The engine screamed. Marco’s fingers moved on instinct, but his mind was elsewhere. He wasn’t driving the car. He was chasing a memory—a younger, hungrier version of himself that existed only as a silver streak on the asphalt.

Marco “El Fantasma” Vega didn’t race for glory anymore. Not really. The trophies from the 2011 World Tour sat in a cardboard box under his sink, collecting dust next to a leaky pipe. He raced because the canyon roads of the Sierra Nevada remembered his name, and tonight, they were calling him back.

Lap two: better. The rhythm returned. The nitro management, the perfect drift angle, the split-second decision to ride the curb on the final straight. The ghost of his younger self shimmered ahead, ten meters, then five, then—

Lily was six. She had a fever. She was curled up on the couch watching cartoons.

"Marco 'El Fantasma' Vega: Fastest man on two wheels. But ask him what he's running from."

He stood up. The chat was booing. Kai was scrambling. Marco picked up his jacket and walked out into the cold Nevada night. He drove his real car—a beat-up Honda Civic, under the speed limit—to his daughter’s house.

A real one. Not in the game. Marco’s phone buzzed. A text from his ex-wife: Lily’s sick. Where are you?