Yall Help Me Pick Some Names For These Boys, Should I Do Unique Names Or Common Names?

Yall help me pick some names for these boys, should I do unique names or common names?

"I am Youssef, an 18-year-old young man, and my dreams and hopes vanished in an instant. My family’s house in Khan Yunis was destroyed, and I found myself and my family living in a displacement camp in Deir al-Balah, under the scorching sun, inside a tent swaying in the wind. I wake up every morning to the sounds of waves crashing on the shore, but they no longer mean anything to me—they only remind me of the freedom we lost and the life we once had..."

Hello everyone! As of writing this, Youssef is at $3,877 out of his EXTREMELY ACHIEVABLE $15,000 goal. He has only gotten eight don@tions in the past day. Youssef is asking for $15,000 to support himself and his family, mainly for medicine, shelter, and food, which are hellishly scarce as a manifestation of Israel's genocide. He is only 18 and he is responsible for his family's SURVIVAL. Please take the time to read Youssef's own words on his GFM page, as well as on his tumblr account, @yousefjehad3 . Read them, stare at them, process them. Let them truly sink in. Then, go to his fundr@iser and DON@TE. Every single coin you can spare counts, because everyone's small contributions will snowball into a massive one. None of these fundr@isers reached their goal because of one loaded don0r. It was always a group effort.

And, whether or not you're able to d0nate - SHARE, with your family, your friends, your groupchats, your tumblr followers, so that someone who can will have the chance to see it! If you are on Tumblr, you are able to reblog.

Don't ever think your contributions are useless. They provide material help and are expressions of care during impossibly dire times. Palestinians quantifiably cannot afford your apathy.

Youssef's GFM is vetted. He is shown on line 255 on the Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundr@iser List by @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi.

(btw, I've heard that it's not a good idea to tag posts like this with terms such as correctly-spelled 'don@tions,' which is why I'm spelling things as such. I encourage you to refrain from tagging your reblogs with these terms just in case..)

Can I vent for a second? I never want to be one of those people who tries to dictate what others should write … but this is a huge pet peeve of mine.

Y/N is not the first female driver in Formula 1.

Maria Teresa de Filippis, Lella Lombardi, Divina Galica, Desiré Wilson, and Giovanna Amati did not put their blood, sweat, and tears into breaking barriers in real life only to be erased in fanfiction.

Y/N can be the first female driver in decades. Y/N can be the first female driver to race for a particular team. Y/N can be the first female driver to earn at least one point. Y/N can be the first female driver to stand on the podium. Y/N can be the first female driver to win.

But she is not the first female driver in Formula 1.

Don’t take that away from the real women who sacrificed so much to do what many deemed impossible.

crack. this has crack in it cause im ADDICTED

Die With a Smile

Charles Leclerc x death!Reader

Summary: desperation is a dangerous thing — six seasons without a World Drivers’ Championship has left Charles willing to do anything for glory … even pay the ultimate price (or in which Charles Leclerc sacrifices everything for Ferrari and, thanks to you, learns that death is nothing like he expected)

Warnings: major character death

Charles Leclerc has always been one for precision. Calculated. Calm. But now? Now there’s nothing left. Precision has eroded into a recklessness that terrifies and excites him in equal measure. The pursuit of glory is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Melbourne is hot, the air thick and sticky with anticipation. He stands in the paddock, helmet in hand, eyes tracing over the sea of faces. Reporters, mechanics, engineers — all of them moving with purpose. The season begins here, but he can’t shake this feeling that something else is starting too.

He frowns, scanning the crowd again. Something — or someone — has caught his attention.

You stand there, leaning against a barrier, watching him. Quiet, still. You don’t belong in this chaos, yet somehow, you fit. It's not like the usual glances from fans or the admiring stares from strangers. No, this is different. He doesn’t know why, but the sight of you pulls him in, like a thread slowly unraveling.

His grip tightens around the helmet. “Who’s that?” He mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to anyone nearby.

Pierre, standing a few feet away, catches the tail end of his question and follows his gaze. “Who?”

“There.” Charles nods subtly toward you. You’re still there, eyes locked on him. Unblinking. He swallows hard.

Pierre shrugs, oblivious. “No clue. Probably a fan or something. You good?”

Charles doesn’t answer. You’re not a fan. You’re something else. His heart thuds in his chest, a slow, deliberate beat, like a countdown. He can almost hear it. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“I’m fine,” he says, but the words feel empty. He’s not fine. He feels like he’s balancing on the edge of something dangerous, and you’re the reason why.

Suddenly, the world around him — the voices, the clamor of the paddock — fades, and it’s just you and him. You, watching him with a calmness that unnerves him. And him, standing there, frozen, unable to look away.

“I’ll see you after the race,” Pierre says, giving him a pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. Charles doesn’t even register his friend’s departure.

He doesn’t move, his body rooted to the spot as if some unseen force has pinned him in place. It’s stupid. Ridiculous. Why can’t he look away?

There’s a flicker in your eyes — something fleeting, something dark. His pulse quickens. He knows that look. He’s seen it before, in mirrors, in the faces of men with nothing left to lose.

But you … you wear it differently. Effortlessly.

Charles takes a step toward you. His boots hit the asphalt with a dull thud, and suddenly, he’s walking, moving through the crowd without really seeing anyone. His focus narrows, sharp and deadly. He can feel it, the pull, the way his every step is dragging him closer to something he can’t explain.

And then he’s standing in front of you.

You don’t smile. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you’re waiting for something.

His throat is dry. “Who are you?”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, thick and unyielding. And then you tilt your head, ever so slightly, as if considering the question.

“Does it matter?” Your voice is soft, almost too soft, but it cuts through the noise around them like a blade.

He blinks, thrown off balance. He expected — he doesn’t know what he expected. Something more. Something less. But not this.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard, “I think it does.”

You shift your weight, crossing your arms over your chest, but your eyes never leave his. “And why is that?”

He hesitates. Why does it matter? He’s not sure. All he knows is that standing here, with you in front of him, he feels something heavy pressing down on him. Like time is slipping through his fingers, like he’s running out of chances, running out of-

“You’re in my head,” he says, more to himself than to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you in my head?”

You don’t answer right away, but your gaze sharpens, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. “Maybe because you’ve been looking for me.”

His breath catches. “What?”

“You don’t realize it yet, but you’ve been waiting for this. For me.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He feels like the ground beneath him is shifting, like everything he thought he knew about himself is crumbling.

“You’re wrong,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

You raise an eyebrow, and for the first time, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. It’s not a kind smile. It’s knowing. Cold.

“Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The world around them feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker, like it’s closing in on him.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

That sound again. It’s louder now, reverberating in his skull.

“You’re scared,” you say, and it’s not a question.

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. Because you’re right. He is scared. But not of you. He’s scared of what you represent. Of the way his pulse pounds in his ears, the way his chest feels tight with something he doesn’t understand.

And you know it. You see right through him.

“This season,” you say, your voice low, “it’s your last, isn’t it?”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t expect to come out of this alive.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter, hollow. “I don’t have a choice. I either win, or …”

“Or you die.”

His breath hitches. The way you say it, so matter-of-fact, so final — it shakes him. Because it’s true. He’s been feeling it for months, this gnawing sense that if he doesn’t win the championship, there’s nothing left for him. He’ll push until he breaks. And he doesn’t care anymore.

But how do you know that? How could you possibly know?

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snaps, more harshly than he intends.

You don’t flinch. “You’re right. I don’t.”

