knee touched the mattress frame, phone resting loosely in her hand. She hadn’t been scrolling—Sophie had noticed that immediately. Ana’s eyes had gone distant in a way Sophie recognized with the instinct of a mother who’d watched a child shut doors quietly instead of slamming them.
A buzz. Ana glanced down.
Just once.
Something changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. No gasp. No tears. No visible reaction at all. But the air around her seemed to cool, like someone had opened a window Sophie couldn’t see.
“Ana?” Sophie said softly.
Ana locked her phone and set it face-down on the table, movements precise, controlled. She looked back at Max instead of at Sophie.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ana said quietly. “Not right now.”
Sophie studied her face. Too calm. Too still. She’d seen that look before—in mirrors, years ago, when fear had nowhere safe to go and had learned to behave.
“What doesn’t matter?” Sophie asked gently.
“Anything that isn’t him,” Ana replied.
Sophie nodded. She understood that language. She’d spoken it herself in pit lanes and medical centers and too many nights that smelled like oil and dread.
They sat in silence for a moment, broken only by the steady beeping of the monitors and the distant murmur of nurses’ voices in the corridor.
Then Sophie smiled faintly, because she needed to say something that wasn’t terrifying.
“He really did it,” she said.
Ana’s brow creased slightly. “Did what?”
Sophie tilted her head toward Max. “Proposed. High as a kite. Barely coherent. Very romantic.”
A ghost of a smile touched Ana’s mouth. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was real. Ana nodded. Her fingers brushed the edge of the mattress, careful, reverent.
“I said yes,” she said quietly. Not triumphantly. Not for effect. Just a fact, offered gently into the room.
Sophie felt something warm and sharp bloom behind her eyes.
“Good,” she said, voice thick. “About time he figured that out.”
They sat like that for a while longer, two women orbiting the same fragile center.
Then Ana spoke again, hesitating this time—just a fraction.
“We bought a house,” she said.
Sophie blinked. “You did?”
Ana nodded. “In Monaco. Quiet street. He wanted a garden. I wanted light.”
Sophie stared at her, surprise giving way to something softer. “He didn’t tell me.”
“He wanted it to be finished first,” Ana said. “He said… he wanted something that stayed.”
Sophie swallowed hard.
“Maxie,” she murmured fondly. “Always planning the future like it’s a secret strategy.”
Ana glanced at Max again, her expression tightening for just a heartbeat before smoothing out.
“He was happy,” she said. “About it. About us.”
Sophie reached across the bed rail and placed her hand over Ana’s, squeezing gently.
“He still will be,” she said. “You hear me? This doesn’t get to steal that.”
Ana didn’t look at her, but she squeezed back.
“I know,” she said.
Sophie watched her then—really watched her. The way Ana sat so straight it had to hurt. The way she kept herself contained, like a storm wrapped in glass.
Whatever had come through on that phone… it hadn’t been small.
But Sophie also knew this: there would be time for answers later. For anger. For justice. For reckoning.
Right now, there was only the quiet rise and fall of her son’s chest.
Only the fact that he was still here.
Sophie leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving Max.
“Rest,” she murmured—to both of them, she wasn’t sure. “We’ll deal with the world later.”
Ana didn’t respond.
But she didn’t move away either.
***
Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo, Alex Albon)
Daniel:
Alright I’m not even in F1 anymore and I’m stress-refreshing Twitter like it pays my mortgage.
Someone tell me what’s real. Is Max okay??
Lando:
Yeah. He’s out of surgery.
Awake now. Still in hospital but stable.
Daniel:
Oh thank god.
That crash was— mate. I nearly threw my phone.
Oscar:
Same.
Ana told Valtteri, Valtteri told us. Doctors are optimistic.
Alex:
Leg’s broken, surgery went aggressive but clean.
No head injury so far.
Daniel:
Fuck.
That could’ve been… so much worse.
Lando:
It shouldn’t have happened.
Car was wrong. Everyone saw it.
Carlos:
Which is why the GDPA is fighting the FIA right now.
We’re pushing for a formal statement + investigation.
Daniel:
GOOD.
Because giving him penalty points while he’s literally in surgery is psychotic.
Alex:
I lost it when I saw that.
Like—read the room???
Oscar:
Drivers are united on this.
Lewis, Fernando, everyone.
Daniel:
If you need a retired idiot yelling into a microphone, I volunteer.
Lando:
Noted 😂
But yeah—GDPA’s standing firm. Race shouldn’t have resumed, penalties are a joke, and safety comes first.
Daniel:
Tell Max when he’s more human again that the whole grid had his back.
Even the annoying ones.
Oscar:
Especially the annoying ones.
Alex:
We’ll keep you updated, mate.
Daniel:
Please do.
And give Ana… idk. A hug. Or a medal. Or both.
Lando:
Yeah.
She’s holding it together in a way that’s honestly terrifying.
Carlos:
We’ve got him.
And we’re not letting this go.
Daniel:
Good.
Because nobody deserves to go out like that.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Susie Wolff
Ana:
Max is awake.
Susie:
Oh sweetheart—thank God.
How are you?
Ana:
Functional.
I’m sitting with him.
Susie:
That’s about what I expected.
Jack keeps asking if Max is awake yet. I told him yes.
Ana:
Is he okay?
Jack, I mean.
Susie:
He’s rattled, but he’s safe.
We watched together. He knew it was bad even when they cut the feed.
Ana:
I’m sorry he had to see that.
Susie:
So am I. But he also saw how everyone came together.
That matters.
Ana:
Are you okay?
Susie:
I am.
Scared. Angry. Protective. But okay.
Ana:
Good.
Susie:
You can call me, you know.
Ana:
If I call you, I’m going to cry.
Susie:
That would also be okay.
