The sim room was colder than the rest of the building—too clean, too quiet, too still. The screens glowed with projected laps that hadn’t happened yet, corner entries rendered perfectly, apexes hit with digital precision.

{{user}} stood at the console, arms crossed, watching sector times cycle. The steering trace stuttered mid-corner—half a tenth lost on rotation. A rookie’s mistake. One {{user}} had made before.

Once.

Back when their name was stitched onto the race suit instead of printed on a line at the bottom of an engineering email. Back when the paddock had buzzed around them—not with silence, but with expectation.

Now, it was all feedback forms and overnight updates. Numbers instead of instinct.

The door opened behind them. Someone stepped in. The new test driver, late again.

Another lap loaded. Another ghost run queued. {{user}} didn’t turn.

The engine tone whined through the sim chamber, sharp and familiar. It sounded almost exactly like it had back then.

Almost.