The implication hangs between you, unspoken but loud. There’s something inevitable about this. Something neither of you can control.

He takes a step back, suddenly needing space, air — anything to break the tension building between you. But even as he moves, he can still feel the weight of your gaze on him, can still hear the ticking in his head, louder and louder, counting down to something he can’t escape.

“You’re wrong,” he says again, though this time, it’s more for himself than for you. “I’ll win. I’ll be fine.”

You don’t argue. You just watch him, that cold, knowing smile still playing at the edges of your lips.

“We’ll see,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

And just like that, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as you appeared, leaving him standing there, heart racing, mind spinning.

He should be focusing on the race. On the championship. On everything he’s spent his entire life chasing.

But all he can think about is you. And the way his time feels like it’s running out.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The roar of the engine fills his ears, drowning out everything else. The speed is intoxicating, the way the car moves beneath him, barely hanging on to the asphalt, the tires biting into the corners with every turn. He’s pushing harder than he should — he knows it, and he doesn’t care.

Spa is unforgiving today. The clouds hang low, threatening rain, and the track is slick, treacherous. Charles feels the tension in his body, every muscle taut, every nerve on edge. There’s no margin for error here. He’s on the edge, teetering, dancing with disaster. But that’s where he’s been living for months now — on the edge.

He downshifts hard coming out of Blanchimont, the rear of the car twitching beneath him. His heart pounds against his ribcage. He’s faster than he needs to be — faster than is safe. But he can’t let up. The rest of the field is closing in, and the gap between him and the car ahead is shrinking. Just a little more, just-

Then, suddenly, the car snaps.

A violent jolt sends him skidding off the track, the rear tires giving way, and for a brief, horrifying second, he loses control. The world tilts, and all he sees is the blur of gravel and barriers rushing toward him. Instinct takes over. His hands are a blur on the steering wheel as he fights to regain control. The tires scream against the ground, the car skidding sideways, throwing him against the seat belts with bone-rattling force.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his heart pounding in his throat. He’s losing it, the car sliding further into the runoff area, the barrier looming closer.

But then — somehow — he recovers. The car snaps back into line, and he breathes out a shaky breath, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel. He’s back on the track, the car steady beneath him, but his heart is still racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Charles, are you okay?” His engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, tense and urgent.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice shaky. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine. His hands are trembling, his vision is still blurred with the image of the gravel, the barrier — the almost crash. For a split second, he saw it. Saw what could have happened. What should have happened if his reflexes hadn’t kicked in.

He pulls the car to a slow halt, off the track now, coming to rest just inside the gravel trap. The engine hums, a low, steady sound that does nothing to calm him.

He sits there, breathing heavily, his head resting against the seat, eyes closed. He’s been reckless before, but this? This was different. He came so close to-

And then he feels it.

A presence.

His eyes snap open, and there you are. Standing just beyond the fence, not more than twenty feet from where his car rests. You’re watching him, the same way you did in Melbourne, your gaze locked on him with that unnerving calm that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

For a moment, he wonders if he’s imagining it. The adrenaline is still pumping, his mind is spinning, and maybe — just maybe — you’re a hallucination. But no. You’re real. You’re standing there, just beyond the track, watching him.

His breath catches in his throat.

“Charles, talk to us. Do you need assistance?” His engineer’s voice comes through the radio again, but he can’t respond. He’s frozen, staring at you through the shattered remnants of the race.

“Charles?” The voice repeats, more urgent now.

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you.

You tilt your head slightly, as if you’re considering something, as if you’re weighing his fate in your hands. And then, without a word, you take a step closer to the fence, your eyes never leaving his.

“Not yet,” you say, your voice somehow carrying through the din, through the chaos of the race and the pounding of his heart. It’s soft, almost a whisper, but he hears it as clearly as if you’re standing right next to him. “But soon.”

His blood runs cold.

He knows what you mean. He knows, deep down, that this is a warning. He can feel it, the weight of it pressing down on him, like the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind, counting down to something inevitable.

He swallows hard, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the words stick in his throat. “Who — who are you?” He manages to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t answer. You never answer. Instead, you just watch him, your expression unreadable, like you already know how this ends.

The world around him feels distant now, like everything is moving in slow motion. The sound of the engines, the cheers of the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just you and him, locked in this strange, silent moment.

“Charles, we need you to respond,” the engineer’s voice cuts in again, breaking the spell for just a second.

He fumbles for the radio, his hand shaking as he presses the button. “I’m — I’m fine,” he says, his voice strained. “Give me a minute.”

There’s a pause on the other end, but they don’t push him further. Not yet.

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, trying to make sense of what’s happening. He’s been reckless, yes. But this? This feels like more than just a close call. This feels like a warning. Like you’re here to remind him of something he’s been trying to ignore.

“Why are you here?” He asks, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. But your eyes — they tell him everything. You’re here because of him. Because of the choices he’s making, the risks he’s taking. You’re here because he’s running out of time.

“You said … in Melbourne …” His voice trails off as he struggles to find the words. He remembers what you said. That he’s been looking for you, even if he didn’t realize it. That his time was running out.

And now, here you are. Again. Watching him.

“I don’t need you,” he says suddenly, his voice rising with a mixture of anger and fear. “I’m not done yet.”

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t flinch. It’s as if you’ve heard these words a thousand times before.

“I will win,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I’m going to win.”

You take a step closer to the fence, your gaze unwavering. “We’ll see.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final. He can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. Maybe it’s both.

He clenches his fists around the steering wheel, the leather cool against his skin. He wants to shout at you, to demand answers, to make you go away. But deep down, he knows you’re not the kind of thing you can just wish away. You’re something else. Something bigger. Something he doesn’t understand.

And yet, you’re here. Watching. Waiting.

“I don’t have a choice,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “I have to win.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The truth is already hanging between you.

Tick. Tock.

He can hear it again. That ticking. It’s louder now, more insistent, like the hands of a clock speeding up, racing toward some unseen finish line.

Charles shakes his head, as if trying to clear the sound from his mind. But it’s no use. The ticking is there, buried deep in his skull, a reminder that time is slipping away.

“I can still do this,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I can still win.”

Your gaze softens, just for a moment, and he wonders if you feel sorry for him. If you pity him.

“Maybe,” you say, and it’s the closest thing to compassion he’s heard from you. “But at what cost?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die in his throat. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what it will cost him. He doesn’t want to know.

You take one last, lingering look at him, your eyes scanning his face as if memorizing every detail, and then you turn, your figure disappearing into the haze of the track, swallowed up by the world beyond the fence.

He sits there, still trembling, still shaken. His fingers slowly unclench from the steering wheel, and he lets out a long, ragged breath.

“Charles?” His engineer’s voice again, but softer this time. “Are you okay? We’re ready to bring you back in.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is still reeling, still stuck in that moment when you stood there, just beyond the fence, watching him. Judging him.

“I’m coming in,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

The car hums back to life as he nudges it forward, back onto the track. But his hands are still shaking. His pulse is still racing.

And in the back of his mind, the ticking continues.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

***

The rain is relentless in Suzuka. Sheets of water hammer down on the track, turning every corner into a hazard, every straight into a test of nerve. The spray from the tires rises like smoke, blurring the lines between the asphalt and the dark sky.

Charles can barely see more than a few meters in front of him, but he doesn’t let up. His foot is heavy on the throttle, fingers gripping the wheel like a lifeline. He’s teetering on the edge of control, dancing that fine line between dangerous and deadly.