Ana:
I can’t right now.
I need to keep my head clear.
Susie:
I understand.
I’m here whenever you need me—crying or not.
Ana:
I just needed to know you and Jack are fine.
Susie:
We are. And we’re not going anywhere.
Ana:
Thank you.
***
Baku City Circuit, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Toto didn’t bother sitting down before he called.
Susie picked up on the second ring.
“Toto?”
He exhaled slowly. “They paid them.”
A beat.
Then—
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
He closed his eyes. Of all the reactions he’d braced for, that one meant she understood immediately, viscerally.
“The mechanics,” he continued, voice low and tight. “Money changed hands. To alter the car. Intentionally.”
Silence. Not disbelief. Not shock. The kind of silence that meant Susie was going very, very still.
“They nearly killed him,” she said at last. Not raised. Worse—flat.
“Yes.”
“And Red Bull said nothing.”
“Yes.”
“And the FIA—”
“Is still pretending this is a driving standards issue,” Toto finished, bitterness leaking through despite himself.
Susie swore, viciously. The kind of swearing she reserved for structural injustice and people who should know better.
“Do we know who ordered it?” she asked.
“We know the money trail. We know the component. We know it wasn’t an accident,” Toto said. “That’s enough for the police. The rest will come.”
Another pause. Shorter this time. Sharper.
“Toto,” Susie said quietly, “there’s something else, isn’t there.”
He hesitated. Just long enough for her to know.
“My private investigator,” he said finally. “The one I’ve had keeping an eye on… other matters.” He swallowed. “He flagged something. Before the crash.”
Susie’s voice dropped. “What kind of something.”
“One of the Red Bull mechanics,” Toto said, choosing each word with care, “was seen meeting with George Russell. A few days before Baku.”
The silence on the line shattered.
“What.”
Not a question. A warning.
“They were seen together,” Toto repeated. “At a hotel bar.”
Susie inhaled sharply.
“Oh no,” she said. “No. No no no.”
“I don’t have proof yet,” Toto said quickly. “Just enough to know this is no coincidence.”
“George Russell,” Susie repeated, her voice climbing now. “The same George Russell who assaulted Ana. The same George Russell who just happened to lose his seat to Max next year.”
“Yes.”
Her restraint snapped.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she said, fury blazing through the line. “That man does not get to touch our family again. He does not get to orbit this story.”
Toto rubbed a hand over his face. “I know.”
“He doesn’t get to ruin Ana’s life and try to murder her partner,” Susie continued, words sharp enough to cut glass. “If this is true—”
“If this is true,” Toto said quietly, “it becomes criminal conspiracy. At minimum.”
Susie laughed once, short and dangerous. “At minimum.”
Another breath. Controlled. Measured. He could hear her pulling herself back from the edge.
“Have you told Ana?” she asked again, more softly now.
“About the meeting with Geroge yes,” Toto said. “Not yet about the mechanics.”
“Good,” Susie replied immediately. “Not until you have something she can use. You don’t drop that kind of truth without a plan.”
“That was my instinct too.”
“And Max’s parents?”
“I’ll tell them,” Toto said. “Carefully.”
Susie hummed darkly. “Jos is going to explode.”
“Yes.”
“And Sophie will go very, very quiet,” Susie added. “Which is worse.”
Toto allowed himself a thin, humorless smile. “You know them well.”
A beat.
“And in the middle of all this,” Toto added, because apparently the universe enjoyed piling on, “Hannah Schmitz quit.”
Susie blinked audibly. “She what.”
“She resigned on the spot,” Toto said. “Showed up with Max’s luggage and internal telemetry on a USB stick at Bonos’s doorstep.”
There was a stunned pause—then Susie laughed, incredulous and sharp.
“Of course she did.”
“Yes,” Toto said dryly. “Which brings me to my next problem.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Ana’s birthday,” Toto said. “And I need to somehow acquire Hannah Schmitz as a gift.”
Susie laughed properly now—brittle, furious, real. “You are planning to poach Red Bull’s head of strategy while their driver is in hospital, their mechanics are under investigation, and Geroge Russell might be exposed as a criminal.”
“When you list it like that,” Toto said, “it sounds… bold.”
“You’ve always been bold,” Susie replied. Then, softer: “Ana will love that.”
“She will,” Toto agreed. “Once she’s done being incandescent.”
“And Max?”
“He’s alive,” Toto said quietly. “That’s all that matters right now.”
Susie’s voice softened instantly. “I’m proud of you.”
He swallowed. “I wish I’d been this good at protecting her earlier.”
“You are now,” she said firmly. “That counts.”
They sat in silence for a moment—distance, grief, resolve braided together.
“Come home when you can,” Susie said eventually. “Or don’t. We’ll manage.”
Toto nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “I’ll call you after I speak to Ana.”
“And Toto?”
“Yes?”
“If this involves George Russell,” Susie said coldly, “then this doesn’t end quietly.”
Toto’s mouth curved into something grim and resolute.
“No,” he said. “It really doesn’t.”
He hung up.
Squared his shoulders.
There were truths to tell.
And this time, the war wasn’t metaphorical.
***
Peter Bonnington’s Hotel Room, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Bono hadn’t slept.
That much was obvious the second Toto walked into the hotel conference room that had been quietly commandeered sometime around three in the morning. Coffee cups everywhere. A laptop balanced on a stack of folders. Three phones charging at once. The hollowed-out look of someone who had decided rest was a luxury for later.
Bono looked up when the door opened.
“Toto,” he said, voice rough. “You look like you’ve been negotiating with the devil.”
“Close enough,” Toto replied dryly, shutting the door behind him. “I hear you’ve been busy.”
Bono snorted once and gestured to the table.
“Busy is one word for it.”
