The time appeared.
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 braked later into Turn Eight. Too late. The rear snapped. A micro-correction. He lost 0.04. The red car slithered past on the exit. The time appeared
The back straight. DRS open. The virtual world blurred. 210 kph. 280. 320. He out-braked himself into Turn Fourteen, the heavy stop before the final chicane. The ABS chattered. He felt the shudder in his coccyx.
The loading screen for Bahrain flickered, then resolved into the hyper-realistic glare of the Sakhir sun. Leo adjusted his racing gloves—real Alcantara, a gift to himself—and felt the Fanatec wheel hum to life in his hands. F1 22 . It was just a game. But for Leo, it was a time machine. His t-shirt was damp
Turn One was a leap of faith. He braked at the 100-meter board, downshifting from eighth to second in a blur of carbon fingers. The car bit into the asphalt. Green sector. He was up by 0.082.
He selected Time Trial. Ferrari F1-75. Soft tyres. Perfect track grip. The engine note—a synthesized howl through his headphones—swallowed the room. Too late
The ghost was alongside.