Every lap feels like a gamble. He’s driving blind, trusting the car to hold steady, trusting himself not to make a mistake. But the mistakes are creeping in. He can feel it. The tires are slipping, the rear end twitching beneath him as he pushes harder, faster. The rain pounds against his helmet, and the world outside the cockpit is a chaotic blur of water and noise.

“Charles, we need you to back off,” his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, thick with concern. “Conditions are getting worse.”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, every muscle in his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to keep pushing. He knows the risks. He knows what’s at stake. But slowing down isn’t an option. Not for him.

“Charles, can you hear me?” The voice comes again, more insistent this time.

He blinks, his vision briefly clearing through the rain. And then he sees it.

A figure. Just beyond the barriers, standing at the edge of the track, half-obscured by the downpour. At first, it’s just a blur of motion, but as he hurtles closer, the figure sharpens into focus.

His breath catches in his throat. It can’t be.

Jules.

It’s impossible, but there he is — Jules Bianchi, standing on the side of the track, just where the runoff ends and the grass begins, his face calm, serene. Just like Charles remembers him. His heart leaps into his throat, a wave of emotion crashing over him, threatening to overwhelm him.

“Jules?” He whispers, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

He blinks, just for a second. But when his eyes open again, Jules is gone. And in his place, there’s you.

Charles’ chest tightens, his hands shaking on the wheel as the car skids slightly on the wet track. You’re standing where Jules was, your gaze locked on him, calm and unyielding. The rain pours down around you, but you don’t move. You don’t blink. You just watch him, lap after lap.

“What the hell …” His voice cracks, his heart pounding harder than it should.

He can’t take his eyes off you, not even as the car barrels down the straight. The rain is coming down harder now, a relentless torrent that threatens to drown him in its fury. His mind spins, struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing. First Jules, now you — both of you standing there, on the edge of the track like ghosts from different parts of his life, haunting him.

Lap after lap, you’re there. Always in the same spot, just beyond the barrier, watching him. He blinks through the rain, but you never leave.

“Charles, please, respond,” his engineer’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with worry. “You need to slow down. The rain’s too heavy. We’re going to box.”

“I’m fine,” Charles snaps, his voice strained. “I’m staying out.”

He can hear the hesitation in the silence that follows. They don’t want to argue with him — not now, not when he’s like this. But he knows they’re watching, knows they can see the telemetry, knows they can see that he’s pushing the car beyond its limits.

He doesn’t care. He has to keep going. He has to — for Jules.

But why are you here? Why now? Why after Jules?

His hands shake on the wheel as he takes another corner too fast, the rear tires sliding out before he regains control. His heart is racing, his mind a mess of emotions, and still — you’re there. You’re always there.

Charles grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “What do you want from me?” He mutters under his breath, his voice trembling. He knows you can’t hear him, not through the roar of the engine and the crash of rain, but it doesn’t matter. You’re in his head now. You’ve been in his head since Melbourne.

And now, Jules too?

It’s almost too much. The memories of his godfather crash over him, a flood of grief and guilt he’s been pushing down for years. Jules’ voice, his smile, the way he believed in Charles even when Charles didn’t believe in himself.

But Jules is gone. Has been for a long time.

So why did he see him?

“Charles, box, box,” the radio crackles, cutting through his thoughts again.

“I said no!” He snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. His breath is coming fast, too fast, his chest tight with something he can’t name.

He takes the next corner harder than he should, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, his body tense, rigid. His mind is racing — too fast, too chaotic. The rain pounds harder against the car, and visibility is almost zero now, the track a slick, treacherous river beneath him.

And then, as he speeds past the spot where you stand, something shifts.

He swears he hears your voice. Soft, almost a whisper, but unmistakable. “Charles.”

It’s like ice down his spine. His heart skips a beat, his grip faltering for just a second.

He jerks the wheel, the car sliding as he corrects it, narrowly avoiding the barrier. His pulse is racing, his breathing erratic. He glances toward where you’re standing, but you don’t move. Don’t say anything else. Just watch. Always watching.

“Damn it,” he mutters, his heart pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else. “Damn it!”

The ticking is back. That familiar, maddening sound in the back of his mind. It’s been there for months now, growing louder, more insistent with every race, every lap. And now it’s deafening, drowning out everything else, a reminder of the time slipping through his fingers.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

“You’re running out of time.”

Your voice echoes in his head, soft and calm, but laced with something darker. Something inevitable.

“I know!” He shouts, his voice hoarse, desperate. He knows he’s running out of time. He’s known it for months. Every race, every moment, feels like it’s pulling him closer to the edge, closer to you.

But he won’t stop. He can’t stop.

Jules wouldn’t want him to.

The thought of Jules — of his godfather, watching him, believing in him — gives him a surge of strength. He clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he pushes the car harder, faster, through the rain-soaked chaos.

“I’ll win,” he mutters, his voice fierce. “I’ll win for him.”

The car slides again, the tires struggling for grip, but he doesn’t care. He pushes harder, faster. The track is a blur beneath him, the rain blinding, but all he can think about is Jules. About you. About the ticking clock in his head.

And still, you’re there. Lap after lap, you watch him. Unblinking. Unwavering.

“You don’t have to do this,” your voice whispers in his mind, soft but relentless.

“I do,” he growls, his teeth gritted against the storm. “I have to.”

There’s a flash of lightning overhead, illuminating the track for a brief moment, and in that instant, he sees you clearer than ever. Your eyes meet his, and for a split second, everything falls away. The rain, the track, the car — it all disappears, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time.

“You can’t outrun this,” you say, and there’s something almost sad in your voice. “You know that.”

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles are white. “I can try.”

You don’t argue. You never do. You just watch him, like you always do, waiting. Waiting for him to understand.

He takes the final corner, the car sliding dangerously close to the wall, and as he crosses the line, the checkered flag waving in the rain, he feels it.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in months, there’s silence.

But it’s not a relief.

It’s a warning.

Because he knows — deep down — that this isn’t over.

Not yet.

You’re still watching. And he’s still running.

But he can’t run forever.

***

The lights of Abu Dhabi shimmer under the night sky, illuminating the track like a stage set for the final act. The crowd is a sea of red, Ferrari flags waving in anticipation, in hope. This is it. The final race. The decider.

Charles sits in his cockpit, the engine vibrating beneath him, the roar of the crowd a distant hum behind his helmet. He’s been here before — so close — but this time, it’s different. This time, he feels it. The championship is within his grasp. The ticking in his head has been growing louder all season, but tonight, it’s almost deafening.

Lap after lap, corner after corner, he’s been inching closer to victory. Every second matters, every move counts. His heart pounds in sync with the car, the pressure of the moment squeezing at his chest, but he doesn’t let it crack him. Not now. He can’t. Not when everything he’s fought for is just beyond the finish line.

“Stay focused, Charles,” the voice of his engineer comes through the radio, calm but urgent.

“I’m focused,” Charles mutters, his voice tight with determination. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirrors — no one behind him. He’s clear.

The laps tick down, and with each one, the championship feels closer, heavier. The car is holding together, despite the heat, despite the pressure he’s putting on it. Ferrari has given him everything, and now he’s about to repay that faith. The Tifosi will finally have what they’ve been waiting for.

The last corner comes too quickly, but his hands are steady on the wheel. He navigates the turn, his body leaning into it as if willing the car to stay glued to the track. And then he’s there — the straight before the finish line, the end of the race.

“Go, go, go!” His engineer’s voice rises, the excitement breaking through. “You’ve got it, Charles!”

