Maybe in another life-formula 1

Barcelona- after the GP

Angelus sat in the clinic, his legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The Barcelona sunset cast the whole room in an orange hue. He was still in his Red Bull hoodie, the faint scent of champagne clinging to the fabric from the earlier team celebrations.

His eyes traced the sterile white tiles on the floor, trying to quell the unease churning in his stomach. He wasn't sure why this place made him so nervous he's been in this office so many times one of them being just three days ago. This was just to look at his bloodwork. One final checkup. Protocol if anything.

Dr. Gerard entered, a stack of papers in one hand and a tablet in the other. He wore a faint smile polite, practiced, but far from reassuring.

"Angelus, good evening," he greeted, his voice calm. "Have a seat."

Angelus sank deeper into the chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He nodded briefly, offering a small, tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Evening, Doctor"

The doctor set his materials on the desk and glanced up. "How was the race? I hear your team won."

Angelus blinked, momentarily startled by the question. "Yeah," he said softly. His lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. "It was good. Solid race. The team worked hard for it."

"Congratulations," Dr. Gerard replied, sitting across from him. He folded his hands together, his expression shifting subtly. The lightness in his tone faded, replaced by something heavier. "Now, about the tests."

The words hung in the air, and Angelus's stomach tightened. It was always that look followed by. "Angelus you might not walk again,", "Unfortunately the last surgery did not work", "You need to do more physio to see results", it never was a good omen ever.

"Right," he said, keeping his voice even. "How did they look?"

Dr. Gerard leaned forward, his gaze steady yet unreadable, his hands folded neatly over the file in front of him. The sterile white walls of the clinic felt suffocatingly close, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air. Angelus sat across from him, his body tense, his fingers curling around the edge of his chair as if bracing for something unseen.

"You mentioned increased joint pain and fatigue," Dr. Gerard began, his voice even but careful. "At first, I thought it might simply be residual effects from your previous injuries. Given everything your body's been through, that would be a logical assumption. But the results suggest something more."

Angelus frowned, his stomach twisting, a faint prickle running up his spine. "More?"

Austria- Red Bull ring

Angelus stood near the Red Bull garage, his tablet in hand, tracing a finger over a graph. Across from him, Sergio Pérez watched, leaning in, his brow knitted in concentration.

"See here?" Angelus pointed to a section of the graph, his voice steady. "You're losing time on corner entry—not in the braking, but in the timing. Your turn-in is a fraction delayed, and that's killing your exit speed."

Pérez nodded, absorbing the feedback. "I feel that. But the rear's unstable in those slower corners. I just can't get the car to settle. I don't have the confidence to push through."

Angelus ran a hand through his hair, the strands falling into his eyes as he thought. It was getting too long again, and he was growing frustrated with it. "The instability is coming from the setup. We've been tailoring it more to Max's style, which is looser at the rear. But for you, we can tighten it up a bit. I'll adjust the rear suspension and tweak the differential settings for more stability."