The back straight. DRS open. The virtual world blurred. 210 kph. 280. 320. He out-braked himself into Turn Fourteen, the heavy stop before the final chicane. The ABS chattered. He felt the shudder in his coccyx.
He caught the slide with a violent, instinctive flick of the wrists. The car straightened. The line flashed past.
His heart was a piston now, firing hard. The back straight
Leo let go of the wheel. His hands were trembling. His t-shirt was damp. The room was silent except for the idle burble of the virtual Ferrari.
The time appeared.
He flowed through Turns Two and Three, that sweeping right-left that always felt like a held breath. The force feedback told him the rear was hunting, nervous. He caught it with a whisper of opposite lock. Still green. +0.115.
“No,” Leo whispered, teeth clenched. “Come back.” 210 kph
Final corner. A gentle right-hander onto the pit straight. He got on the power early, too early, riding the violent oversteer. The Ferrari’s nose pointed at the inside wall, the rear sliding wide. Any real driver would have lifted. Leo didn’t.
Lap one: out-lap. Tyres warm. He crossed the line, hammer down. He out-braked himself into Turn Fourteen, the heavy