F1: 22

He caught the slide with a violent, instinctive flick of the wrists. The car straightened. The line flashed past.

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.

Turn Four. The downhill right-hander. In real life, your stomach would float. Here, his did anyway. He kissed the kerb, fed the power, and the car stuck like a magnet.

“No,” Leo whispered, teeth clenched. “Come back.”