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Suddenly, his steering wheel began to vibrate violently. The Force Feedback (FFB) wasn't mimicking the road; it was fighting him, trying to wrench the wheel from his hands. His monitors flickered, showing brief flashes of his own personal files, his bank login screen, and his saved passwords. Ignoring the warnings of his antivirus software—which he
He pushed harder, but the black car gained on him with impossible physics, hovering inches from his bumper. When he looked at the driver name above the car, it didn't show a real name. It simply read:
He was back in a slow Mazda MX-5, starting from the bottom of the Rookie class. He was broke, and he had a lot of practicing to do, but for the first time in a long time, the car felt exactly the way it should: his own.
Márk joined a practice session at the Nürburgring. He was alone on the track—or so he thought. As he crested the hill at Flugplatz , a matte-black Dallara P217 appeared in his rearview mirror. It hadn't been there a second ago. It didn't show up on his relative timing black box.