⏳ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴛ’ꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀɢ⏳
ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ɢʀɪᴇꜰ + ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ
⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:
ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ-ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴀʀᴀɴᴏɪᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏʟᴏɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ
ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ ᴇʀᴀꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴅ
ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀᴛ ɢᴏᴠᴇʀɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴜʀᴠᴇɪʟʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʀꜱᴜɪᴛ
ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇꜱᴛʀᴀɪɴᴛ
ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏꜱꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ
ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪɢʜ-ꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴄʜᴀꜱᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ
ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴘʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ
ᴍᴏʀᴀʟ ᴀᴍʙɪɢᴜɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜱᴏʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ
Lando didn’t speak for a long moment.
The silence between them crackled with weight, louder than any cheer from the distant stands. His chest rose and fell, heart hammering with confusion and adrenaline. He had just pulled a stranger out of the hands of men who looked like they ran the world in shadows, and now she was telling him he was the one meant to die.
Lando Norris. Formula One driver. McLaren’s golden boy.
And he laughed.
It wasn't a laugh of joy or amusement, but a short, sharp burst of disbelief. The kind of laugh someone lets out when their world spins too fast and refuses to stop.
"You’re insane," he said, taking a step back from her. His eyes roamed her face, as if searching for the crack in the mask, the punchline to the most elaborate joke he’d ever heard. "This is mad. You’re mad."
But she didn’t look away.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. There was no sign of madness in her gaze, only something old and hollow. Something exhausted.
"I wish I were," she whispered.
He stood motionless, watching the way her shoulders trembled and her fists curled inward like she was bracing herself for another blow. Her eyes were glassy but defiant.
"Prove it," Lando said.
Her gaze snapped up.
"You say I’m supposed to die tomorrow at Monza. That I don’t make it past the race. You said you built a time machine. Prove it. Show me something. Anything."
She didn’t hesitate.
From the worn canvas bag slung across her shoulder, she pulled out a plastic envelope. Her hands shook as she opened it. Inside were photos, meticulously printed, timestamped. A headline from a major British newspaper with a date ten years from now. His face plastered across it. The caption beneath read:
“Lando Norris Dies in Monza Crash. Motorsport Mourns the Loss of a Legend.”
Another photo—an aerial image of the crash site, flames licking the twisted carbon frame. The number four on the side. The track marshals running in blurred panic. The crowd stunned. A close-up of his helmet, cracked and bloodied.
Lando went still.
She reached into the bag again and pulled out a slim data tablet, older model, a little scuffed. She tapped quickly, and a video played. Shaky footage, clearly taken from someone’s phone in the stands. She handed it to him, wordlessly.
He watched.
It was him. The Monza circuit. A final lap.
The camera followed his car as it lost control mid-corner. A sudden snap, a spin, a collision. Sparks and smoke. The impact was thunderous. The screen shook from the sheer force. Then screams.
Lando's face drained of color. His throat tightened.
He knew the track. He knew that corner. He even remembered asking the engineers to experiment with the balance there. The telemetry had been borderline. Risky, but manageable.
"I don’t… I don’t crash at Monza," he said, half to himself.
"You do," she replied softly. "Lap 52. Just before Variante Ascari. You lose control."
He looked at her again, brows furrowed, the color creeping back to his cheeks in uneven splotches. "How…? How did you get here? What even are you?"
She drew a breath so deep her shoulders lifted with the weight of it.
"I’m not from here," she said. "Not from now. I built something. Something I spent ten years of my life on. I didn’t come to change the world or break time. I came here for you."
"For me?"
"To stop you from dying. That’s all. That’s all I wanted."
His chest tightened. "Ten years? You said ten years?"
"I started three days after the news broke. When you died. I was twenty-five. I’m thirty-five now."
Lando swallowed hard, his thoughts whirling. "So your younger self…"
"Is somewhere across the globe, blissfully unaware that the man she idolized, and crushed is supposed to die tomorrow." Her lips twitched bitterly. "But not if I can prevent it."
That line caught him off-guard. Crushed.
He blinked. "Wait… are you saying you had a crush on me?"
Her face flared a bright, unmistakable red. She looked away instantly, jaw clenched, mortified.
Lando chuckled, the sound unexpected, even to himself. Despite the chaos, the agents, the fear… it was strangely grounding. Human.
"I knew it," he said.
"Don’t get smug," she muttered, hugging her bag to her chest. "You die in the video, remember?"
He winced. "Right. Still a bit surreal, not going to lie."
