He didn’t chase the time. He chased the feeling . The feeling of being seventeen again, before the ambulance, before the “what ifs.” The feeling of the universe shrinking to just the width of the racing line.

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.

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.