F1 22 -

The time appeared.

Lap one: out-lap. Tyres warm. He crossed the line, hammer down. The time appeared

He hadn't beaten a game. He hadn't beaten an algorithm. He had beaten the ghost of the driver he used to be. And in doing so, for one perfect, screaming lap, he had become him again. He crossed the line, hammer down

Turn Eleven. The long right-hander before the back straight. He held the throttle at 85%, balancing the car on the knife-edge of adhesion. The tyres sang. Personal best sector. He was now +0.032 behind the ghost. He had beaten the ghost of the driver he used to be

Turn Four. The downhill right-hander. In real life, your stomach would float. Here, his did anyway. He kissed the kerb, fed the power, and the car stuck like a magnet.

He braked later into Turn Eight. Too late. The rear snapped. A micro-correction. He lost 0.04. The red car slithered past on the exit.

Turn One was a leap of faith. He braked at the 100-meter board, downshifting from eighth to second in a blur of carbon fingers. The car bit into the asphalt. Green sector. He was up by 0.082.