Screech—
The tires screamed at the limit of adhesion. The steering wheel bucked violently in Konrad's hands. The car was a pendulum at the top of its swing, poised to spin into the gravel trap.
He was completely focused. In that critical moment, his mind was unnervingly calm.
He had made a mistake. A fundamental one. His turn-in was too sharp, his initial speed too high. The front tires had given up their grip. Understeer.
A rookie would have panicked, stomping on the brakes and locking the wheels, guaranteeing a spin.
But Konrad's reactions were pure, unprocessed instinct. His perception of the car wasn't just in his hands and feet; it was a full-body sensation, a vivid, internal map of weight transfer and tire load.
He was fused with the machine.
"Brake."
His left foot stabbed the pedal—a sharp, precise jab, not the modulated trail-braking of street cars. This was an aggressive transfer of weight, forcing the nose down.
For a split second, the front tires bit. The speed dropped from 110 km/h to 85. The steering wheel answered his input. He released the brake, turned the wheel a fraction more, and fed in a whisper of throttle.
The sequence was fluid, almost subconscious.
The front end hooked onto the apex. The rear, lagging behind the sudden shift in momentum, started to slide.
A drift? No. That would bleed speed and overheat the tires. But this momentary loss of grip was an opportunity. A chance to pivot.
Clean. Decisive.
Konrad felt the critical point of the slide and countered it with a flick of opposite lock, using the car's own inertia to snap it straight. A second, firmer application of throttle pulled the car back from the edge of the track and launched it out of the corner.
The car, balanced on a razor's edge, stabilized and rocketed down the following straight.
From chaos, to correction, to control. It was over in less than two seconds.
Behind him, Montfatini, who had been holding his breath, let it out in a quiet rush. His eyes widened.
Impressive.
Leclerc stared at the screen, his own heart hammering against his ribs. A surge of adrenaline echoed in his ears.
On the screen, the virtual car had clawed its way back from the curb, its tires inches from the gravel. It was a save born of pure, raw instinct.
"This guy," Leclerc muttered, a spark of respect in his eyes. "He actually caught it."
Inside the simulator, Konrad's focus didn't break. It was as if the near-disaster had never happened. His hands made micro-adjustments on the wheel. He wasn't chasing a lap time. He was learning.
He settled into a rhythm, holding the car between 150 and 170 km/h, a stable cruise. He was feeling the machine—the weight of the brakes, the throttle response, the way the chassis communicated through the seat.
His control grew smoother.
For the next corner, he braked earlier, released the throttle cleaner, and held a tighter line.
The third corner was a more complex, double-apex turn. He used a early turn-in to set the car on the outside, then let its rotation carry it through the second part of the corner, his tires brushing the inside curb.
But it wasn't that simple. A Formula car was a different beast. The margin for error was microscopic.
The top speed of an F4 car, around 230 km/h, wasn't far from the modified Mini he'd driven in Rome. But on those tight, public streets, he'd barely touched 160. Here, on a virtual open track, the car could stretch its legs.
Street racing tested guts. This tested precision.
He hadn't even pushed to the limit, and the car was already easily exceeding 150 km/h on corner exits. At these speeds, every input had to be perfect. There was no ABS, no traction control. A slight error in steering or a delayed brake application would send him into a spin.
And then, the G-forces began to register.
In an F1 car, drivers pull up to 5 Gs in corners—five times their body weight. The simulator, set to F4 specs, only replicated a fraction of that. Maybe 2 or 3 Gs. It felt like a 15-kilo weight was strapped to his helmet.
The gravitational load in high-speed turns pressed him into his seat. The seat itself tilted to simulate lateral forces. The seatbelt dug into his shoulders. His neck muscles strained to keep his head upright. His vision narrowed at the edges.
Yet, within the growing physical strain and the dizzying sensation, Konrad felt something else.
A spark of pure, undiluted excitement.
A door to a new world was cracking open.
'So this,' he thought, his knuckles white on the wheel, a faint, sharp smile finally touching his lips, 'is what a real racing car feels like.'