She stepped closer. Her tone shifted. "I just need to speak to someone. Someone who can make a decision. I don’t want to meddle with fate. I only want to help. If the car's compromised, if the aero package isn't balanced, if a sensor glitches, I can tell you exactly what needs to be checked. But I need you to get me in."
Lando hesitated. Then nodded.
He peeked outside the garage unit, scanning for any trace of those agents. When he saw the coast was clear, he gestured for her to follow him.
"This way."
They cut through the back end of the paddock, past a catering unit and down a restricted tunnel. Security noticed him, of course they did, but said nothing. Lando Norris didn’t usually break protocol, but he had his moments. And he looked too serious to challenge.
The McLaren hospitality suite was sleek, modern, and humming with low voices. As they entered, the air inside cooled instantly, fragrant with espresso and ozone. They passed a few mechanics and staff. Then the team boss, Zak Brown, appeared, eyes squinting with surprise.
“Lando, who’s this?” he asked, already wary.
Lando gave a subtle shake of his head. “She needs to talk to you. Privately. It’s… serious.”
Behind him, Team Principal Andrea Stella appeared. So did Oscar Piastri, towel slung around his neck, sweat still clinging to his brow.
(Y/n) looked out of place, wide-eyed, older than them all, and yet burning with a fire none of them could quite understand.
A small conference room was cleared. The blinds drawn. Zak, Stella, Oscar, and two senior engineers sat, skeptical.
And then she told them.
Everything.
At first, the room was still. Then came the disbelief. Zak scoffed. Stella blinked in controlled confusion. Oscar laughed once, nervously.
But when she showed them the pictures… the telemetry… the data logs of the crash… the lap number… the heat signature of the malfunctioning component, things shifted.
Blood drained from faces. Engineers leaned forward. Zak no longer had any words.
“We checked that part,” one muttered. “We tested it again this morning. No faults came up…”
“They wouldn’t,” she said. “Not yet. The fracture occurs during lap fifty. Hairline. Undetectable.”
Stella stood up. “Get the telemetry. Now. We’re going over everything again.”
Within the hour, the entire McLaren engineering division was called to attention. Protocols were doubled. Simulations re-run. Every screw and seal on Lando’s car was rechecked, reviewed, stripped, and rebuilt if necessary.
They hid (Y/n) after that, inside a media closet turned makeshift guest room. No cameras. No names. Not even Oscar was told where she came from.
But Lando knew.
After qualifying, exhausted and flushed with adrenaline, he returned to the suite and asked, quietly, “Where is she?”
One of the junior staff smiled knowingly and pointed to the door beside the IT room.
He found her curled up on a borrowed cot, fast asleep. She had one arm over her eyes, the other hand still holding a half-open folder.
She looked… human. Not a threat. Not a time-traveler. Just a woman who had poured a decade of her life into saving someone who had never even known she existed.
Lando pulled a chair beside her and waited until her breath stirred.
“You’re still here,” she murmured.
“I should be the one saying that,” he replied.
She rubbed her face sleepily. “Sorry. Guess I passed out.”
He leaned forward. “What’s your full name?”
She gave it. “(Y/n) (L/n).”
“Where do you live?”
She named a city halfway across the world.
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty-five. In my present.”
“And your younger self?”
“Twenty-five. Probably binge-watching your YouTube videos while eating cup noodles.”
He laughed, softly.
She smiled. “It’s strange, isn’t it? One version of me crying over your death… another version sitting next to you, doing everything to stop it.”
There was a quiet stretch of silence before she added, “But I believe I can. I believe we can.”
He studied her for a long moment.
Then, without a word, he reached into the small cooler beside the wall and handed her a bottle of water.
“We’ll get through tomorrow,” he said.
And she nodded.
Together, they waited for dawn. The day that would decide whether time could be rewritten, or if fate would claim its prize.
To be continued...🧡
⏳ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ʜᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇᴅ ⏳
📝 Note from the Author: Hello again, my dear Alarwynnites! If you’re seeing this, then surprise, it’s a scheduled post.
This is just fiction, okay? I don’t want this happening to my beloved inspiration Lando. Never. I always, always pray for him before, during, and after every race, that he’ll be safe, strong, and protected. This story came from my wild imagination, not my wishes.
Thank you for always being here, for reading, reacting, and sending me your thoughts. I see them, even if I’m not around when this drops.
Goodnight, and see you on the next one. 🧡
With love, me 🧡
