He reached for his phone and opened a browser. He didn't search for tax forms this time. He typed: Local track days, bike rentals, June. The race wasn't over yet.

The haptic feedback in his controller kicked in, vibrating like a mechanical heartbeat. As the red lights on the starting gantry vanished, Leo didn't just see a game; he felt the phantom G-force of the launch.

By lap three, the "Ghost" was back. He wasn't thinking about his desk job or the metal pins in his shin. He was leaning into the virtual corners, his eyes tracking the apex with a precision he thought he’d lost. He reached the corner—the one that had ended it all—and instead of braking early out of fear, he tucked in, kissed the curb, and accelerated through the exit.