The ghost flickered. Its form dissolved into a shower of blue polygons, scattering like fireflies over the neon city. The track ahead was empty.

"He's early," hissed his co-pilot, a grizzled archivist named Dox. "The Wraith never shows before the third sector."

Kaelen's heart stopped. The service ramp wasn't a shortcut. It was a dead end. In the old game, it was blocked by a destructible wall that required a specific speed and angle to breach. No one had ever tried it in a real race because the margin for error was zero.

"What the hell was that?" Dox shouted. "That’s not in the original telemetry!"

Kaelen pulled alongside. The two cars—one flesh and metal, one pure data—flew over the monorail, sparks flying from the Centenario’s undercarriage. The finish line was a mile away. A straight shot.

"No," Kaelen said, pulling off his VR headset. In the real world, a single tear rolled down his cheek. "He let me go."

The first jump. Kaelen hit the nitro. The Centenario lurched. For a second, he drew level. Through the shimmer of the ghost, he could almost see his father's helmet—a matte-black skull with a single red visor.

Kaelen abandoned the spiral. He threw the Centenario off the main track, tires shrieking. The wall rushed toward him—gray, solid, final. He had a single second to calculate. The speed was right. The angle was wrong by half a degree.