The table was… impressive. Alarming. Clinical.
Printed telemetry traces. Time-stamped onboard stills. Frame-by-frame yaw comparisons. Annotated screenshots.
“This,” Bono said, tapping the top folder, “is everything we have. Public footage, private analysis, the Red Bull telemetry Hannah brought, and cross-correlated data from Kimi’s dash cam.”
Toto’s eyes flicked instinctively to Hannah.
She was sitting on the edge of the table, arms crossed, hair in a messy knot, looking like someone who had detonated her life and didn’t regret it even a little.
Bono continued, voice steady now, focused in the way engineers got when the emotion had burned off and left purpose behind.
“We isolated the failure point. The fracture wasn’t random. It propagated along a stress line that should never have existed unless the component was altered.”
He flipped a page.
“Manufacturing defect? Ruled out. Fatigue? No. Assembly variance?” A sharp breath. “Yes. Very deliberate variance.”
Toto closed his eyes briefly.
Bono didn’t stop.
“I’ve packaged it for law enforcement. Azerbaijan authorities, British police, FIA if they dare ask. Chain of custody is clean. Hannah logged when she copied the data, I verified hashes. Nothing here can be dismissed as speculation.”
He slid the folder across the table.
“For the police,” Bono said quietly. “And for Max.”
Toto picked it up with both hands.
“Thank you,” he said, and for once the words were insufficient.
Behind him, Hannah cleared her throat.
“Well,” she said lightly, “since we’re already in a life-changing conversation—”
Toto turned to her fully.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
Toto didn’t dance around it. There was no point.
“Mercedes would like you,” he said. “Immediately. Strategy. Full authority. No political nonsense. You’d work with Ana.”
Hannah’s expression flickered—just for a moment.
“Of course I would,” she said dryly. “She’s terrifying.”
Toto allowed himself a thin smile.
“She is.”
Hannah tilted her head. “I want it in writing.”
Bono choked on his coffee.
Toto laughed—actually laughed, sharp and surprised.
“Fair,” he said. “Very fair.”
She hopped off the table, all business now.
“Contract. Role. Protection,” she added calmly. “Because I didn’t just quit a job. I burned a bridge with a flamethrower.”
“You won’t be exposed,” Toto said immediately. “We’ll handle the optics. And the legal side.”
Hannah studied him for a long moment.
Then she nodded. “Good. Then yes.”
Bono let out a breath he’d been holding for hours.
Toto tucked the folder under his arm.
“I’ll get legal on this,” he said. “Both matters.”
He paused at the door, looking back at them—at the engineer who’d stayed up all night to make the truth undeniable, and the strategist who’d walked away from a team that failed its driver.
“For what it’s worth,” Toto said quietly, “Ana will be… very glad you’re here.”
Hannah smirked faintly.
“I assumed she would be.”
Toto opened the door.
“And Bono?”
“Yes?”
Toto met his eyes, voice low, unwavering.
“You did good.”
Bono swallowed and nodded once.
As Toto walked out, folder in hand, one thing was clear:
This wasn’t just damage control anymore.
It was accountability.
****
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Jos had been pacing the same four tiles of hospital corridor for nearly an hour.
Forward. Turn. Back. Turn again.
Like an old habit he couldn’t break, even now—especially now.
Max was alive. That should have been enough.
But it wasn’t.
Sophie sat rigidly in one of the plastic chairs, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She hadn’t cried—not yet—but Jos could feel the pressure of it in the room, the way storms gathered before breaking.
Ana stood a little apart from them, back against the wall, phone in her hand but dark. Still. Too still. Like a piece of machinery powered down, waiting for a command.
And then Toto arrived.
Jos saw it immediately—the way Toto carried himself had changed. No frantic edge. No uncertainty. Just a grim, contained certainty that made Jos’s stomach drop.
“Toto,” Sophie said, standing at once. “What is it?”
Toto didn’t waste time.
“We have evidence,” he said. “Not speculation. Evidence. At least two Red Bull mechanics deliberately altered a component on Max’s car.”
The words landed like a bomb.
Jos felt something tear loose inside his chest.
“What,” he said hoarsely. “What did you just say?”
“They interfered with a structural component,” Toto continued, voice controlled, precise. “It caused the failure cascade. It wasn’t driver error. It wasn’t racing. It was sabotage.”
Sophie made a sharp, furious sound—half breath, half growl.
“They what?” she snapped. “They tampered with his car?”
Jos didn’t hear the rest.
His vision tunneled. Blood roared in his ears.
“They tried to kill him,” Jos said, voice rising, breaking. “They tried to kill my son.”
“Yes,” Toto said firmly. “They endangered him. Recklessly. Criminally. The police are involved.”
Jos surged forward a step before Sophie’s hand snapped out, gripping his arm.
“Jos,” she hissed. “Don’t.”
But Jos couldn’t stop shaking.
He turned—wildly—to Ana.
She hadn’t moved.
Her face was pale, composed, unreadable. No tears. No shaking. No visible reaction at all.
And something about that—about her stillness—lit Jos’s anger like a match to fuel.
“You hear that?” Jos snapped at her. “They nearly killed him. And you’re just standing there like—like it’s data on a screen.”
Ana didn’t look at him.
“That’s because it is data,” she said calmly.
The temperature in the hospital room dropped.
Jos stared at her. “Excuse me?”
She finally lifted her eyes.
They were flat. Cold. Focused in a way that made something in Jos’s gut twist unpleasantly.
“I screamed when the car hit the wall,” Ana said evenly. “I dissociated when they couldn’t get him out. I sat through surgery without breathing properly for five hours.”
Her voice never rose.
“Now,” she continued, “I am thinking.”
Jos scoffed, sharp and ugly. “Thinking? That’s your answer? You think that makes you better than the rest of us?”
