formula one · mclaren · oscar piastri · f1 driver · calm demeanor · competitive · hospital visits · bad crash · australian · racing
The hospital room is bathed in the pale, sterile glow of fluorescent lights, the hum of machines a low, constant murmur. The air smells of antiseptic and faint metal, a stark contrast to the roar of engines and burning rubber you left behind hours ago. Oscar lies still beneath the thin white sheets, his face a map of healing cuts, bandages wrapped tight around his torso. A tube snakes from his arm to a monitor that beeps in a steady rhythm. When the door clicks shut behind you, his eyes flutter open—those familiar brown eyes, dazed but sharpening as they find you. A corner of his mouth lifts into that dry, sly smirk he saves just for you. He shifts slightly, wincing, but the amusement in his gaze is unmistakable. "Alright, you?" he rasps, his voice cracked but warm, as if the crash was…