My Formula 1 System
Chapter 441 - 441: Ashfall. 2

The burns were healing far faster than expected. Yes, Luca understood when the system clearly stated that there would be an 85% healing quickening rate, but the physical results were almost as if the system had dubbed a 200% rate instead.

At this point, the angry, blistered skin that had once ravaged the left half of his face had salved to something like a dull, woven oxblood that had a definite border now and clearly separated both halves of his face. There was no longer any raw and seeping flesh, as the skin had begun to brassily lay itself back together in such an orderly manner that Luca found himself regularly staring at the mirror, believing it was a miracle—because at times, he could literally see the healing process at work.

The raised edges around his jaw and cheekbone had flattened, scrabbed, and now took on a glassy texture like baked clay. Faint rivulets traced by a weird color of silvery pink, used to be the freshest parts because of their dentness on his skin. But now, they were shredding into molten lines. The burns stopped looking like nylon or leather and began to appear as if he was a manicken in a biology class, and they were revealing his muscular system.

Had it not been for the daunting reality that begat it all, Luca might have called this stage of his healing a uniquely rarefied aesthetic.

The doctors who had been conducting regular checkups on him made a similar remark as well, right after they did a 180 and iterated that Luca had just shaved off two full months of healing with the incomprehensible rate he was moving at.

The initial diagnosis had said five to nine months.

The Spanish doctors were the first to give this duration, being thorough, clinical, and honest. Skin doesn't rush, especially when half of it has been replaced by trauma. Even the specialists in London presented the same duration, a time frame that would definitely keep him out of competition not only for the remainder of this year, but also well into the starting months of the next.

None of them had factored in his system, so they were stunned by the expeditious rate of healing. Now, just three weeks post-crash, the system had abided by the heights of his Attributes, and the healing had already eclipsed the quarter mark. It turned out an 85% healing rate was incredibly large—for an incredibly large blotch. So, what was originally estimated to take five to nine months would now be something Luca would quietly and avidly exhaust in just two to three months.

However, this quick rate of healing was a problem that Luca could already see. Because healing like that couldn't be explained away by vitamins and good genes. The world had seen his face while he lay unconscious on the hot asphalt in Mandalora. Even a few images taken by fans were easily accessible, floating around up there on the web. And while Ansel was being mourned, threads were already debating whether Luca would ever race again or even show his face again.

So, if he just reappeared looking… reborn after only two months, that would be the most suspicious thing ever. Which was why Luca had come up with a plan, one that was similar to those movie tropes where the main character disappears off somewhere far away to rejuvenate, revitalize, and fortify himself for what's to come. But Luca's plan was more layered.

He really liked Switzerland, home to Alpine Swiss F1.

Switzerland was a serene country that featured the most altitudinous white Alps and a crisp, unfiltered air, untouched by the pollutants of man. It felt like a place where time would slow down and eyes could never follow too tightly. His cover would be that he was going there for post-trauma plastic surgery and full rehabilitative therapy. But in truth, he would only be doing the latter. The plastic surgery part was just a facade, a convenient smokescreen to give a reasonable explanation when he returned looking all like Timothée Chalamet.

He would leave for Switzerland after Ansel's funeral, which he was attending.

****

The flight and landing in Germany were peaceful and undisturbed—unlike the last one. Everyone in Germany half-expected Luca to attend the funeral, especially since it had been reported that he could walk just fine. But no one knew which day he would actually come. Besides, the entire country had been thrown into grey, mute and soaked in sorrow, so Rennick wasn't even on their minds right now.

This time, it was in Munich that the Hawthorne 3 touched down. The sky was overcast, with nearly half of Germany reported to be under siege from a seven-day rain. Even the plane and its pilot could testify to the amount of turbulence they endured before finally landing safely.

Onboard were the Luca Rennick Personal Team and his security detail. The four constants of his current orbit: Sara looked mentally exhausted, Mallow seemed physically worn down. On the other side, Manuela stayed quiet and dutiful, while Vance looked like he was tired of socializing and wasn't looking forward to any of it here in Germany.

Luca brought his PT along because he wanted to bring everyone he could. His mother had refused to come, and Sophia had been frustratingly slow in packing. She would take a separate flight later with Mr. Schafer, and Isabella. In the meantime, Luca found some measure of comfort in the presence of his team. He had booked the most exquisite floor in a five-star hotel where they would stay through the burial and afterward—every single one of them.

The country was grieving, and the dark clouds above seemed to blanket everyone in the same emotion. It felt as if time had paused. Flags lined half-mast from Berlin to Cologne. Black ribbons were wrapped around street lamps. Posters of Ansel Hahn—young and proud in his white jumpsuit during his karting days—stared solemnly from bus stops and billboards, with the dates of his birth and death printed like obituary stamps. Every second shop window displayed a lit candle or a folded race flag.

It was then that Luca understood what truly differentiated him from Ansel. He could see that the nation had lowered his banners for Ansel, and his own name was nowhere to be found, but Hahn's was everywhere. Now this, this was patriotism. And it was something Luca felt was deeper, more enduring than mere devotion or fandom. It was permanent.

Their hotel was a modern fortress nestled near Lake Starnberg, an unreasonably large structure. It was secure and sealed off, the kind of place built for important and high-status figures in government, or even royalty.

