9 Ghost Laps

Night had settled over Silverstone like a wet blanket, damp and heavy. The storm had passed, but the puddles still reflected the paddock lights in blurry swaths of orange and white. Most teams had packed up hours ago, but Razor GP's sim trailer still glowed from within, its hum a low, private whisper in the quiet night.

Inside, Luca sat strapped into the simulator rig, the wheel gripped tightly in gloved hands. His fireproof undershirt clung to him like a second skin, soaked with effort, not sweat.

He wasn't chasing lap times tonight.

He was chasing a ghost.

Projected onto the digital Suzuka Circuit ahead of him was a faint, translucent silver car — Matteo's car. Not a recording from a race, but the perfect sim lap Matteo had left behind: wet conditions, balanced setup, full focus. A lap the engineers had saved, not for data, but for memory.

It wasn't public. Olivia had sent it to Luca privately with a single message:

"If you want to understand him, follow him."

So Luca did.

The ghost car weaved through Suzuka's iconic "S" curves like poetry: no corrections, no hesitation. It flowed — Matteo flowed — from turn to turn as if the track bent around him, not the other way around.

Luca tried to follow. He really tried.

But every time, the ghost pulled away.

First in the slow right-hander at Dunlop. Then under the bridge. Then again through the sweeping corners of Spoon.

He was too late on the throttle. Too eager on the brake. His lines were tight, but they were hard. Matteo's were smooth. The ghost didn't look fast — it looked effortless.

Luca clenched his teeth and reset the lap.

Again.

And again.

Twenty laps in. The ghost remained untouchable.

On the twenty-first, something changed.

Luca braked earlier at Degner. Not out of caution — but because he felt it. The turn didn't want to be attacked. It wanted to be invited.

Two tenths gained.

At 130R, he feathered the throttle mid-corner instead of stabbing it. The car stayed light, alive under him.

Another tenth.

By lap twenty-five, he was breathing with the rhythm of the track.

On lap twenty-seven, he stayed within three car lengths of the ghost for an entire sector.

At the final corner, he had the chance to pass it.

But he didn't.

He lifted off and let it go.

Not because he couldn't beat it.

Because he finally understood why Matteo drove the way he did.

It wasn't about dominance. It was about harmony.

Tom was waiting outside the sim trailer, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his lips.

"You lifted on the final straight," he said.

Luca nodded. "It didn't feel right to overtake him. Not yet."

Tom handed him a bottle of water. "You know he hated sim racing, right?"

"He was still good at it."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Too good. He only did it once before every race weekend. Said more than that would dull the edges."

Luca took a long sip of water and leaned against the wall.

"He wasn't perfect," Luca said quietly. "But he knew how to make the car dance."

Tom looked at him for a moment. "Do you?"

"I'm learning the rhythm. Not every note. But the tempo."

The next day, Razor GP had a private aero test planned at a remote airfield in Spain — no fans, no press, just long straights and sensor-laden wings.

Kane was scheduled in the morning. Luca would drive in the afternoon.

But when Luca arrived early, Kane was still inside the data truck, watching replays of his Silverstone stint with two engineers.

When the others left, Kane looked up.

"You're early."

"You're still here," Luca replied.

Kane motioned to a screen showing telemetry traces. "You want to know what separates us?"

"Sure."

Kane pointed at a simple graph — brake pressure over time. His vs Luca's.

"You brake later. But harder. I brake earlier. Smoother."

Luca squinted. "So?"

"You attack the car. I ask it to come with me."

Luca crossed his arms. "I'm not here to be soft."

"And I'm not telling you to be," Kane said calmly. "I'm telling you that if you want the car to do impossible things, you have to stop treating it like a weapon."

There was no arrogance in Kane's voice. No challenge. Just clarity.

"I used to drive like you," he added. "Then I nearly lost everything at Spa. Wet race. Turn eleven. Tried to make a move I didn't need to."

Luca hesitated. "What changed?"

"I stopped proving. Started listening."

Luca gave a slow nod. "I'll remember that."

Kane turned back to his data. "Good. Maybe you'll last."

That night, back at his hotel, Luca sat alone with his laptop. Messages had come in — social media praise, press alerts, team reports. But one message stood out.

No name. No sender.

Just a video file.

He clicked it.

Helmet cam footage from Matteo's last Formula 2 race. The final lap. The accident.

The screen showed the inside of the car — Matteo's calm hands on the wheel, shifting gears, approaching the final turn.

Then: a twitch. Oversteer.

A snap.

Matteo lifted. Too late.

The screen froze mid-frame, the gravel trap just a breath away.

Text appeared on screen:

"Instinct saves you. Wisdom prevents the need."

Luca stared, the quiet roar of blood in his ears drowning out everything else.

Someone had sent this to him deliberately.

A warning.

A lesson.

Maybe a threat.

He closed the laptop slowly and looked out the hotel window. Lightning flared on the horizon. A dry storm in the distance.

But it was already here, inside him.

The ghost wasn't just Matteo.

It was himself — the version of him he hadn't yet grown into.