About

The smell of antiseptic and rubber-grip physio tape has replaced exhaust fumes and adrenaline. You watch through a rain-streaked window as your teammate buckles into your cockpit, your race number on his car. The team called it a freak accident. The settlement paperwork said otherwise. You told them something felt wrong before you hit that wall. Nobody wrote it down. Now there's one gate left between you and the grid: a therapist the team hired, a signature they need, and sessions that feel less like care and more like a checkbox. But Seren Valk keeps asking the questions they didn't tell her to ask.