Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, three pieces of equipment sat like props from a sci-fi film.
Full-motion platforms, massive triple-monitor setups, wind simulation fans, and active hydraulic pedals.
"I just had those shipped in from Germany," Justin said, his tone so sincere it felt impossible to argue with. "They're high-fidelity cockpits—each one costs more than a fleet of those karts outside."
He played the host perfectly, ushering them in like honored guests. "The room is air-conditioned, and there are free drinks. Whether you want to feel the speed or have a little competition, this is the best spot. It's safe, and it's professional. Everything is on me today, so make yourselves at home."
"Wait... Justin, don't we get a say in this?" Zack's face was flushed red.
Being controlled at home was one thing, but this was his birthday. He was the host. Being told to "go play games" in front of his entire class—when there were only three rigs for dozens of people—was a public execution of his pride.
"My friends are right here, Justin. You shut down the track and tell us to go play on simulators? What if they don't want to? Can you stop assuming your way is the only way?" Zack's frustration boiled over. "And besides, this is a karting circuit! What kind of place lets wide-body GT cars take over a track meant for karts? There isn't even room to breathe out there!"
He gestured to the group of students behind him. They wore awkward smiles, paralyzed by Justin's "over-the-top" hospitality. No one dared to say no to the man paying the bills. Zack felt like a puppet on a stage.
"Zack, I'm doing this for your own good," Justin said gently. He even reached out to adjust his younger brother's collar. "Do any of you have a racing license?"
Justin knew the local social circles; none of these kids were licensed drivers. He pulled the "license card" to shut the conversation down.
"If someone loses it in a corner, a broken car is a minor issue. If someone gets hurt, how do I explain that to Dad? How do your friends explain that to their parents?"
"As for room to breathe?" Justin smiled, pointing to a track map on the wall. "This isn't some amateur loop. It wasn't designed by a local firm; it was designed by Hermann Tilke's studio. It's a multi-configuration circuit. Karts, GPs, Touring cars—we just change the layout. You know the Baku City Circuit in Azerbaijan? Tilke's office designed that too."
Zack turned his head away, fuming.
"See those white connector roads?" Justin continued, unfazed. "We open those, and the 1.3-kilometer kart track expands into a 2.7-kilometer touring circuit. If I wanted to, I could run F3 cars here. Marcus is a busy man; it wasn't easy to get him here today. Let's show some professional courtesy."
"But it's my birthday..." Zack gritted out. "We came to drive real cars."
"Which is why you should stay safe on your birthday," Justin countered immediately. "Go on. Go play your games. Let your 'God-tier' friend show us what he's got. Real cars are too dangerous; wait until you're eighteen."
The last sentence was a needle, precision-engineered to pop Zack's ego. He was being handled like a child. Roan was being treated like a keyboard warrior.
"Don't treat me like a kid, and he isn't here to 'play games'!" Zack's fists clenched, his voice rising with anger. "He's faster than Marcus! Why won't you just let him prove it?"
The air in the paddock went cold.
Marcus, still analyzing data in the corner, paused when he heard his name. He didn't look up, simply returning to his work as if he hadn't heard a thing.
Justin's smile finally thinned. He looked at his brother and shook his head. "Zack, what have I told you? Blind confidence born of ignorance is a dangerous thing."
His patience was gone. He walked over to the glass room and pointed at a string of numbers on the lead monitor.
"This is Assetto Corsa Competizione. Monza Circuit. GT3 class. Marcus just did a warm-up lap: 1:47.121." He turned around, his gaze looming over the students. "That is a professional's 'casual' pace."
"Since you say your friend is a Legend, let's do this." Justin held up one finger. "I won't make it hard. Three consecutive flying laps. If he can stay within 107% of Marcus's time... that's a 1:54.000."
Justin looked at the GPU box in Roan's hand, his expression flickering with a patronizing sort of pity. "If he can stay under that 'gate' for three laps without crashing, I'll admit he's more than a gamer. And..." He hesitated, then sighed. "And I'll have the marshals clear the track. I'll give you guys a private karting session for the rest of the day. My treat."
To Justin, this was the ultimate compromise. He was offering a path, but one guarded by a physical barrier he believed no high schooler could cross. Staying within 107% of a pro—on a high-end, unfamiliar motion rig—was a tall order.
"Pfft, 1:54? Who are you kidding?" Jax muttered from the crowd. "I've hit 1:50 at home. That's easy."
Justin's eyes glinted with amusement. "At home, you can hit 'Restart' when you bin it in the gravel. Here, everyone is watching. I am watching." He stepped forward, letting his presence weigh on them. "And this is new hardware. A real driver isn't measured by one lucky lap; they're measured by how fast they adapt to a strange machine. Can you guarantee your hands won't shake while everyone stares at your telemetry?"
He scanned the faces. "Three laps. One wheel off the track, and you lose. Still think it's 'easy'?"
Jax went quiet, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Zack turned to Roan, his teeth gritted. "What do you say, Roan?"
Roan finally looked up.
He studied the 6-DOF motion platform, the direct-drive wheelbase, the carbon-fiber rim, and the hydraulic pedals. It was the kind of rig he had only seen in his dreams. He tilted his head back, draining the last of his Coke. The cold sugar hit his system, sending a spark through his nerves.
He patted Zack's shoulder to calm him, then looked directly at Justin.
Roan knew the man didn't have malicious intent. He was just arrogant.
"You're wrong about something," Roan said.
Justin blinked. "What?"
Roan pointed at the screen displaying the 1:47.121.
"If that's the professional benchmark..." Roan's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. If Justin thought he could hide behind the guise of 'good intentions' to belittle them, then Roan didn't need to be polite.
"Then he's incredibly slow."
The room went silent. It was a statement so bold, it bordered on the shameless.