Within the span of a single lap, Roan's relationship with the simulator that had been his constant companion for five years shifted into something resembling "contempt."
It wasn't a lack of love; it was the arrival of a superior flame. Even the high-end motion rig from earlier felt hollow now. The simulated physics he once obsessed over seemed monochromatic compared to the reality of cold asphalt. This was the infinite sampling rate. Absolute zero latency. Raw, unrefined data. The primal scalp-tingling rush of adrenaline, the violent lateral Gs trying to tear his head from his shoulders, and the acrid, heady scent of toasted rubber—no software could render this soul.
By the third lap, entering T1, Roan had already hit the ceiling.
The 270cc engine was tapped out. This "entertainment" kart was a tractor with a low physical ceiling. No matter how much he optimized his line or how deep he dared to brake, the 10-horsepower engine had nothing left to give.
It wasn't enough. A deep, spiritual hunger gnawed at him, a craving for velocity that bordered on a convulsion. He didn't just want to drive; he wanted to race. And then, he wanted a faster car to do it again.
Marcus had stayed in the pits after his demonstration. For the next twenty minutes, the circuit became a scene of absolute, one-sided slaughter. Roan moved through the pack of ten other karts like a ghost. To the others—including Zack—Roan was a flicker in the periphery that vanished into the distance, only to reappear in their mirrors laps later.
Finally, the checkered flag waved.
As the karts trickled back into the paddock, Roan checked his internal status panel. His technical ratings held firm against the real world, but his physical assessment needed a correction.
He was sweating. Hard.
He brought the kart to a halt and pulled off his helmet, his hair matted to his forehead. C-Rank was an overestimation. He recalibrated. Physical Fitness: D-Rank.
The paddock rest area was eerily quiet as Roan pulled himself out of the cockpit. He didn't have "jelly legs"—the 4-stroke G-forces were manageable—but the twenty minutes of high-frequency vibration had taken their toll. The raw mechanical chatter had traveled through the unpadded steel frame into his fingertips and teeth. He felt like his entire nervous system had been put through a blender.
He collapsed into a beanbag chair, sinking into the fabric like a fluid. He wasn't exhausted in the traditional sense; he just refused to move. He transitioned from solid to liquid, his fingers twitching with involuntary spasms—the natural aftermath of twenty minutes of high-intensity combat against steering rack resistance.
His eyes were unfocused, staring at the ceiling, but his Mind Palace was running at maximum capacity. He was archiving.
"Here."
A chilled can of Coke appeared in his field of vision, beads of condensation frosting the aluminum. Roan didn't move. He didn't even blink.
Zack, seeing his friend's pale but strangely satisfied expression, grinned. He popped the tab and held the can to Roan's lips. "Drink up, Legend. Open wide."
Roan opened his dry lips just enough to accept the intake. He was a machine waiting for a refill. Zack carefully tilted the can, letting the dark, icy liquid slide in.
Gulp.
As the cold carbonation hit his esophagus, a localized electrical storm of bubbles erupted down his throat and into his stomach. The simultaneous sting of ice and acid acted like a jump-start to his system.
Roan remained motionless, letting the CO2 expand in his empty stomach until it hit the back of his throat.
"BURP—"
A long, caramel-scented exhale followed. The release was total. His pores seemed to snap open, the numbness in his limbs receded, and the fog in his mind cleared. Like a race car finally receiving a tank of 102-octane fuel, his internal engine roared back to life.
"I don't even treat my girlfriend this well," Zack muttered, though he looked pleased as he handed the half-empty can to Roan. "You good?"
Roan finally blinked—a sharp, bright activation, like headlights cutting through the dark. "Yeah. Good."
He turned his head slightly toward Zack, the gamer's habit of complaining about gear resurfacing instantly. "But the brake pedal is trash... the dead zone is huge. It feels like stepping on a marshmallow. And the steering? The self-aligning torque is all wrong. It doesn't follow the same logic as my G29."
He shifted uncomfortably. "Also, the seat is too hard. My ribs are killing me."
To Zack, Roan wasn't a cold "Sim God" in this moment; he was just a picky high schooler. But Zack knew the "lethargy" was a front. Roan's body was in energy-saving mode because his brain was busy processing the mountain of physical data he'd just harvested.
Every G-force fluctuation, every pebble of asphalt, every tire shriek was being reconstructed. In the space behind his eyes, a semi-transparent "Ghost Car" was lapping the Silverstone Karting North over and over.
I opened the throttle 0.05 seconds too early in T3. Too much curb, too much slip angle. Lost a tenth.
T7 braking point was too conservative. There was more grip in the carcass than I thought.
Every mental simulation shaved another 0.1 seconds off the theoretical perfect lap. While he lay there looking half-dead in a beanbag, Roan was already preparing for his next stint.