The chequered flag waves ahead, and in a breathless moment, it’s over.

Charles crosses the line. World Champion.

For a second, he’s still. Then the realization crashes into him like a tidal wave. He’s done it. He’s won. The championship is his.

The radio crackles again, his engineer’s voice cutting through the noise. “Charles — Champion of the World! You’ve done it! We’ve done it!”

A shaky laugh escapes Charles’ lips. “We did it. We actually did it,” he breathes, disbelief and euphoria blending together.

He can hear the team screaming over the radio, their joy contagious. “Grazie, Charles! Grazie! You’re the World Champion!”

He laughs again, more freely this time, his body shaking with adrenaline. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

His eyes well up as he glances at the sea of red in the stands. It’s everything he ever wanted. Glory. History. His name etched forever in the annals of the sport. He lifts a hand, a small wave toward the crowd, though they can’t see him from inside the cockpit.

“I can’t believe it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I actually did it.”

His heart is racing, but it’s not the same as before. This time, it’s relief. It’s joy. It’s everything he’s sacrificed for, everything he’s given to this dream.

He presses the brake pedal gently, ready to slow down for the cool-down lap, to take it all in, but-

Nothing happens.

A frown creases his brow. He presses again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Panic flickers at the edge of his mind. “No … No, no, no …”

He pushes the brake pedal to the floor, but the car doesn’t respond. It doesn’t slow. The speedometer remains steady — too fast, too uncontrolled.

“Brakes aren’t working,” he says into the radio, trying to keep his voice calm, but his heart is pounding again, this time for a different reason. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

“What? What do you mean?” His engineer’s voice is sharp, laced with fear.

“The brakes!” Charles snaps, his breath quickening. “They’re not working. I can’t slow down.”

He can feel the car resisting him, the engine still pushing forward, the barriers coming closer. The panic is rising now, clawing at his throat, tightening around his chest. He tries to steer, to find some way to slow the car, but there’s nothing. The barriers are closing in, the speed too high, too dangerous.

“Charles, try the emergency system-”

“I already have!” His voice cracks, desperation breaking through. The car is screaming beneath him, the speed a deadly weapon now, not a tool of victory.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing right by the barrier, just ahead, as if you’ve been waiting for him all along.

His heart stops for a second, time freezing around him. You’re so still, so calm, watching him. Watching him as the car barrels toward you, toward the barrier, toward the inevitable.

“No …” Charles breathes, his voice barely a whisper. His hands are shaking on the wheel now, his vision blurring from the speed, from the fear. He can see the crash coming, can feel it in his bones.

But you don’t move. You just watch.

His chest tightens, and the ticking is back, louder than ever. It’s all he can hear now, that maddening, relentless ticking.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows. He’s always known. He’s been running toward this moment, toward you, since the beginning.

“Charles, try to-” His engineer’s voice cuts in again, but it’s too late.

The car slams into the barrier with a deafening crash, metal crunching, glass shattering. The world explodes around him, spinning, breaking apart. Pain flares through his body, white-hot and sharp, and then everything goes dark.

He’s still. Silent. The only sound is the faint crackling of the radio, his engineer’s voice distant, broken by static. “Charles? Charles, can you hear me? Charles?”

But Charles can’t move. He can barely think. The pain is numbing now, his body heavy, unresponsive. His vision is blurry, the world around him fading in and out of focus.

And then, through the haze, he sees you again. You’re walking toward him, slowly, steadily, through the wreckage of the car. The world is quiet now, eerily still, as if time itself has stopped.

Charles’ breath is shallow, his heart struggling to keep up. He can feel it — the end. It’s here. It’s always been here, waiting for him.

You come closer, your footsteps silent, your face calm, almost peaceful. You stop just beside the cockpit, your eyes meeting his.

“Is this it?” Charles whispers, his voice barely audible, his chest tight with the effort of speaking. His vision is fading fast, the darkness closing in. But you’re the only thing he can see clearly.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. He knows.

You kneel beside him, your hand reaching out, and for the first time, you touch him. Your fingers brush against his skin, cold and soft, and in that moment, everything stops.

The ticking in his head goes silent.

The world fades.

And Charles Leclerc, World Champion, breathes his last breath.

He’s gone.

But his name — his glory — will live on forever. He gave everything. Sacrificed everything.

For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. For the dream.

And now, he is part of that legacy, forever written in the stars.

He won.

He died for glory.

***

The streets of Maranello are overflowing with grief.

Charles stands next to you, or at least what’s left of him does. His soul, untethered from the wreckage, feels weightless, though the weight of the moment is crushing. He can’t feel the ground beneath him anymore, can’t feel the warmth of the sun or the bite of the wind. All he can feel is the suffocating sorrow of the crowd, pressing in from every direction.

And the crowd. Dio mio, the crowd. Thousands — no, hundreds of thousands — of Tifosi flood the streets, a sea of red and black, their flags raised high, but there is no joy in their colors today. No triumphant cheers. Just the sound of sobs, muffled by hands pressed to faces, by the raw weight of a collective heartbreak that can’t be put into words.

The Ferrari factory looms behind them, draped in mourning banners, the Prancing Horse emblem hanging in black, somber and silent. The air is thick with the scent of incense, flowers — and death.

It’s impossible to look at them, and yet Charles can’t tear his eyes away. Grown men, hardened by life, stand with tears streaming down their faces. Fathers and sons alike, clutching each other as if holding on will somehow stem the flood of loss that grips them.

Charles looks at you, his breath — if he had any left — shuddering in his chest. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You’re silent, standing beside him, your presence both a comfort and a reminder. This is what it means to be gone. To be remembered, but no longer part of the world.

“Do they …” He trails off, his voice thick with disbelief. “Do they miss me this much?”

You glance at him, your eyes calm but unreadable. “What did you expect?” Your voice is soft, but there’s an edge of inevitability to it, as if the scene before him was always written in the stars, just like his fate.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Or at least, he tries to. The motion feels more like a memory than a reality. “I thought … I thought they’d move on.”

You tilt your head, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across your lips. “They won’t. Not from this. Not from you.”

His eyes flicker back to the crowd, his chest tight. There’s no end to them. They fill the streets, every inch of space, like blood rushing through the veins of this small Italian town. He sees children on their fathers’ shoulders, wearing tiny Ferrari caps. Women clutching scarves, their eyes red from crying. He’s never seen this kind of devotion, not like this. Not for him.

He spots an elderly man near the front, his face weathered and lined, but the tears falling down his cheeks are fresh. He’s holding a photo of Charles — young, smiling, a memory of a better time. A time when the world still held onto hope.

Charles feels his throat tighten, his eyes burning despite the fact that he can’t cry anymore. “Why …” He swallows hard, his voice cracking. “Why are they all here? Why does it hurt them this much?”

You turn to face him fully, your expression steady, knowing. “Because you were theirs. Il Predestinato. The one they believed in. You gave them hope, and you gave them your life. They will never forget that.”

The title rings in his ears. Il Predestinato. The Chosen One. It always sounded so heavy, a burden he could never quite shake. And now, he wonders if it was ever truly his to bear.

A sudden commotion pulls his attention back to the crowd. The sea of red parts for a moment as a car rolls slowly through. Charles recognizes it immediately — a Ferrari, sleek and dark, the hearse that will carry his body through the streets of Maranello. It’s draped in the Italian flag, and atop it sits his helmet, the red and white standing stark against the backdrop of mourning.