Ana took a step forward.
Just one.
But it was enough.
“You want hysterics?” she asked softly. “You want rage? Because I can do that too.”
Jos opened his mouth—
She cut him off.
“If you want to scream, scream at the people who taught Max that pain is how you earn love,” she said, voice sharpening like a blade. “Scream at the culture that convinced him driving a broken car was better than disappointing a team. Scream at yourself for every time you told him to push through danger like it was character-building.”
Jos froze.
Sophie sucked in a sharp breath.
Ana didn’t stop.
“But do not,” she said, stepping closer now, eyes burning with something far more frightening than anger, “tell me how I’m allowed to survive watching the man I love almost die.”
Her voice dropped—quiet, lethal.
“I am cold right now because if I let myself feel what I want to do to the people who did this,” she said, “they would not survive it.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Jos felt it then.
Fear.
Not for Max.
Not for the mechanics.
But for the woman standing in front of him.
This wasn’t grief.
This was resolve.
Ana stepped back, composure snapping neatly back into place like armor locking into position.
“The police will handle the mechanics,” she said, turning slightly toward Toto. “I will handle everything else.”
Jos swallowed.
For the first time since Max was a child, since rain-soaked kart tracks and shouting and expectation, Jos Verstappen understood something with bone-deep clarity:
Ana Wolff was not fragile.
She was dangerous.
And she was on Max’s side.
Sophie exhaled slowly, then reached out and took Ana’s hand without asking.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Ana squeezed back once.
Jos said nothing.
He didn’t trust himself to speak.
And somewhere deep inside him, a truth settled—heavy and undeniable:
Whoever had hurt Max had made a catastrophic miscalculation.
Because Ana Wolff did not forget.
And she did not forgive.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 22 September 2025
Solomon Becker was halfway through his coffee when the email came in.
From: A. Wolff
Subject: —
Attachment: 2026.zip
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just a folder.
That alone made his stomach tighten.
Ana did not send things casually. Ana sent things when the ground was about to move.
He closed Slack. Silenced his phone. Took a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding since yesterday. Then he clicked.
The folder opened.
And Solomon said, out loud, to an empty office:
“…fuck.”
It wasn’t just one document.
It was an ecosystem.
Subfolders bloomed across his screen like a star map—Control Architecture, Redundancy Models, Failure Containment, Adaptive Feedback, Predictive Load Migration.
Solomon ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair.
He had known Ana since she was a teenager—brilliant, feral, quiet in the way dangerous things were quiet. He’d watched her walk into rooms full of senior engineers twice her age and calmly dismantle their assumptions with a whiteboard marker and a raised eyebrow. He had accepted, years ago, that she would one day be smarter than him.
But this—
This was something else.
He opened the first architecture diagram.
And immediately lost the thread.
Not because it was sloppy.
Because it was too clean.
The logic trees weren’t linear. They braided. Feedback loops didn’t just respond—they anticipated. Failure states weren’t mitigated; they were rerouted, redistributed, absorbed like shockwaves disappearing into deep water.
This wasn’t a car system.
This was a philosophy.
“Jesus Christ,” Solomon muttered, scrolling.
She’d built redundancy not as backup, but as continuity. Systems that assumed something would go wrong—and simply refused to let that matter. Load-balancing that treated instability as data, not error. Control layers that could isolate a catastrophic failure in microseconds without cascading loss.
It was elegant.
It was ruthless.
It was personal.
Halfway through a document titled Non-Negotiables, Solomon had to stop and just stare at the screen.
He understood maybe half of it.
And that was the most frightening part.
Because the half he did understand was revolutionary.
Because Solomon Becker was not stupid. He was one of the best systems engineers in Brackley. If he was struggling—
Then Ana hadn’t just raised the ceiling.
She’d left the building entirely.
He scrolled further.
Margin notes appeared—Ana’s voice bleeding through the code and diagrams.
No single point of failure.
Ever.
Assume the worst. Build anyway.
Drivers should never have to fight the car.
Solomon swallowed.
This wasn’t R&D.
This was a vow.
A quiet, furious promise written in architecture and math and foresight.
He checked the timestamps.
Some of these files were old. Months old. Maybe longer.
She’d been carrying this alone.
Of course she had.
Solomon felt something he rarely felt in his career:
Pure, unfiltered awe.
Then, a creeping, rising panic.
Ana had done all of this without telling anyone.
Not the team.
Not the board.
Not him.
She’d built an entire next generation of systems architecture quietly—like someone making a secret weapon from logic, precision, and absolute obsession.
Finally, he whispered:
“Jesus Christ…”
He sat there, stunned.
Then leaned back again.
Because he already knew what the world would say about this.
“Game-changing.”
But Solomon—who had seen Ana build whole subsystems while others were still debugging dead-ends—knew the deeper truth:
This wasn’t just a technical leap.
It was Ana being Ana.
And he felt—terrified and privileged—that he was the only person in the world to see it before everyone else did.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face.
“She’s changed the game,” he murmured to no one.
He thought about the timing.
The crash.
The hospital.
Max.
Of course she had done this now.
Ana didn’t rage like other people. She didn’t scream. She didn’t flail.
She built systems so nothing like that could ever happen again.
This wasn’t just a car.
This was a promise.
A promise that the machine would never betray the driver the way that Red Bull car had betrayed Max.
Solomon closed the folder carefully, like it might bite.
Then he reopened it.
Because if Ana Wolff had just quietly handed him the future of Formula 1—
Then his job wasn’t to fully understand it yet.
His job was to protect it.
And to make sure the world was ready for what she’d just unleashed.
***
Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 22 September 2025
Solomon Becker did not go home.
He stood in the doorway of Elliot Price’s office instead, one hand braced against the frame, laptop tucked under his arm like contraband.
