F1: 22

He flowed through Turns Two and Three, that sweeping right-left that always felt like a held breath. The force feedback told him the rear was hunting, nervous. He caught it with a whisper of opposite lock. Still green. +0.115.

Leo let go of the wheel. His hands were trembling. His t-shirt was damp. The room was silent except for the idle burble of the virtual Ferrari. He flowed through Turns Two and Three, that

He hadn't beaten a game. He hadn't beaten an algorithm. He had beaten the ghost of the driver he used to be. And in doing so, for one perfect, screaming lap, he had become him again. Still green

The time appeared.

Turn Eleven. The long right-hander before the back straight. He held the throttle at 85%, balancing the car on the knife-edge of adhesion. The tyres sang. Personal best sector. He was now +0.032 behind the ghost. His hands were trembling