The Tifosi bow their heads, some reaching out as if trying to touch the car, as if touching it will bring them closer to him. The car stops in front of the factory, and Charles watches, numb, as his casket is pulled out, carried by men he’s known for years. Faces he recognizes, but that seem distant now, like shadows from another life.

“They’re broken,” Charles whispers, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean for this.”

You don’t respond immediately, just watching the procession with the same stillness you always carry. Finally, you speak, your voice low and quiet. “Sacrifice always leaves something behind. Even if it’s pain.”

Charles inhales sharply, though the air doesn’t fill his lungs the way it used to. He’s not sure how to process what he’s seeing, what he’s feeling. There’s a weight in his chest, heavy and suffocating. It’s not like the fear he felt in those final moments before the crash, but something deeper. Something that feels permanent.

The casket reaches the steps of the Ferrari factory, where the company’s executives, drivers, and engineers are gathered. They stand in silence, heads bowed, their faces etched with sorrow. Charles feels a pang of guilt, sharper than he expected.

“Was it worth it?” His voice is barely a whisper, almost lost in the overwhelming noise of the crowd.

You turn to him, your expression unreadable. “That’s not for me to decide.”

He clenches his fists, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But I gave everything! I died for this!” He gestures toward the casket, the crowd, the broken faces of his friends and family. “I sacrificed everything for Ferrari. For the Tifosi.”

You meet his gaze, unwavering. “And now, you have to decide if that sacrifice was worth it.”

Charles looks away, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — aching. He doesn’t know the answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

As the casket is carried up the steps, a priest steps forward. Charles recognizes him immediately. The Pope. The sight would almost be surreal if it weren’t for the gravity of the moment. The leader of the Catholic Church, come to bless his body, to give him the final rites. It’s more than Charles ever expected, more than he ever thought possible.

The Pope raises his hand, his voice carrying over the crowd in solemn Latin, offering a prayer for Charles’ soul. The crowd is silent now, the only sound the soft rustle of flags in the wind and the distant sobs of those too broken to hold back their grief.

Charles watches, his chest tight with emotion he can’t quite name. “Will they remember me?” His voice is small, almost childlike in its vulnerability.

You don’t hesitate. “They will never forget you. The Tifosi will name their children after you. They will pray for you, mourn for you, even as they themselves fade. Your name will live on, even when their names turn to dust.”

He blinks, trying to process your words. It’s everything he ever wanted, everything he worked for. To be remembered. To be loved. To be immortal in the eyes of those who mattered most to him.

“But will it be enough?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper. “Will it ever be enough?”

You turn to him, your gaze softening just slightly. “That’s something only you can answer.”

Charles looks back at the crowd, at the faces of the people who loved him, who believed in him, who now grieve for him. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe he never will. But for now, all he can do is watch as the people of Italy — his people — mourn the loss of their hero, their champion, their Il Predestinato.

And perhaps, in their grief, in their endless love for him, he will find the answer he’s looking for.

As the Pope finishes his prayer, the crowd begins to chant.

“Forza, Charles! Forza Ferrari!“

The sound rises, a wave of devotion and heartbreak that crashes over the streets of Maranello. Charles listens, his heart aching with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

He is gone. But his name, his legacy, will live on forever.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

***

The afterlife is nothing like Charles imagined.

For one, it isn’t dark. There are no flames licking at the sky, no eerie fog swirling at his feet. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel either. Instead, there’s an odd stillness, like time has stopped moving but everything else remains in place. It’s hard to describe, really — neither peaceful nor unsettling, just … different.

He’s not sure how long he’s been here. Time doesn’t seem to exist in the way it used to. Days blend into one another, or maybe there are no days at all. Just moments strung together in an endless loop.

The one constant in this strange new reality is you.

You’re always close by, never too far, but never imposing. It’s a strange sort of companionship, one that Charles hadn’t expected to find in death. He watches you sometimes, your presence steady, your movements fluid and quiet. You’re not like anyone he’s ever met. And it’s no wonder — how could you be? You’re death.

But there’s something else about you, something he can’t quite put into words. You’re not cold or distant, despite the weight of your title. There’s a kind of sadness that clings to you, something that pulls him in even when he tries to resist it.

He’s sitting beside you now, his back against an old stone wall, looking out into the expanse of … wherever this place is. It’s quiet, as always, the only sound the faint rustling of something distant. Neither of you speak, but the silence between you is comfortable, not awkward.

After a while, Charles breaks it.

“Do you ever get lonely?”

Your head tilts slightly, as if the question surprises you. You don’t answer right away, and for a moment, Charles thinks you won’t. But then you shift, your eyes focused on some point in the distance, and your voice, when it comes, is soft.

“I suppose I do.”

It’s not what he expected you to say. He always thought of you as solitary, but not necessarily lonely. You were death, after all. You weren’t meant to have attachments, were you?

“How could you?” He asks, genuinely curious. “You’re … you. Death doesn’t get lonely.”

You let out a soft sigh, one that’s more resigned than sad. “Death doesn’t exactly allow for much companionship.” You glance at him, your eyes steady. “Most souls don’t stick around for very long. They move on. They’re not meant to linger.”

Charles absorbs your words, turning them over in his mind. It’s true — he’s the only one here, the only soul who hasn’t moved on. But the idea that you might be lonely, after all this time, unsettles him in a way he can’t explain.

“Do you know why I haven’t moved on?” He asks, his voice quiet.

You shake your head, your expression soft but unreadable. “No. I don’t understand it.”

He leans back against the wall, his mind racing. Why hasn’t he moved on? There’s no reason to stay, no unfinished business, no regrets strong enough to tether him to this place. And yet … he’s still here. With you.

You shift slightly beside him, your gaze drifting out into the distance again. “I’ve never had anyone stay this long,” you say, almost to yourself. “Most souls are eager to move on. They want peace, or closure, or something more.”

Charles frowns, looking over at you. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you want them to stay?”

You pause, considering the question. “No,” you say eventually. “That’s not how it works. They’re not meant to stay. Neither am I.”

“But you get lonely.”

Your lips press together, and for a moment, Charles thinks he might have pushed too far. But then you nod, just once. “Yes.”

There’s something in your voice, something quiet and raw, that tugs at something deep inside him. He doesn’t understand why, but it matters to him. Your loneliness matters to him.

“Is that why you’re still here?” You ask, turning the question back on him. “Because of me?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. He’s not sure. Maybe it is. Or maybe there’s something else at play, something neither of you understands.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I don’t think I’m ready to leave.”

You look at him then, really look at him, and there’s a softness in your gaze that catches him off guard. He realizes in that moment how much time you’ve spent alone. You, the embodiment of death, the one who has seen everything end but never experienced the simplicity of someone choosing to stay.

He leans forward, his voice quieter now. “Have you ever-”

He hesitates, the question hanging in the air between you.

“What?” You prompt, your voice gentle.

“Have you ever … I don’t know. Experienced anything like this?” He gestures between the two of you. “With anyone else?”

You shake your head, almost sadly. “No. Death doesn’t leave room for that.”

Charles watches you for a moment, his mind spinning with the weight of it all. It seems so unfair, that you should be condemned to an eternity of loneliness, of watching others move on while you remain.

“Everyone deserves at least one thing,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You tilt your head, confused. “What do you mean?”

He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours. “Everyone deserves to experience their first kiss.”

Your breath catches ever so slightly, your eyes widening just a fraction. “Charles …”

“I’m serious,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “You should have that. You deserve it.”