Elliot looked up from his screen, glasses halfway down his nose. “If this is about the actuator latency report, I swear to God—”
“We need to talk,” Solomon said.
Elliot frowned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Worse,” Solomon replied. “I’ve seen Ana’s private folder.”
That did it.
Elliot’s chair scraped back as he stood. “Her what?”
Solomon walked in, shut the door, and wordlessly placed the laptop on Elliot’s desk. He opened the folder. The same one. The one that had been haunting him for the last three hours.
Elliot leaned in.
Ten seconds passed.
Then twenty.
Then—
“…what the fuck,” Elliot breathed.
Solomon let out a humorless laugh. “That was my reaction too.”
Elliot scrolled. Slower now. Careful. Like someone handling something explosive.
“This isn’t—” He stopped, started again. “This isn’t an architecture proposal.”
“No.”
“This is a philosophy.”
“Yes.”
Elliot clicked into Adaptive Redundancy Logic.
His eyebrows climbed his forehead in real time.
“She’s not just adding layers,” he said slowly. “She’s… braiding them.”
Solomon nodded. “Horizontal failover. No single collapse point.”
Elliot swore under his breath. “That alone would’ve prevented—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “Jesus.”
They moved to the whiteboard without discussing it, instinctively grabbing markers like this was muscle memory.
Boxes. Arrows. Loops.
Then more arrows.
Then crossed-out arrows.
Then silence.
Elliot stepped back, marker still in hand. “Okay. Either I’m missing something obvious—”
“You’re not.”
“—or she’s solved a problem the entire paddock has been quietly pretending wasn’t solvable.”
Solomon stared at the board. “She’s made the car a partner instead of a tool.”
Elliot laughed once, incredulous. “Of course she did.”
They opened Driver-Centric Stability Arbitration next.
Elliot read. Froze.
Read it again.
“This system prioritizes intent,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Not input.”
“Yes.”
“That’s—” He stopped. Dragged a hand down his face. “That’s insane.”
“That’s Ana.”
They worked in near silence for an hour.
Then two.
Coffee appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
At some point Elliot sank into the chair, staring at the screen like it had personally offended him.
“She’s built in ethical governors,” he said quietly. “Do you see this?”
Solomon nodded. “Real-Time Ethics Gate. Version three.”
Elliot let out a sound halfway between awe and despair. “She’s put morality into a control system.”
“She’s put care into it.”
Another long silence.
Elliot finally looked up at Solomon. “She didn’t send this because she wanted feedback.”
“No.”
“She sent this because she trusts us.”
“Yes.”
“And because something scared her badly enough that she never wants to see it happen again.”
Solomon swallowed.
Elliot leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “She’s too fucking smart.”
Solomon snorted. “Welcome to the club.”
Elliot glanced at him sideways. “Do you understand all of it?”
Solomon didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“Do you understand enough to know it’ll work?”
“Yes.”
Elliot exhaled slowly. “That’s somehow worse.”
They sat there, surrounded by equations that bent reality and logic diagrams that felt almost… protective.
After a while, Elliot spoke again, softer.
“She’s building this for him, isn’t she.”
Solomon didn’t ask who.
“Yes,” he said. “But not just for him.”
Elliot nodded. “For anyone who comes after.”
They closed the folder together.
Locked it down.
Added layers of security without saying a word.
Because this wasn’t just IP.
This was Ana Wolff turning pain into architecture.
And Solomon knew, with bone-deep certainty, that when the Mercedes 2026 car hit the track—
Nothing like Baku would ever happen again.
“She’s terrifying,” Elliot said quietly.
Solomon smiled, tired and proud all at once.
“Yes,” he said. “And thank God she’s on our side.”
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
The hospital at night felt like a different country.
Muted lights. Slower footsteps. The low, rhythmic beeping of machines that reminded Toto—over and over—that Max was still here. Breathing. Alive. Sleeping under layers of sedation and monitoring and quiet vigilance.
Sophie and Jos had left an hour ago, exhaustion finally winning out after too many confrontations and too little resolution. Raymond had shepherded them toward a hotel with the firmness of a man who knew when everyone was one wrong word away from disaster.
So now it was just Toto and Ana.
And Max.
Ana sat in the chair beside the bed, spine straight, phone face-down in her lap. She hadn’t moved in a long time. Hadn’t scrolled. Hadn’t typed. Hadn’t coded. She was simply… there. Watching the slow rise and fall of Max’s chest as if it were the only variable left in the universe.
Toto leaned against the doorframe for a moment, studying her.
She looked smaller like this. Stripped of adrenaline. Of purpose. Of anger. Just a young woman who had burned through every ounce of herself and was running on nothing but stubbornness and love.
He cleared his throat softly.
“Sternchen,” he said.
Ana didn’t look up.
“You haven’t slept in thirty-six hours.”
“I know.”
“You haven’t eaten properly.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve been sitting like that since surgery ended.”
“I know.”
Toto walked over and crouched in front of her, careful not to block her view of Max.
“Ana,” he said gently. “He’s stable. The doctors will wake him properly in the morning. You cannot keep going like this.”
Her fingers tightened minutely around her phone.
“I will sleep,” she said, voice flat, “when he’s better.”
Toto exhaled through his nose.
“That’s not how recovery works,” he said quietly. “For him or for you.”
She finally looked at him then.
Her eyes were ringed with exhaustion, red at the edges—not from crying, but from not allowing herself to. The control it must have taken hurt him more than tears would have.
“You don’t understand,” she said softly.
“I think I do,” Toto replied.
She shook her head once. “No. You don’t. Because if I stop—if I sleep—my brain will replay everything. The crash. The silence. The saws. The bone.” Her jaw clenched. “I can’t do that yet.”
