"I don't care. Do what you want."
Roan's indifference was genuine. He hadn't reached out for the gold card, though the sharp edge of his irritation toward Justin had smoothed out.
"Then we're staying!" Zack signaled a silent 'OK' to Roan—a gesture so dated it was almost endearing. "Haha! I told you, Justin! My boy Roan is the real deal. You believe me now?"
Zack pranced in front of his brother, wearing an "I told you so" expression that practically begged for a slap. The suffocating tension of the previous few minutes had evaporated.
Justin looked at his brother's smug face and felt an odd sense of relief. He reached out, hooking his left arm around Zack's neck in a headlock, pulling him close with more genuine affection than they'd shown all morning.
"You little brat," Justin muttered, though he was smiling. "Actually plotting against your own brother now, are we?"
He hadn't had the heart to strike Zack when he was truly angry, but now that they were back on solid ground, he didn't hesitate to deliver a sharp flick to Zack's forehead.
"Ow! Hey!" Zack rubbed his head, undeterred. "Justin, you really don't want me telling Mom and Dad about your little 'Street Legend' reputation..."
Thwack.
Another flick to the forehead. The last of the static between them was gone.
"Little monster. Should I start naming the girls in your class you've been crushing on?" Justin joked.
Zack turned a deep shade of crimson and immediately pivoted back to his favorite topic. "Roan has over 6000 iRating on iRacing! Do you have any idea how insane that is?"
"No," Justin said flatly.
He had zero concept of simulator rankings. In his world, racing was an elite game of burning cash; why bother with virtual points when you could just buy a multi-million-dollar GT car? Time was more precious than money, and he preferred spending his precious minutes on real asphalt.
However, his lack of talent was a persistent thorn in his side. Money couldn't buy a faster reaction time. When he saw the look of pure envy on a professional like Marcus's face, Justin knew he had to pay attention. He glanced at Marcus for confirmation.
Marcus looked enlightened. "So that's it... 6000 iRating. No wonder."
"Marcus?" Justin raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping. "Is that high?"
"Justin, it's not about 'high,'" Marcus said, feeling like he'd stumbled upon a hidden treasure. "World-class professional drivers—the guys on the actual F1 or WEC grids—usually hover in that range. He's in the top 0.01% of the global population. No qualifiers. He's the ceiling."
Justin froze. World-class?
He turned his gaze back to the boy in the oversized school uniform. Roan stood there, looking like he lacked the energy to even hold up his own backpack. He was a non-entity in a social crowd, yet he held a world-class engine inside his head. This wasn't just a "growth stock." This was a "Unicorn" that hadn't even hit the market yet.
The last of Justin's patronizing arrogance vanished, replaced by the calculating glint of a venture capitalist who had just found a winning ticket.
The "prey," however, wasn't thinking about business.
Roan was staring at the motion rig. On the outside, he looked coolly detached. On the inside, he was having a breakdown.
I want to touch it again.
The sensation of the direct-drive motor was still vibrating in his fingertips. The resolution of the feedback—smooth as silk, yet detailed enough to let him mentally "trace" every pebble on the track—felt like cheating. Compared to that, his gear-driven G29 at home felt like a rusted tractor.
It's hard to go back to dry bread after tasting steak.
Roan rubbed his fingers together, still feeling the compression of the suspension through Lesmo 2. If he had gear like this, his iRating wouldn't just stay at 6000; it would keep climbing into the stratosphere.
He swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to jump back into the seat. He carved a new tombstone in the cemetery of his mind: Make money. Buy Direct Drive.
For a fleeting second, he almost regretted rejecting the gold card. He realized then that everyone who claimed they "weren't a gear snob" simply hadn't tried the good stuff yet.
I am joining the hardware club, he vowed.
"Alright," Justin said, clapping his hands to break the silence. His corporate mask was back, but now it was directed at Roan with the respect one gives a partner. "The track is prepped. Let's stop talking theory."
His tone was no longer that of a superior, but of a collaborator. "Roan, you're a god on the sim, but I assume this is your first time in a real cockpit?"
Roan nodded.
Justin pointed through the glass at the pit lane. "We have two options. First, the 4-stroke 'Entertainment' karts. 270cc, top speed around 60 km/h. High margin for error. Second, the 2-stroke 'Competition' karts. They'll break 100 km/h. I'm fine with either. What do you want to start with?"
"Why is the 4-stroke slower if the number is bigger?" Zack interrupted, his confusion as genuine as it was misplaced.
Justin rolled his eyes, but Marcus stepped in.
"Efficiency," Marcus explained, holding up two fingers. "A 4-stroke engine needs four steps—intake, compression, power, exhaust—to complete a cycle. The crankshaft turns twice for every power stroke. A 2-stroke does it in one turn. At the same displacement, a 2-stroke theoretically produces twice the power. They don't have complex valves, so the revs climb like a rocket. The punch is terrifying."
Marcus turned his focus to Roan. "Justin, since it's Roan's first time on a real track, I suggest the 4-stroke. It's safer."
Marcus was a veteran of the asphalt; he knew the simulator couldn't prepare your neck for G-forces. "The physical drain and the lateral Gs in a real car are a different beast. If he jumps straight into a 2-stroke, his body might give out before the tires do. Better to be gradual."
"It's like F1," Marcus added. "You climb the ladder. Even the legends start small. Except..."
"Except the legends get to skip grades," Roan said. He wasn't being arrogant; he was simply calculating the variables.