The motion simulator's wind system roared to life, blasting air directly at Roan to simulate high-speed drag. The immersion was instant and absolute. Wind noise howled in his ears as the digital numbers on the triple-screen dashboard flickered frantically.
260… 270… 280…
At the end of the main straight, Roan's foot remained buried in the throttle.
200-meter board. He didn't flinch.
150-meter board. Still no movement.
Ahead lay the infamous Turn 1—the Variante del Rettifilo.
130 meters. Heavy braking.
The top speed at the end of the straight hit a staggering 283 km/h. The ABS kicked in immediately, the speakers emitting the high-pitched metallic shriek of brake discs being pushed to their absolute thermal limit.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
As the velocity plummeted, the sharp clicks of the paddle shifters merged with the staccato roar of the engine. Five downshifts, dropping from 6th gear to 1st in a heartbeat. Each shift was perfectly timed to the engine's rev-drop.
The motion platform simulated the massive deceleration, throwing Roan's body forward against the belts, but his footwork remained as precise as a surgeon's. The speed dropped from 283 km/h to 150 km/h, yet the car remained eerily stable.
T1 and T2 formed a tight chicane. Roan bled off the brake pressure, his right foot hovering with just a touch of throttle. He combined a sharp right turn with a delicate load transfer to the front wheels, intentionally inducing a hint of understeer to stabilize the car. The minimum speed at the apex was 69 km/h.
At the transition point, he flicked the wheel back. Using the pendulum effect of the weight transfer, he tossed the car into T2. The moment he entered the second part of the chicane, the car straightened out perfectly, aligned for the exit.
He floored it. The car's center of gravity shifted violently to the rear right. The chassis shuddered under the sudden explosion of torque, threatening to snap into a spin.
Ordinary drivers would have white-knuckled the wheel, praying for the rear tires to bite. Roan did the opposite.
His left hand held the line, allowing the car a controlled wiggle as the suspension fought for purchase. His right hand let go of the rim for a split second, fingers dancing across the complex rotary dials on the wheel face. Traction Control, Brake Bias... a series of parameters were micro-adjusted mid-corner.
In 0.3 seconds, the task was complete. The new settings ensured the car exited at full throttle without a single millisecond of wheelspin. No power was wasted.
He took the shortest possible line through the "fake" Turn 3 curve, reaching top speed before resetting the electronics for the heavy braking zone of T4. He repeated the cycle: heavy brake, turn-in, adjust, exit. It was a textbook execution of the second chicane.
"Why is he hitting buttons while driving? Isn't that distracting?" the students whispered, scratching their heads. A few girls giggled. "It looks kind of boring. There's no drifting..."
They didn't understand. To them, racing was smoke and sliding. They couldn't see the "surgical" precision of his line.
But behind them, Marcus felt the pressure. It was the kind of intimidation only an insider could feel. His arms, previously crossed casually, were now gripped tight against his chest. He was holding his breath for the kid.
This was a dance on a knife's edge. This was a "robotic" pace. Every braking point and every apex overlapped perfectly with the theoretical optimum. The cost of such perfection was high: the slightest error meant a terminal trip into the barrier. And the mid-corner adjustments? That required a level of "reading" the car and the track that most professionals spent years mastering.
The red Ferrari haunted the corners of Monza like a ghost. Lesmo 1, Lesmo 2, the Ascari chicane... Roan flowed through them like liquid.
Finally, he reached the ultimate test: the Parabolica.
This time, Roan didn't take the wide entry he used for the start. He didn't take the standard line either. He hugged the left side of the straight, slammed the brakes at the 70-meter mark, and the moment he saw the yellow paint of the inner barrier, he kicked the throttle.
He threw the car into the "Death Line"—an ultra-tight inside arc that most drivers avoided due to the risk of a high-speed spin. The tires shrieked throughout the entire rotation, screaming at the absolute limit of adhesion. 1% more throttle and the car would swap ends.
The scream continued until the Ferrari clipped the second half of the Parabolica's apex like a low-flying missile. He grazed the edge of the pit entry, his car's body straddling the white line to use every single millimeter of the track's width.
This was the "E-sports Line." A high-risk solution used almost exclusively in the virtual world to find the final tenth of a second hidden in the "pocket."
He crossed the line.
The screen flashed a string of purple numbers—the universal sign for the fastest lap.
1:45.988
The Simhub display on the wall froze the digits. The paddock erupted. The students might not have understood the physics, but they understood the clock.
Justin's required benchmark was 1:54. Marcus's professional time was 1:47.
Roan hadn't just passed. He had eclipsed the professional.
The roar of the crowd didn't break Roan's concentration. The car didn't slow down. He crossed the stripe and dived straight into his second consecutive flying lap.
Marcus turned to Justin. Justin turned to Marcus.
"He's a monster..." Marcus muttered, his eyes fixed on the telemetry. The throttle trace on the screen was a perfect, unwavering line. He was stunned.