"Justin, he's a monster."
Marcus's voice carried no trace of jealousy. Instead, it hummed with the electric excitement of a predator encountering an apex species. "The first lap proved his pace, but this second one... look at the telemetry. His braking points and pressure curves are almost carbon copies of the first."
"He's not just driving," Marcus stammered, his usual cool composure fraying at the edges. "He's showing off."
Justin stood with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the sweeping purple arcs on the monitor. He wasn't just a car enthusiast; he was a businessman. He knew exactly what those numbers represented: a World-Class qualifying pace. To find this in a high school kid napping in a classroom wasn't just a fluke—it was a gold mine.
He had lost face, certainly. But in Justin's world, pride was a currency meant to be traded for better assets.
"Marcus," Justin said, his voice dropping into a low, calculated hum. "If you were in that seat, could you touch that time?"
Marcus's expression was a cocktail of professional respect and grim reality. He nodded, then slowly shook his head. "If you gave me ten flying laps, I might hook up one and get close. But to walk in off the street and nail it on lap one? Then back it up on lap two? Impossible. Not for me."
Marcus gestured toward the data for Turn 5—the Curva Grande. "I know the theory. I know the 296 GT3 has enough downforce to take this flat-out. I know the tires will hold. But my foot... my 'meat-and-bone' brain has a survival instinct. It makes me lift, just a fraction, because the risk of a 250 km/h shunt is too real. My body won't let me be that perfect."
He looked at Roan's slumped, relaxed shoulders in the rig. "But he doesn't have that 'lift.' He's like a machine. Every input is the mathematical optimum. He's only beating me by a tenth here, two-tenths there—standard margins. But he does it at every single apex. Add up eleven corners, and you're looking at a gap measured in seconds, not tenths. In the virtual world, Justin... we aren't even playing the same sport."
"A machine, huh?" Justin murmured. The predatory glint in his eyes sharpened. "Then I'd say the price of this birthday party just became a bargain."
He glanced at Zack, who was vibrating with "I-told-you-so" energy. Justin was already recalibrating. If you can't beat the anomaly, you own it. Or at the very least, you fund it.
On the screen, Roan crossed the line for his second flying lap.
1:45.787
The digits flashed purple. He was still finding time, shaving off fragments of a second that shouldn't exist.
"The third lap will be the fastest," Marcus predicted, his inner geek taking over as he began narrating for the crowd. "Fuel weight."
In the paddock, the mantra was simple: Give me ten extra horsepower, or take away one kilogram. Newton's Second Law was a harsh mistress. More fuel meant more mass, more inertia, and lazier acceleration. A GT3 car at Monza is a thirsty beast, burning through three to four liters of high-octane racing fuel every five kilometers. That's roughly 70 liters per 100km.
"Every lap he finishes, the car gets about three kilograms lighter," Marcus explained to the wide-eyed students. "He only loaded enough for three fliers—maybe ten liters total. The tank will hit 'bingo fuel' exactly as he takes the checkered flag on lap three. The car is at its absolute lightest right now. Watch."
Justin pulled Marcus aside, wearing a mask of mock-defeat. "Marcus, I think I've made a complete fool of myself today."
"Don't sweat it," Marcus said, his eyes never leaving the screen. He couldn't care less about Justin's ego right now; he wanted to see where the limit was. "A monster like this doesn't come around often. Just apologize and move on. You won't die from it."
"True. My pride can take the hit. But there's something else..." Justin paused, leaning in. "I want to invest in him. What do you think?"
Marcus froze. He turned to Justin with a slow, sage-like smile, pointing a finger at him. "Ah, I see you now! You sly fox. You dragged me through that long-winded 'safety' speech just to bait the hook. You've been planning the 'Grand Reveal' the whole time."
"Is it a good bet?" Justin asked.
"If his hands in a real cockpit are half as steady as they are on that rim? It's not a bet. It's a theft."
"He's finishing! He's finishing!" a student screamed.
Justin straightened his collar and brushed a non-existent speck of dust from his Alpinestars suit. He stood tall, his business-ready charisma returning in full force. He didn't look like a man who had just been proven wrong; he looked like a man who had just discovered fire.
He shared a look with Marcus and began the twenty-meter walk toward the glass room. In his mind, he was already envisioning the headlines, the sponsorship decks, and Roan standing atop a podium.
As he reached the rig, the third lap clocked in.
Purple. Again.