🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʙᴇᴀᴛꜱ🛏️
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ
ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪꜱᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ, ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏꜱꜱ
ᴄᴀʀᴇɢɪᴠɪɴɢ/ɢᴜᴀʀᴅɪᴀɴ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ
ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ
ʜɪɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏɴɢ-ᴛᴇʀᴍ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ
It began with a missed call.
Then a day passed without a reply. Then two. Then four.
At first, Lando didn’t think much of it. (Y/n) had mentioned her schedule tightening, something about fittings and fabric shipments arriving earlier than expected. It wasn’t unlike her to go silent during peak stress—when the work piled high, when deadlines pressed too close to breathe. She was meticulous, tireless, deeply woven into every detail of the clothes she helped bring to life. He understood that. He respected it.
But when the fifth day slipped past with no word—not a text, not a voice note, not even a like on the meme he sent at three in the morning—he began to wonder.
By the seventh day, concern rooted deeper.
He scrolled through their message thread, looking for signs, anything she might’ve said that he’d missed. Had she hinted at a trip? A campaign? A creative retreat? No, nothing. The last message was his: a blurry photo of a dog he saw in Monaco with eyes as wide as dinner plates. Looks like me when DRS fails, he’d written.
No response. Just read. Or maybe not even that.
Oscar noticed.
“Mate,” he said, throwing a towel over his shoulder after debrief. “You’ve been weird all week. You keep checking your phone like it owes you money.”
Lando brushed it off with a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was good at being casual, at hiding nerves beneath sarcasm. But inside, a quiet panic was taking root.
Was she okay?
Did she… lose interest?
The thought tasted bitter.
He knew what it was like to be forgotten, left behind. F1 was a world that demanded your soul and offered little in return unless you won. He’d built walls to protect what little of himself existed outside the sport. But (Y/n) had slipped past them. With her soft laughs and clever comebacks. With her sketches and silly piano videos. With her stubborn refusal to treat him like a superstar.
And now, she was gone.
Unreachable.
Across the continent, in a quiet hospital tucked behind the hills of Provence, (Y/n) Hwang lay still beneath sterile sheets.
The machines around her blinked and hummed in rhythm with her heart—irregular, strained. The doctors said it was a flare, that her heart had been quietly struggling for months. The long hours, the caffeine-fueled nights, the endless deadlines—her body had warned her. She didn’t listen.
Madam Cho had.
She noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, the tremble in her fingers, the way she clutched her chest on bad mornings. Cho had seen her collapse once—years ago, back when (Y/n) was still a student barely surviving on instant school and ambition. She’d sworn then that she would protect the girl like her own blood ever since she adopted her when she was still little.
So, when (Y/n) failed to show up for the Monday meeting without a word, Cho didn’t call. She drove. And when she found her unconscious in her flat, pale as porcelain, lips tinged blue, she didn’t scream.
She carried her. Wrapped her in wool and fury.
In the hospital, the doctors told her the truth she already feared: (Y/n)’s heart was faltering again. It needed rest, recovery, and quiet. No screens. No stress. No overwork. Not even a phone. Complete digital silence.
“She’s not going to like this,” Cho muttered, crossing her arms.
“She’ll be fine,” the nurse assured. “If she stays off her feet and follows the plan.”
So, the days passed slowly. The windows bathed the room in soft sunlight. The nurses played classical music in the mornings. Cho brought her magazines, peeled oranges, and spoon-fed soup like a mother hen.
But (Y/n)?
She hated it.
Not the food. Not the quiet.
But the not-knowing. The not-telling.
She tried, the first day, to ask for her phone. Just a few minutes. Just to send one message. Just to let him know she hadn’t disappeared. That she wasn’t ignoring him. That she hadn’t forgotten him.
But the nurses refused. Firmly. Sweetly. “No, dear. You’ll thank us later.”
So, she lay in bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling, guilt a stone pressing against her ribcage.
She could picture him, Lando, wherever he was. Sitting in a hotel room, maybe. Drinking bad coffee before a briefing. Looking at his phone. Waiting.
She missed him.
More than she wanted to admit.
But she had to rest. Had to live. The doctors said this wasn’t just a pause, it was a warning. One more episode like this, and her heart might not forgive her again.
Back in Monaco, Lando sat alone on a balcony, the city glittering below, his phone cold in his palm.
He thought about texting one last time. Just something simple. Not demanding. Just a check-in.
Hope everything’s alright. No pressure. Just thinking of you.
But he didn’t send it.
Instead, he sighed. Put the phone down.
Maybe she was just busy.
Maybe she was tired.
Maybe she forgot.
And maybe, just maybe, she was gone.
To be continued...🧡
🛏️ʀᴏᴏᴍ 713 - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɢᴏ🛏️