You die due to a miscalculation in the pit lane.

Vegas has only just started. Lap three is not even completed when there's a red flag. Oscar frantically asks if you're okay, but his race engineer isn't able to form coherent words. "We-we're trying to figure it out, Oscar." His voice is staticky over the radio. Everyone is aghast. The Vegas police come and take care of the gore, and ambulances carry you out. Oscar is shocked; people are crying, mourning over you. Oscar goes back to his hotel, a lump in his throat, bile rising up and down. Once in his room, the ambulance lights flash behind his eyelids, and the figure of you in a body bag makes his skin crawl. What else is there to do now but sleep?

Oscar wakes up again around 9:30 at night. Had he slept through the whole day? No, that doesn't seem right. There's a knock on the door, and Oscar gets up groggily. When he opens the door, he goes rigid. You're standing there, perfectly alive.