With a flick of his wrist, Roan tossed the empty Coke can into a trash bin five meters away. Clang. A perfect landing.
He walked straight toward the expensive simulator. To the others, it was a high-end toy. To Roan, it was his throne.
"I don't need the 107% buffer," Roan said. He sat in the bucket seat, his hands instinctively finding the adjustment rails to set the pedal distance. He didn't bother looking back. "And I don't need three chances. One set of three flying laps. If I don't break 1:46, I lose."
The air in the paddock turned into a vacuum.
Even Marcus, who had spent the last ten minutes with his back to the kids, spun around in genuine shock. Monza? GT3? Sub-1:46? That was a world-class qualifying time—a pole position mark for elite sim-racers under perfect conditions. This high schooler... was he truly this cocky?
The silence grew heavy. Some were waiting for him to fail; others were waiting for a miracle. But for Roan, the drama died the moment he settled into the seat. The expensive hardware didn't distract him; it welcomed him.
The triple monitors flared to life, the curved display wrapping around his vision like the depths of the ocean. The slight sense of claustrophobia provided a level of immersion he had never felt in the real world.
The loading screen for Assetto Corsa Competizione (ACC) appeared. A small wave of familiarity washed over him. Unlike the "vampire" iRacing that bled its users dry with monthly fees and micro-transactions, the one-time-buy ACC was a sanctuary for "budget" legends like himself. He had picked it up for a few bucks during a summer sale, and the combined DLCs cost less than a pair of shoes.
As the progress bar ticked up, Roan's brain began a massive data migration. He reloaded his mental physics engine from iRacing logic to ACC logic. While both were top-tier sims, their driving philosophies were worlds apart.
iRacing was a tightrope walk—the braking was so sensitive that the slightest twitch would lock the tires and send you into a spin. ACC's GT3 cars were different. Their electronic aids were monsters. To be fast in ACC, you had to abandon the "delicate touch" and be greedy—smashing the brake pedal into the floorboards, riding the edge of the ABS to squeeze out every drop of physical grip.
The game loaded. The main menu appeared—a wall of dense, technical English text.
Jax had moved to the rig next to him, but he was already fumbling with his phone, using a translation app to find the language settings. To an outsider, these professional menus were an impenetrable barrier of jargon.
Roan didn't hesitate. His fingers danced across the control keyboard. Click-clack, click-clack. The rhythm was steady and purposeful.
Ambient sounds and pit radio: Reduced to 20%. He didn't need atmospheric noise.
Engine volume: Moderate. Just enough to hear the shift point in the rev range.
The cursor stopped on "Tyre Scrub/Slip Audio." Roan didn't just tweak it; he slammed the slider to 100%.
In a simulator, where you lack the G-forces pressing against your spine, your ears are your second set of eyes. The roar of the engine is just passion; the scream of rubber tearing against asphalt is data. He needed that piercing shriek to be crystal clear. It was the only signal that told him if the car was dancing on the absolute edge of the limit.
Standing behind him, Marcus's disinterested posture shifted. He nodded. Amateur players wanted the bass to shake the floorboards for "excitement." Real drivers wanted a high signal-to-noise ratio. This kid knew what mattered.
Settings: Done. Mode: Hotlap.
Track: Monza. Weather: 24°C, Clear.
The car selection screen appeared. Sleek 3D models rotated on a virtual pedestal, mechanical masterpieces of carbon and light. Roan didn't spend a second debating. He scrolled, double-clicked, and locked in the Prancing Horse.
Ferrari 296 GT3.
The aerodynamic benchmark of modern GT3 racing. Its mid-engine balance and aggressive profile made it the undisputed weapon for a high-speed cathedral like Monza.
He opened the setup menu. Roan bypassed the "Aggressive Preset"—in his eyes, it wasn't nearly aggressive enough. He dove straight into the deep-level physics parameters.
Guided by intuition and thousands of mental laps, he locked in his adjustments.
Track temp: 24°C. Based on his mental map of the friction, Roan clicked the "-" button three times for each tire. He set the pressures to a value precise to a single decimal point.
Brake Bias: Moved two clicks rearward. He wanted a sharper "bite" and a more responsive front end for the heavy braking zone into Turn 1.
Electronics: TC1 (Traction Control) set to 6. TC2 (Cut) set to 0. ABS set to 1.
Many amateurs thought turning off all assists was the mark of a pro. In modern GT3 racing, that was a lie. The real masters knew how to use the electronics to go faster.
The sequence of clicks was fluid, almost hypnotic.
"What... what is all that?" the other students whispered, their heads spinning at the rows of data. "It's just a game, why make it so complicated?"
"Shut up," Zack snapped, making a sharp downward gesture for silence. He was staring at the screen with an expression of grim intensity. "He isn't playing a game. He's chambering a round."