Toto felt his chest tighten.
He reached up and gently took her wrist.
“Then don’t do it alone,” he said.
She hesitated.
Just for a second.
And then the armor cracked.
She stood abruptly, as if the decision had been made somewhere deeper than thought, crossed the small space between them, and sank down beside him on the narrow couch under the window.
Curled in.
Not delicately. Not politely. But fully—knees tucked up, shoulder pressed into his chest, her forehead resting just beneath his collarbone like it had known that place once.
Like it remembered something he had never been able to give her.
Toto wrapped an arm around her instinctively.
She made a small sound—barely audible—and relaxed into him, tension leaking out of her in slow, painful increments.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The machines hummed.
The city slept.
And Toto thought, not for the first time tonight, about time.
About the first eight years of Ana’s life he had never known existed.
Eight years of scraped knees and bad dreams and first words and first fears—gone. Not because he chose absence, but because fate had stolen the choice entirely.
He had met her at eight already guarded. Already quiet. Already too self-contained for a child.
He had never had this.
Never had her curl into him because she was tired. Never had to convince her to sleep. Never carried her to bed. Never held her through childhood storms.
And now, here she was—twenty-seven years old, brilliant, terrifying, unbreakable—and somehow still capable of fitting against him like this.
Trusting him.
He pressed his chin lightly to the top of her head.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
She shifted slightly. “For what?”
“For the years I didn’t know you,” he said. “For the years you had to learn how to be strong by yourself.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re here now,” she said, very quietly.
Toto swallowed.
They sat like that for a while longer.
Then Ana spoke again, muffled against his chest.
“He proposed.”
Toto stiffened. Just a fraction.
“He… what?”
Ana huffed—a breath that might have been a laugh in another life.
“Max,” she said. “When he woke up briefly earlier. Completely drugged. Very convincing.” A pause. “Very sincere.”
Toto leaned back slightly to look at her.
“And?”
“I said yes,” she said simply. “But I told him I won’t hold him to it until he’s fully awake and painkillers aren’t doing… whatever that was.”
Toto stared at her.
Then—slowly—he smiled.
Not the CEO smile. Not the press conference one.
The one he rarely allowed himself.
“He chose well,” Toto said quietly.
She tilted her head up just enough to look at him. “You’re not… upset?”
“Upset?” he echoed. “Ana, after tonight? After everything?” He shook his head. “If anyone deserves someone who would crash into a wall rather than hurt another driver—it’s you.”
Her throat bobbed.
“I love him,” she whispered.
“I know,” Toto said. “I can see it.”
She settled back against him, exhaustion finally dragging at her limbs.
Minutes passed.
Her breathing slowed.
Evened out.
And sometime before dawn, Ana Wolff fell asleep curled against her father, as machines kept watch over the man she loved.
Toto didn’t move.
He didn’t dare.
He simply held her, guarding the fragile peace of the moment, thinking that maybe—just maybe—some things lost could still be found again.
Even if it took a lifetime to get there.
***
Baku City Hospital, Baku, Azerbaijan - 22 September 2025
Max woke up the way people surfaced from deep water.
Slow. Confused. Heavy.
Pain came first—not sharp, not screaming, but vast. A whole-body ache wrapped in cotton. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. His head was full of fog and strange light, like he’d been poured full of warm honey.
He blinked.
Ceiling. White. Too clean.
Hospital.
Right.
That… tracked.
He tried to move and immediately regretted it. Something tugged at his leg in a way that made the world tilt sideways. He made a noise—half groan, half confused protest.
“Easy,” someone said quietly.
Max turned his head.
Toto.
That took a second to process.
Not GP. Not Ana. Not a doctor.
Toto Wolff. Sitting in a chair near the bed, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking like he hadn’t slept in a decade.
Max squinted at him.
“Huh,” he murmured. “You’re real.”
Toto snorted softly. “Unfortunately.”
Max considered this, very seriously.
“…you’re my emergency contact,” he said.
“Yes,” Toto replied. “Apparently.”
Max nodded, satisfied. “Good choice.”
Toto raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Raymond did it. Or maybe I did it. Hard to say. Forms were involved.” Max said earnestly.
He licked his lips, blinking slowly.
“Did I crash?”
“Yes,” Toto said.
“Bad?”
“Very.”
Max winced in delayed sympathy with himself. “That explains the leg. And… the floating feeling.”
“That would be the painkillers.”
“Oh.” He smiled faintly. “They’re great.”
Toto watched him carefully. “Do you remember anything?”
Max stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“The wall,” he said slowly. “The castle bit. Lando was there. Blue flags.” His brow furrowed. “The car… wasn’t listening. It wasn’t me.”
“I know,” Toto said.
Max exhaled, relieved. “Good. Because if it was me, Ana would pretend not to be mad but she’d be so disappointed.”
Toto’s mouth tightened.
Max turned his head again, squinting around the room.
“Where is she?”
“Asleep,” Toto said. “On the couch. She hasn’t left your side.”
Max’s expression softened instantly, like someone had turned down the noise in his head.
“I love her,” he said, very seriously. “A lot.”
“I know.”
“No, like—a lot,” Max insisted, frowning as if Toto hadn’t grasped the scale of the thing. “I think I told her. Did I tell her?”
“You proposed,” Toto said.
Max’s eyes widened.
“I did?” A beat. “Nice.”
Toto huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.
“She said yes,” Toto added. “With conditions.”
Max nodded solemnly. “Good. Sensible woman. Drugs make me bold.”
“You’re bold without them.”
“True.” He paused. “Did I say something stupid?”
“Only that you wanted to marry her.”
Max smiled, slow and hazy. He shifted slightly, then hissed and froze.
“Don’t move,” Toto warned.