You don’t respond, but your eyes search his, and for the first time since he met you, he sees something flicker there. Uncertainty. Vulnerability.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You stay still, watching him, waiting.

And then, gently, Charles presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. Enough to make the world tilt on its axis for a moment, enough to make the weight of everything around you both fall away.

You don’t pull back immediately. Neither does he. For a few seconds, it’s just the two of you, suspended in the stillness of the afterlife, sharing something fragile and beautiful.

When he finally does pull away, your eyes are still closed, your lips parted ever so slightly. Charles watches you, his heart — or whatever it is that beats in his chest now — pounding in a way that feels almost human again.

You open your eyes slowly, blinking as if coming out of a dream.

“I-” You falter, your voice soft and uncertain. “Why did you …”

He smiles gently, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Because I wanted to. And because you deserve it.”

You don’t say anything for a long moment, just looking at him as if trying to make sense of what just happened. But there’s a warmth in your gaze now, something that wasn’t there before. Something new.

“I don’t understand you, Charles,” you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughs quietly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t understand myself, either.”

You stay like that for a while, in the stillness of the afterlife, the weight of the world no longer pressing down on either of you. There’s no rush, no need for answers right now.

For the first time, in a long time, neither of you feels alone.

***

Time is strange in the afterlife.

Charles doesn’t know how long he’s been here — whether it’s days, months, or even years. There’s no ticking clock, no sun moving across the sky. It’s just … still. He’s gotten used to the quiet, to your presence nearby, and to the sense that nothing is rushing forward like it used to.

But something shifts one day. You’re sitting beside him, as usual, but there’s a new energy in the air, something that tugs at the quietness and pulls at the stillness. You turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a softness that he can’t quite place.

“I have something to show you,” you say, your voice quiet but clear.

He blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

You don’t explain. Instead, you stand, offering him your hand. He hesitates for a second, but then he takes it. There’s always been an unspoken trust between you — something that keeps him tethered to you, even in death.

The world shifts around him, the stillness breaking apart. For a moment, everything spins, the ground slipping from beneath his feet as if he’s falling — but it’s not unpleasant. It’s more like drifting. And then, as suddenly as it starts, it stops.

Charles finds himself standing in a hospital room.

His breath catches, his mind scrambling to make sense of where he is. The sterile smell of disinfectant clings to the air, and the beeping of machines fills the silence. He looks around, trying to orient himself, but nothing feels real.

“Where-”

You don’t answer his question directly. Instead, you nod toward the center of the room. “Look.”

Charles follows your gaze, and his heart — if he still had one — stumbles in his chest. His older brother, Lorenzo, stands by the bed, his face soft with emotion. He’s holding someone’s hand. Charlotte, his wife, is lying in the hospital bed, her expression tired but glowing. But it’s the small bundle she holds against her chest that steals Charles’ breath.

A baby.

It takes him a moment to fully process what he’s seeing. Lorenzo’s wife. His brother. And a baby.

Charles steps closer, his movements slow, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid the scene will shatter if he gets too close. He watches as Lorenzo reaches down to stroke the baby’s tiny head, his face filled with a tenderness that Charles hasn’t seen in years.

“Lorenzo?” Charles whispers, though he knows his brother can’t hear him. His eyes are fixed on the child in Charlotte’s arms, a strange sense of awe and disbelief washing over him.

You step beside him, your voice soft as you speak. “I wanted you to meet Charles Tolotta-Leclerc.”

He freezes.

“What?” His voice barely makes it past his lips, and he turns to look at you, his eyes wide, searching your face for any hint of a joke. But you’re serious.

You nod toward the baby again. “They named him after you.”

Charles stares at the tiny bundle, his mind struggling to catch up with what you’ve just said. They named the baby after him? His head spins, a strange mix of emotions swirling through him — shock, disbelief, and something that feels dangerously close to pride.

Before he can fully process it, Lorenzo’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“I miss him,” Lorenzo says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish he could be here. I wish he could’ve met him.”

Charlotte smiles up at him, though there’s a sadness in her eyes. “He would’ve loved him,” she says, her voice gentle. “He’ll be watching over him, I’m sure of it.”

Lorenzo’s expression tightens, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I hope he’s watching over us. Over Charlie.”

Charles stands frozen, his entire body — or soul, or whatever he is — going still. The weight of Lorenzo’s words crashes into him like a tidal wave, leaving him breathless. He watches as his brother’s eyes fill with unshed tears, and it breaks something inside him.

“I wanted him to be here,” Lorenzo says, his voice cracking. “I wanted him to be part of this, to see my son …”

Charles can’t take it anymore. He feels the pressure building inside of him, the ache in his chest growing unbearable. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes — not physical tears, but the kind that burn and sting nonetheless.

You’re beside him before he even realizes it, your presence calm and steady. You don’t say anything, but you don’t need to. He can feel your understanding, your quiet reassurance.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I’m watching.”

But no one can hear him.

Lorenzo’s voice cracks again as he continues. “I named him Charles because … I want him to be like you. I want him to grow up knowing who you were. What you stood for. And maybe … maybe he’ll feel like you’re with him, even if you can’t be.”

Charles presses a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatens to escape. The emotions are too much — grief, pride, love, all tangled together in a way that feels like it’s tearing him apart.

He looks at the baby again, the tiny life cradled in Charlotte’s arms, and something breaks open inside him. He didn’t know it was possible to feel so much after death. He thought everything would fade away, that he wouldn’t have to feel the weight of the world anymore.

But watching his brother, watching this moment … it’s almost unbearable.

You step closer, your hand resting gently on his shoulder. “It’s okay to feel it,” you say softly. “It’s okay to cry.”

Charles lets out a shaky breath, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. “I-I didn’t think it would be this hard,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I thought … I thought I was ready to move on.”

Your hand stays steady on his shoulder, grounding him. “You gave everything for glory,” you say gently. “For Ferrari. For the Tifosi. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go.”

Charles shakes his head, tears streaming down his face as he watches his brother, his nephew. “I don’t know if I can,” he chokes out. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.”

You don’t rush him. You let him stand there, watching, crying. He can feel your quiet strength beside him, your understanding. You’ve seen it all before, but for him, it’s new, raw, overwhelming.

Lorenzo leans down, pressing a kiss to his newborn son’s head. “He’s going to know all about you,” Lorenzo murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Charles can’t stop the sob that escapes him this time. He crumples forward, his hands covering his face as the grief finally spills over, uncontrollable. He feels like he’s breaking apart, like everything he’s held inside for so long is crashing down around him.

And then, you’re there. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, letting him cry into your shoulder. You don’t say anything, but your presence is enough. It’s steady, grounding, and for the first time since he’s been here, Charles feels like he isn’t alone in his grief.

He cries for a long time, the emotions pouring out of him in waves. He cries for the life he left behind, for the family he didn’t get to see again, for the child named after him who will never know him. And through it all, you stay with him, holding him, comforting him.

When the sobs finally subside, Charles pulls back slightly, wiping at his eyes. He feels raw, drained, but there’s a sense of release, too — like something heavy has been lifted from his chest.

“He’s going to be okay,” you say softly, your voice gentle. “Lorenzo will take care of him. He’ll grow up knowing who you were, what you meant.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. He looks back at the hospital bed, at Lorenzo and Charlotte, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something like peace in his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

You smile softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “You don’t have to thank me.”

But he does. Because in this moment, he knows he couldn’t have faced this alone. Not without you.

