F1 22 -

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.

He caught the slide with a violent, instinctive flick of the wrists. The car straightened. The line flashed past. He braked later into Turn Eight

Then came the complex. Turns Five, Six, Seven. A snake of direction changes. The ghost of his old lap, a translucent red car, was glued to his gearbox. He could see its rear wing wiggling, mocking him. He was the ghost now. A micro-correction

He’d set the qualifying time three months ago, on a night when everything clicked. A 1:28.347. His personal best around the virtual Bahrain International Circuit. Since then, he’d been chasing it, losing a tenth here, two there. The fire had dimmed. He caught the slide with a violent, instinctive

He didn’t chase the time. He chased the feeling . The feeling of being seventeen again, before the ambulance, before the “what ifs.” The feeling of the universe shrinking to just the width of the racing line.

Tonight’s ghost was his own.

He saved the replay, leaned back, and smiled. Tomorrow, he would chase this ghost. And he hoped, with everything he had, that he would lose.