“Noted.” He breathed through it, then looked back at Toto with surprising clarity. “Hey.”
“Yes?”
“You’re her dad.”
“I am.”
Max nodded again, as if confirming a crucial data point.
“She loves you,” he said. “A lot. Doesn’t always say it. But she does.”
Toto swallowed.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Max’s eyes drifted, then snapped back into focus with a crooked grin.
“You’re my emergency contact because you have every reason to keep me alive for next year.”
Toto leaned forward slightly.
“Max,” he said firmly, “I have every reason to keep you alive. Period.”
Max blinked at him.
Then—unexpectedly—his eyes filled.
“Oh,” he said, voice wobbling. “Okay. That’s… better.”
He sniffed once, offended by his own emotions.
“Sorry,” he added. “Drugs.”
Toto reached out and rested a steady hand on Max’s shoulder.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
Max stared at that hand for a moment, then relaxed.
“I scared her,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Can you tell her,” Max said slowly, carefully, “that if she doesn’t want to marry me when I’m not high, that’s okay. But I’m still going to love her. And I still want that house. And maybe two dogs.
Toto smiled, eyes stinging.
“I’ll tell her,” he said.
Max’s eyelids drooped.
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re good at this dad thing. Late start. But strong finish.”
Toto snorted. “Go to sleep.”
Max smiled faintly, already drifting.
“Okay,” he said. “But tell Ana I’m still alive. And that I meant it.”
“I will.”
Max’s breathing evened out, consciousness slipping away again, leaving behind the soft, steady beep of monitors and the quiet certainty of a man who had survived.
Toto stayed where he was.
***
Press Release: Verstappen.com
We would like to share a brief update on Max’s condition and to express our gratitude following the events of the Azerbaijan Grand Prix.
Max has come through surgery and the immediate medical procedures well. He is awake, responsive, and receiving excellent care. While there is still a long road ahead in terms of recovery, we are relieved and grateful to say that his condition is stable and progressing as expected.
We would like to sincerely thank the medical teams at the circuit, the doctors and nurses at the hospital, and the emergency responders whose professionalism, speed, and expertise made a critical difference. Their actions undoubtedly saved Max’s life, and our gratitude to them cannot be overstated.
We also want to thank the marshals, stewards, and paddock personnel who acted decisively and selflessly in extremely difficult circumstances. Motorsport is built on risk, but it is also built on people who step forward when it matters most. We saw that clearly this weekend.
Our thanks extend to the mechanics and team members from across the paddock who assisted during the incident. In a moment that transcended teams and rivalries, they came together as one. That solidarity will stay with us forever.
We would also like to thank the drivers, teams, and members of the GPDA for their support, solidarity, and humanity in the hours that followed. The messages of concern and care have meant more than words can adequately express.
Finally, we would like to thank everyone who has sent messages of support—fans, fellow drivers, teams, and members of the wider motorsport community. Max and our family have felt that support deeply.
Right now, our focus is entirely on Max’s recovery and well-being. We ask for privacy and patience as he takes the time he needs to heal.
***
Twitter Thread: Thank God
@/RaceWatcher77
This is how you do a statement. Classy. Human. No blame, just gratitude. Glad Max is awake 💙
@/DutchLion_33
“Undoubtedly saved Max’s life”
I’m not crying. You’re crying.
Thank you to every marshal and medic out there.
@/F1EthicsNow
Notice how this statement thanks everyone who helped — across teams.
And yet one team still hasn’t managed a proper well-wishes post.
Interesting.
@/SectorThree
The fact they explicitly thanked mechanics from other teams…
That says everything about what really happened in that pit lane.
@/MaxForever1
Long road ahead but HE IS AWAKE.
That’s all that matters right now. 🧡🧡🧡
@PaddockInsider
This reads like people who know exactly how close they came to losing him.
@/Turn8Trauma
“Motorsport is built on risk, but also on people who step forward when it matters most.”
That line should be printed on every paddock wall.
@/GridDadEnergy
The Verstappens thanking the GPDA tells you how bad this really was.
@/OrangeSmoke
Notice what they don’t say.
No mention of penalties.
No mention of blame.
Just recovery.
That’s restraint.
@/NotTheFIA
Meanwhile the FIA:
👁️👄👁️
(reading this and pretending nothing else happened)
@/SimRacingLover
If Max wasn’t as strong as he is, this would be a very different statement.
Hug your loved ones tonight.
@/LandoFanButHumanFirst
Rivals or not — nobody deserves that.
Glad he’s stable. Speedy recovery, Max.
@/OrangeArmyNL
Privacy. Patience. Recovery.
We’ll wait as long as it takes. 🧡
@/TelemetryNerd
The way they emphasize solidarity across teams…
Yeah. Something shifted in Baku.
@/JustHereForTruth
This statement makes Red Bull’s earlier one look even worse, somehow.
@MedicsOfMotorsport
Thank you for highlighting emergency responders.
These are the people who stand between tragedy and survival.
@/F1IsFamily
Today reminded us that behind helmets are sons, partners, families.
Wishing Max strength and peace during recovery.
@/AlwaysMax33
He’s alive.
That’s it.
That’s the tweet. 🧡
@/MercMechanicFan
“In a moment that transcended teams and rivalries”
This is why I love this sport, even when it breaks my heart.
@/FIAwatchdog
This statement reads like dignity in the face of absolute chaos.
****
Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds
Private Channel. ~30 members.
james.brakes:
Okay but can someone explain why half the paddock looks like a crime drama right now
jules.elec:
I just walked past three police vans and a guy with a clipboard who absolutely did not look FIA
tom.sim:
Same. I am choosing to interpret this as ✨not our problem✨
liv.strategy:
Honestly? I’m just glad we’re getting out of here tonight. This weekend has taken years off my life.
sam.transmission:
The vibes are… deeply off.