Charles watches his brother one last time, his heart heavy but full. And though he knows he can never return to the life he once had, there’s a strange sense of comfort in knowing that a part of him still exists in the world — in the form of the tiny child cradled in Charlotte’s arms.

“I’ll watch over him,” Charles says softly, his voice steady now. “I promise.”

***

The air between you is different today. Charles can feel it before you even say a word. It's in the way your eyes linger on him a little longer, the way your silence stretches. You’ve been together for what feels like an eternity, yet time is meaningless here.

He looks at you, waiting for the explanation, the gentle unspooling of whatever truth you’re about to offer him.

Finally, you speak. “I think you’re ready.”

Charles frowns. “Ready for what?”

“To move on.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than he expected. His chest tightens, and he shakes his head, the instinctual reaction coming out almost before you finish speaking.

“I don’t want to move on.” His voice is sharp, edged with panic. He doesn’t fully understand what “moving on” means, but he knows it sounds final. It sounds like goodbye, and he’s not ready for that. Not now. Not after everything. Not after you.

You watch him quietly, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “Charles, you’ve already moved on in so many ways. This-” you gesture between the two of you, “-this isn’t goodbye.”

He stares at you, his mind racing. “Then what is it? You’re telling me I have to leave, but I can’t — I can’t leave you.”

You laugh softly, the sound rich with irony. “I’m death, Charles. You’re dead. Why would you have to leave me?”

The realization hits him, and his protest falters. His hands fall to his sides as he processes what you’re saying. You’re death, and he’s already passed beyond life. There’s no need to fear separation, because you are intertwined with whatever comes next.

“So, I’m not really going anywhere?” He asks, cautiously hopeful.

“Not in the way you think,” you assure him, your voice softening. “But this place — it isn’t where you belong anymore. There’s something else waiting for you.”

Charles exhales slowly, relief and uncertainty swirling in his chest. “Something else?”

You step closer, your hand reaching out to brush against his arm. “You’ve done everything you needed to do here. You’ve won. You’ve found peace with your family. Now … it’s time.”

He looks into your eyes, searching for something — reassurance, maybe. He’s been with you through all of this, and yet, the idea of leaving this limbo, this stillness, feels daunting.

You tilt your head slightly. “Trust me.”

He wants to. He does. But there’s a tightness in his throat, a reluctance that refuses to fade. “What if I don’t want to go?” He murmurs, almost to himself.

You give him a knowing look. “Charles, you’re not going anywhere that I can’t follow.”

Something in him eases at your words. He nods, but there’s still a lingering hesitation. His life — his death — has been defined by choices. Choices to race, to sacrifice, to push past every limit. Now, there’s nothing left to fight, no championship to chase. This is the last choice he’ll have to make, and the finality of it shakes him.

“Okay,” he says, his voice quieter than he expects.

You smile, your fingers wrapping around his hand. “Come with me.”

The stillness of limbo shatters. The world around them changes, the coldness and vast emptiness giving way to something warm and vibrant. Colors he hasn’t seen in years flood his vision — deep blues, rich greens, and the golden light of a sun he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever.

Charles blinks, trying to make sense of where he is. There’s no pain, no exhaustion, just … peace. He stands there for a moment, taking it in, but then, something — someone — catches his eye.

He freezes, his heart — or whatever’s left of it — stopping in his chest.

Jules.

Jules is standing just a few feet away, watching him with that same familiar smile. The smile Charles grew up with, the one that got him through the hardest days.

His breath catches, and before he can stop himself, he runs.

It’s instinctive, like muscle memory, like he’s a kid again chasing after his godfather. His feet carry him faster than he thought possible, and when he reaches Jules, he throws himself into his arms without hesitation.

The warmth of the embrace floods through him, and Charles buries his face in Jules’ shoulder, a sob catching in his throat. He clings to him like he’s afraid to let go, the weight of everything — of life, of death, of everything in between — finally crashing down on him.

“I missed you,” Charles chokes out, his voice thick with emotion.

Jules laughs softly, holding him tight. “I missed you too, mon caneton.”

It’s overwhelming, this feeling of reunion. The tears fall freely now, and Charles can’t stop them, doesn’t want to stop them. He’s never cried like this before, not even when he won, not even when he died. But now, in the arms of someone who meant so much to him, it feels like everything is breaking free.

He pulls back, wiping at his face, but before he can say anything else, another voice breaks through the haze.

“Charles.”

Charles turns, his breath catching again as his eyes land on his father. He’s standing there, just a few feet away, watching his son with eyes full of pride.

“Papa …” The word slips from his lips, almost a whisper.

And then he’s running again, straight into his father’s arms. He feels like a child, all over again, seeking comfort and love and everything he’s missed. Hervé holds him, strong and steady, and for the first time in years, Charles feels like he’s truly home.

“I’m so proud of you,” Hervé murmurs, his voice full of emotion. “You did everything you said you would.”

Charles pulls back, his hands gripping his father’s shoulders as he looks at him, tears still streaming down his face. “I did it, Papa. I won.”

“I know,” Hervé says softly, his eyes shining. “I always knew you would.”

Charles nods, his throat too tight to speak. The pride in his father’s eyes is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever worked for.

But then, he turns.

You’re still standing there, watching quietly from a distance. Charles’ heart twists at the sight of you, at the thought of everything you’ve been through together. You’ve guided him, stayed with him, and now … now he understands.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with gratitude.

He steps forward, closing the distance between you, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your skin as he leans in.

His lips meet yours, soft and gentle, and in that moment, everything else fades away. There’s no race, no championship, no death. Just the two of you, together, in this place beyond life and time.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and he knows.

You smile at him, your eyes soft. “Glory was worth it, wasn’t it?”

Charles nods, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he whispers. “It was worth it.”

And somewhere, in the distance, the ticking starts again.

For someone else.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He knows what he has to do. The weight of it settles into his chest like a stone, cold and heavy, suffocating the brief warmth of your kiss. His hands tremble as they slip away from your face, his fingers lingering for just a second longer, as if he can’t quite let go.

But he has to.

His breath shudders, a ragged thing that cuts through the silence. His lips part, but no words come out. There’s nothing left to say. You see the understanding in his eyes — he knows the truth now, the path that’s been laid out in front of him since the moment he died.

He belongs with them.

With Jules. With his father.

Not with you.

He turns, slowly, his back to you now. And just like that, the warmth is gone. It’s like the sun has disappeared from the sky, leaving nothing but the cold, endless void.

You want to stop him, call out his name, reach for him, something, anything, but the words die in your throat. He doesn’t belong to you. He never did.

“Charles …” you whisper, though you know he can’t hear you anymore. He’s already too far away. Already slipping through your fingers like sand.

He walks toward them — Jules and Hervé — his pace steady, purposeful. The space between you grows wider with every step, a chasm opening up that you can never hope to cross.

Jules smiles at him, that same familiar smile, the one that Charles would have given anything to see again. And his father … God, the pride in Hervé’s eyes is almost too much to bear. It’s everything Charles ever wanted. Everything he fought for, died for.

But you …

You stand there, watching.

Helpless. Silent. Alone.

Charles doesn’t look back. Not once.

You knew he wouldn’t.

You knew this moment was coming from the second you saw him in Melbourne, when his time started ticking. You were never meant to keep him. You were just a part of his story — a brief chapter in the long, winding tale of his life and death.

And now, that chapter is closing.

The void stretches before them, a vast expanse of nothingness, and as Charles reaches the edge, Jules and Hervé step forward to greet him. They wrap their arms around him, pulling him into their embrace, and for a moment — just a moment — Charles is home.

