1:45.779
The celebration among the students was deafening, a riot of cheers and high-fives. But Roan remained anchored in the bucket seat, motionless.
The hardware was a revelation. The near-instantaneous response of the 6-DOF platform made it feel less like a game and more like a living, breathing machine. The rim, the load-cell brakes, the wrap-around visuals—he couldn't find a single flaw. On any other day, he would have spent hours lost in this cockpit, pushing for thousandths of a second.
But right now, the noise was just noise.
He cracked a fresh Coke, the carbonation stinging his throat as he took a long, slow drink.
Justin stepped forward, wearing a tight, performative smile—the face of an adult trying to salvage his dignity. "Impressive. I know when I've been beaten." He forced a chuckle, addressing the room. "The track is being cleared as we speak. I've told the marshals to prep the karts. My treat, everyone."
"I don't want to play."
Roan's voice was quiet, but it acted like a kill-switch for Justin's momentum. He shouldered his backpack and looked at Zack. "Take me home. I'm tired."
He climbed out of the rig and started toward the exit. Justin's smile curdled. He hadn't expected a high schooler to pass up a "golden ticket" invitation. He stepped into Roan's path, blocking the way.
"Roan, what's this about? I'm clearing the track for you and your friends. At least show a little respect for the gesture."
"It's not about respect." Roan stopped, dropping the half-finished can into a bin with a dull thud. "It's about this place. It makes me uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable?" Justin gestured vaguely at the hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of equipment. "These are the best rigs in the province."
"The gear is fine," Roan said, looking Justin dead in the eye. "It's the people."
"You—"
Justin was floored. As a businessman, he chose to ignore the barb, instead reaching into his pocket to produce a sleek gold membership card. He held it out like a peace offering.
"Fine. You've got an edge. I like talent. Take this card—unlimited track time, free of charge. If you ever decide to go pro, come talk to me. I'll handle the sponsorship."
"Justin!"
Zack's roar echoed through the paddock, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "Do you really think he's negotiating with you?"
"What else would he be doing?" Justin snapped back, his instinct for hierarchy taking over. "Racing is a black hole for money. Without a patron, he's nothing. I'm giving him a career!"
"You're giving him a career?" Zack stepped into his brother's personal space, his eyes burning. "You still don't get it, do you? He doesn't want your money. He doesn't want your 'path.'"
"Why wouldn't he?" Justin's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "I'm laying the groundwork for him. This is how the world works."
"Did you ever ask if he wanted to walk that road?" Zack's voice broke into a jagged scream. "You're always doing this! You think because you're the one giving, the other person has to receive! When Mom bought you that piano, it was 'for your own good.' When you shipped me off to that school in the UK, it was 'for my own good.' Look at the results, Justin! Did any of it end well?"
"That's different! You saw him in that rig—he loves it!" Justin's defense was becoming desperate, his words tripping over each other.
"What does love have to do with it?" Zack's face was flushed, the heat rising to his neck. "Remember what you said when you smashed that piano to pieces? You said you hated them because they didn't see you. They just saw a project. You're doing the exact same thing. How are you any different from Mom and Dad?"
Silence fell over the P-room. Heavy and suffocating.
Justin's chest heaved. The comparison was a physical blow, striking a nerve he hadn't exposed in years. "I'm doing this for your safety! Racing isn't a piano! If someone dies on my track, it's on me!"
"If it's so dangerous, why are you out there every weekend?" Zack didn't flinch. He pointed at the GT3 RS sitting in the garage bay. "You're crazier than anyone. I know your nickname in the street-racing circles. Don't play the saint with me."
"Enough!" Justin's hand shot up.
Zack flinched instinctively, his shoulders bunching, but he didn't close his eyes. He leaned his face forward, offering a target. "Go ahead. Do it. Hit me in front of everyone. Let's see who you really are."
Justin's hand stayed frozen in mid-air.
He looked at Zack's eyes and saw a reflection from ten years ago—a boy staring at a smashed car model, eyes brimming with the same silent, corrosive resentment. He looked at his own hand, trembling in the air, and felt a wave of nausea. He was becoming the very shadow he had run away from.
Roan watched them, silent. He knew that look. It was the look every child recognized: the "benevolent" mask of authority that stripped away your agency in the name of your own welfare. To Justin, his sponsorship was a shortcut. To Roan, it was like someone forcing "Steering Assist" and "Braking Assist" on a veteran player. It took away the control. It took away the soul of the drive.
Zzzzzzt.
The sound of Roan's backpack zipper closing was a sharp, clinical punctuation to the drama.
Justin's hand slowly dropped to his side. His posture deflated. "I'm... I'm sorry, Zack. Roan." His voice was raspy, stripped of its corporate sheen. "I was out of line. I shouldn't have assumed."
"HOLY—!"
A loud shout erupted from the motion platform nearby. Jax had binned it into the wall at 200 km/h again. The violent jerk of the rig and Jax's panicked swearing broke the heavy atmosphere like a stray rock through a window.
The tension bled out of the room. Justin rubbed his face, looking exhausted. He realized he had almost crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
"Roan," Justin said, turning back. He looked at the boy—not as a project, but as a person. "The talent is real. The card... keep it. Not as a bribe. Just as an apology for me being a prick. Use it or throw it away, it's yours."
He turned to Zack. "I'm sorry for ruining your birthday, kid. Take Roan home if that's what he wants. I'll be here when you get back. The track will be waiting for you. Just karts. No 'safety' lectures."
Zack stared at his brother for a long moment, then gave a curt, solemn nod. He turned to Roan, but as soon as he was out of Justin's line of sight, his face transformed. The dejection vanished, replaced by a triumphant, teary-eyed grin. He nudged Roan, his eyebrows dancing.
"So, Legend... we still heading out?"