Like “everyone suddenly being very polite” levels of off.
flo.eng:
You know it’s bad when even the PR people look scared.
leo.mechanic:
I am not saying anything.
But the police are doing their job.
james.brakes:
LEO.
jules.elec:
Leo that sentence alone is saying something
leo.mechanic:
I am saying nothing.
I am saying I trust due process.
tom.sim:
That is the most ominous thing you could have said.
Anna K.
Whatever is happening, I just want to be very clear that I did not touch anything.
liv.strategy:
Same. I barely even breathed near the cars.
sam.transmission:
I nodded at a Red Bull mechanic once and now I’m wondering if that was too much interaction.
flo.eng:
I made eye contact with someone in a navy polo. Am I an accessory.
elliott.systems:
Quick systems update:
We’re running internal sims tonight. Don’t worry about us.
tom.sim:
Bold of you to say that in this week.
jules.elec:
Please don’t break anything before Ana comes back to fix it 😭
flo.eng:
Yes, respectfully, we do not have the emotional bandwidth.
elliott.systems:
Oh, don’t worry.
She’s the one breaking our brains, not the other way around.
liv.strategy:
You okay there, mate?
elliott.systems:
Define okay.
sam.transmission:
Oh no. He’s spiralling again.
elliott.systems:
I opened the new architecture folder she sent.
I understood maybe… 60%.
Which is humbling because 60% of Ana is still more advanced than anything I’ve seen in my life.
james.brakes:
That sounds about right.
elliott.systems:
There are feedback loops in there that feel illegal.
Like I keep expecting the laws of physics to email me a cease and desist.
jules.elec:
She’s terrifying. Affectionately.
tom.sim:
Genius-level terrifying.
liv.strategy:
This is why she’s banned from explaining things without a whiteboard and snacks.
flo.eng:
And why we all just nod like we understand and then panic later.
sam.transmission:
Circling back—does anyone actually know what’s happening in the paddock?
leo.mechanic:
No.
james.brakes:
Do we suspect?
leo.mechanic:
Yes.
jules.elec:
Do we discuss it?
leo.mechanic:
Absolutely not.
Anna K.
I like this policy.
liv.strategy:
Same. Ignorance is safety.
tom.sim:
All I know is:
- Police everywhere
- Everyone looks exhausted
- I want a shower and a bed
sam.transmission:
Amen.
elliott.systems:
And tomorrow we go back to pretending our jobs are normal.
james.brakes:
Nothing says “normal” like advanced hybrid systems and potential international incidents.
sam.transmission:
Mercedes things.
leo.mechanic:
Get home safe, everyone.
liv.strategy:
Seconded.
And maybe… don’t google anything tonight.
elliott.systems:
Too late.
I googled Ana Wolff’s math references and now I’m worse.
james.brakes:
Goodnight, Elliott.
elliott.systems:
Goodnight.
If I don’t understand systems tomorrow, please tell my family I tried.
***
Group Chat: The Old Wolves
(Members: Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, Nico Rosberg, David Coulthard, Mark Webber, Fernando Alonso)
Fernando:
He’s awake.
Mark:
Thank fuck.
Jenson:
Proper awake? Or “eyes open, still on the good drugs” awake?
Fernando:
Awake enough. Stable. Doctors are cautiously optimistic.
David:
That’s the best sentence I’ve read all day.
Sebastian:
Good. Really good. That crash… I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
Nico:
Same. I was on air trying to sound calm while my brain was screaming.
Fernando:
I’m going to the hospital tomorrow.
And I’m dragging Lando with me whether he likes it or not.
Jenson:
He still not okay?
Fernando:
He’s a wreck.
Won’t sleep. Keeps replaying it. Keeps saying “he chose the wall” like it’s a loop he can’t break.
Mark:
That kind of thing stays with you. Especially when you know why it happened.
Seb:
Good call, Nando. He shouldn’t be alone with that.
Mark:
Oscar okay?
Fernando:
Holding it together better, but still shaken.
Honestly? Half the grid looked like they needed supervision.
David:
Which brings us to… the police.
Jenson:
Yeah, can we talk about that?
Nico:
I’ve never seen a paddock swarm like that outside of a fatality.
Unmarked cars. Plain clothes. Not FIA security. Real police.
I had a producer whispering in my ear asking if this was “routine.”
I nearly laughed.
Fernando:
Oh, it’s not routine.
And notice how the FIA suddenly found their manners?
Lots of “we appreciate the drivers’ concerns” and “ongoing cooperation.”
David:
Amazing what a few police badges will do for tone.
Fernando:
They were all teeth yesterday.
Today? Apologies. Handshakes. Reassurances.
Sebastian:
That doesn’t happen unless something’s actually moving behind the scenes.
Fernando:
Exactly.
I don’t know details—and honestly, I don’t want them yet—but something is very, very wrong.
Nico:
And Max being awake changes everything.
Jenson:
Yeah. Hard to sweep things under the rug when the driver survives and can talk.
Mark:
Also explains why everyone’s suddenly walking on eggshells.
Sebastian:
Good. They should.
Fernando:
For now, priority is him.
Then we make sure this never happens again.
David:
If the drivers need us—press, statements, whatever—we’re there.
Jenson:
Always.
Mark:
You don’t leave one of your own hanging.
Sebastian:
Never.
Nico:
Keep us posted after the hospital, Fernando.
Fernando:
Will do.
And if Lando tries to dodge me, I’ll physically carry him.
Jenson:
I would pay to see that.
Fernando:
You’ll get the video after.
Mark:
Good night, lads.
Sleep if you can.
Sebastian:
Good night.
And… I’m really glad he’s still with us.
Fernando:
Me too.