Leo exhaled, a long, shaky breath that misted the inside of his visor. His hands were cramped, the muscles in his forearms burning from the haptic static. But the noise was gone.
Laps ninety-six through ninety-nine were a revelation.
Simex dropped every single obstacle. The fog vanished, replaced by a clear, rain-washed view of the Japanese hills. The sensory jamming stopped. The wind died. The power returned to a full, screaming one hundred percent.
After ninety-five laps of fighting for every inch of tarmac, the sudden clarity was overwhelming. The circuit felt huge. The car felt light, almost as if it were floating. Without the interference, Leo's brain had a massive amount of surplus processing power. He wasn't just driving the lines; he was perfecting them. He was finding millimeters of track he had never seen before. He was hearing the tires "whisper" to him about the grip levels before he even reached the corners.
Lap ninety-six: 1:44.6.
Lap ninety-seven: 1:44.3.