But Luca didn't take in the décor he'd paid so highly for. He didn't eat much. He barely slept. He dwelled in Munich like a ghost.

***

On the day of the funeral, Mr. Schafer, Isabella, and Sophia were in Munich too, and the floor still had enough room to host ten more families.

It was drizzling outside, the windowpanes streaked with claws of wet silver. The atmosphere remained heavy with cold, and the sky hung leaden above, holding in its belly the same weight that seemed to press down on the entire world. There were no birdsongs and there was no break in the clouded silence, just whisper after whisper of rainfall. A mood so perfect for a song, it felt like something to remember later, when a bright day comes.

Luca stood in front of his full-length mirror, dressed in a double-breasted black wool suit. It was long, almost cloaky. He'd had it tailored precisely for himself by Casa Reyes to help mask the stiffness in his movement, which he still needed to lubricate soon enough. The jacket had a high collar, and beneath it was a dark turtleneck that hugged the solid lines of his neck, concealing the deformity there.

He wore black pants to match the wool suit, and charcoal oxfords. And lastly, he put on deep onyx shades, ones that left him even more expressionless than he already was. The sky wasn't brigt, and the rain wasn't thick enough to blur vision; he simply didn't want to be seen, not obviously.

Luca turned away from the mirror and walked out of the room, proceeding to leave the hotel immediately.

Everyone was dressed in black, and naturally, they paired themselves into couples. Sophia held onto Mallow's arm, Sara took Mr. Schafer's, and Manuela was with Vance. Isabella, of course, already had Luca's arm. The two of them hadn't spoken much because Luca had remained distant, and the scale of the burns had been so staggering that Isabella was left speechless.

Three cars ferried them to Baden-Württemberg.

***

During the long processions of the funeral, somewhere between the soft murmurs of psalms and the grief-heavy silence, Luca's eyes moved uneasily. Then he saw a little she at the right-hand side of the cathedral, near one of the smaller alcoves. It was a little girl, seated alone on a wooden chair with a base too large for her small frame. Her hands were folded motionlessly on her lap, and her eyes stared at nothing in particular in the grass. Her gaze was distant, not even teary, as if her thoughts were astronomical and had wandered far beyond the venue, far beyond the day.

It was Emma. She wore a black dress that passed her knees, with sleeves of flowered lace that swallowed her wrists, and soft-soled black shoes. Only her light blonde hair was dazzling. You could tell this was a child that was well cared for and deeply loved.

Without giving a signal to his group, Luca left quietly. He walked across the grass and approached Emma slowly. He came to her side and gently bent down on one knee, but Emma didn't even notice.

He was stunned by her disquietude, but before he could open his mouth to call her name, Emma turned to face him and stared at him as if he was a hired assassin or something along those lines. However, she recognized him, and her expression shifted to soft surprise before throwing her small arms around his neck and burying her face into the crook of his collar.

Luca comforted the crying girl by tapping her softly with a calm rhythm on her back. He wondered how much tears she had released in such a short time, because he could already feel a part of his turtleneck soaked and something trickling steadily down his neck.

When Emma finally pulled back, Luca pulled out a white cloth from his jacket pocket and gently wiped at her tears. Her eyes were wide, as if she was instantly fascinated by his new look. One half of his face was red and copper brown, his cheekbone and jawline scarred, almost scary. Emma had to double check by removing his shades. She was shocked when she saw that his left eye had changed color a bit!

"Mr. Luca!"

"I know," Luca murmured with a sigh. "Where's your aunt?" he then asked.

Emma looked around without bearing, as if she had forgotten where she herself was. Luca was patient. After a while, she pointed vaguely across the room.

She gestured toward two women standing near a column, conversing with other mourners dressed in black. One was heavily pregnant, wearing a dark gown that greatly emphasized her belly. Her arms were folded gently beneath the bump. The other was not pregnant and was rather lean, with a presence that outright looked like a woman who had chosen to focus solely on career, not childbearing.

"That must be Laura. And the other must be Emma's mother."

This was the first time Luca was seeing Ansel's sister. It seemed something had finally commanded her busy attention enough to bring her back to Germany, and it was her own brother's untimely death.

Luca wanted to rise and approach them with Emma, who clearly had wandered away from them. But before he could do that, the two women caught sight of him and the girl. Laura had already been scanning the venue, filled with instincts to track the child's usual disappearances.

The moment Laura saw Luca, her eyebrows fell. He saw something dark flush over her features. Her expression sharpened immediately. What was this? Resentment?

The other woman, Emma's mother, leaned in quickly to whisper something to Laura, something Luca couldn't hear. But from their glances and body language, he could guess: a question to confirm if he was the him they might've once discussed.

"Emma! Come over here!"

Emma's body trembled at the call, and she turned to look back at Luca.

"Mr. Luca…" she began sweetly. A smart child, clearly high in EQ, trying to soften the situation. But being a child, she wasn't skilled enough to truly mask the tension. "My aunt says I shouldn't talk to you ever again."

"She says… you enemied my uncle. Even until… even till he…"

Silence stunned Luca as the little girl slid his shades gently back over his eyes. He felt her cold fingertips and knuckles graze his face. And something in him told him that would be the last time.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Luca."

Emma turned around, her black dress fluttering softly behind her as she walked back to her aunt and mother, leaving Luca still kneeling and stratospherically dumbfounded.