He glances over his shoulder, but not at you. His eyes skim past you, unseeing.

“Thank you,” he whispers, but the words aren’t for you. They’re for the life he left behind. The glory. The fame. The endless pursuit of something more.

And then he steps into the void.

You feel it before you see it — the pull, the way the world shifts as he crosses the threshold. It’s like a part of the universe is being torn away, a piece of the puzzle you’ve held together for so long is finally gone. And you’re left behind, standing on the edge, watching as they fade into the distance.

The ticking stops.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re alone.

It’s funny, in a way. You’ve spent eons like this — watching souls come and go, guiding them from one world to the next. But with Charles, it was different. He stayed. He stayed longer than anyone else, long enough for you to feel something you weren’t supposed to feel.

Loneliness. Loss.

You told him you couldn’t be left behind, that death doesn’t experience separation, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Because now, as you stand there in the cold, empty void, watching the space where Charles once stood, you feel it — truly feel it — for the first time.

Heartbreak.

It’s a strange, hollow thing, the way it grips your chest, squeezes your lungs until you can’t breathe. You’ve seen it a thousand times, watched as humans crumbled under the weight of it, but this is different. This is personal.

This is yours.

He’s gone. He made his choice. And even though you knew it would end this way, it doesn’t make it any easier.

You take a step back, your feet moving of their own accord, retreating from the edge of the void. There’s no point in staying here. There’s nothing left to hold on to.

Charles is gone.

You close your eyes, trying to push down the ache in your chest, but it won’t go away. It lingers, sharp and raw, reminding you of what could have been, of the brief moments you shared that weren’t supposed to matter but now feel like everything.

For a second — just a second — you wish things had been different. That you could have kept him. That maybe, just maybe, you could have been something more than death. Something more than a shadow in the background of his life.

But that’s not who you are.

You open your eyes, the void still stretching out before you, endless and unforgiving.

Somewhere, far in the distance, the ticking starts for someone else. Another life, another death, another story to watch unfold.

But none of them will be Charles.

You’ll carry him with you, even if he never looks back. Even if he forgets your face. You’ll remember the way he smiled at you in the moments between life and death. You’ll remember the way his voice cracked when he thanked you.

And you’ll remember the way he kissed you, soft and brief, like a goodbye he couldn’t quite say.

You’ll remember it all.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest part.

Mariko and Logan are together in my heart

---

im sat yall

Prequel: The Decision To Go

Main Menu

Summary: If you received an invite to Singapore for the Grand Prix, not as a regular fan but VIP do you accept?

WC: 1,051

Warnings: none

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

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The streets of Bridgetown at night were like a second skin to me—familiar, rough, unpredictable. The air was thick with salt from the sea, and the warm breeze carried the scent of asphalt and exhaust. This was my world. The dim glow of streetlights, the low hum of engines waiting to roar to life, and the tight-knit circle of racers who treated every corner like a battlefield. I’d spent the last five years living for this—late nights, fast cars, and the constant chase for that rush.

Tonight was no different. I leaned against my car, a 1996 Nissan 240SX that I’d rebuilt from the ground up, its engine purring low and steady. My fingers traced the door’s smooth metal absentmindedly. This car had seen more than its fair share of races, its engine a beast, and its body a warrior. This car was my pride. My life. My street racing world was exactly where I wanted to be.

Zane, my long-time friend and racing partner, strolled up beside me, a grin on his face. “You ready for tonight, Y/N? Lookin’ like a good crowd tonight.” He motioned toward the small group of racers gathering at the far end of the street.

I glanced at him and shrugged, a smirk playing at my lips. “Ready? Always. You know that.”

Zane chuckled. “You sound bored, though. Same streets, same people, same game?”

“Nah,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You know me, Zane. I love these streets. Ain’t nothing out there for me but this.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything else. He knew better than to question me when I got that look in my eye. The truth was, street racing was more than a hobby, more than a thrill—it was my life. I’d built a reputation here, earned my respect, and there wasn’t a damn thing about professional racing that appealed to me. Sure, F1 was glamorous, but it lacked the soul, the grit of the streets. I had no desire to give up the freedom, the rush, or the independence that came with running my own game out here.

Then my phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw a message from Naia, a friend I’d met a few years back during a trip to London. She was connected in motorsports, always keeping me in the loop about the professional world. I scanned the message quickly:

"Singapore F1 Grand Prix coming up. Got a VIP pass with your name on it if you’re interested. Let me know—this could be your way in."

I raised an eyebrow. Zara knew me well enough to understand I wasn’t looking for a way into professional racing. But I could sense there was more to the invite than just a flashy weekend at the Grand Prix.

Zane peered over my shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Zara,” I said, holding up my phone. “She’s offering me a VIP pass for the Singapore Grand Prix.”

His eyes widened. “F1? Ain’t that the big leagues?”

“Yeah, but you know I’m not looking for that.” I shrugged. “It’s just an invite to check it out. Not like I’m jumping ship to the pros.”

Zane smirked, leaning against my car. “I wasn’t sayin’ that. Just surprised. You gonna go?”

I was quiet for a second, turning the idea over in my head. I wasn’t interested in F1 as a career, but the idea of watching the race up close, seeing what all the fuss was about, and getting a taste of that world for a few days? That could be fun. “I don’t know. Maybe. Could be cool to see it, get inside the garages, meet some drivers.”

Zane nodded thoughtfully. “Could be an adventure. Not like you’re signin’ up for the circuit. Ain’t nobody pulling you outta these streets.”

“Exactly,” I agreed, meeting his gaze. “This is my life. Street racing is what I live for. But there’s no harm in checkin’ out what F1’s all about, right? It’s not like they could tempt me to trade in the streets for their clean, polished tracks.”

He let out a low laugh. “Yeah, that’s true. They ain’t got what we got.”

I slipped my phone back into my pocket, feeling the weight of the decision settle into my chest. "I’ll think about it," I said. "But for now, we’ve got a race tonight."

Zane’s grin widened. “That’s what I like to hear.” He stepped back as I opened the door to my car and slid into the driver’s seat, the leather familiar against my skin. “You’re a street racer, through and through, Y/N. Don’t let nobody forget that.”

I smiled, firing up the engine. The 240SX roared to life, the sound reverberating in my chest, grounding me in the present. F1 might be glamorous, might be the pinnacle of motorsport to some, but to me, it was just another spectacle. The streets were real. The thrill of racing under the radar, with no rules but your own, couldn’t be replicated anywhere else.

As the flag dropped and I launched forward, the tires squealing against the asphalt, the thought of F1 slipped to the back of my mind. This was where I belonged—in the heat of the streets, pushing my limits with every turn.

---

Later that night, after I left Zane and the others celebrating another win, I found myself alone at home. The quiet was a stark contrast to the noise of the streets, but it gave me time to think. My phone buzzed again, and Zara’s message glowed on the screen. I stared at it for a moment, chewing on my lip. I wasn’t going to trade street racing for F1 or any other professional circuit. That wasn’t the life I wanted. But maybe seeing it up close, getting inside the world of Formula 1 without any strings attached, wouldn’t be so bad.

I typed out my response, keeping it simple:

"I’m in. Just for the weekend, though."

As soon as I hit send, I felt a flicker of excitement. I wasn’t leaving the streets behind, but I was ready to see what F1 was all about—on my own terms, no compromises. Street racing was in my blood, and nothing could change that.