Breaking the Grid

Good to be back

The hum of the simulation rig vibrates through my hands, the force feedback jolting my arms with every tight corner and acceleration. My eyes are glued to the screen, focused on every millisecond. The simulated roar of the F1 engine fills my ears through my noise-canceling headphones, drowning out the world. The Monza circuit sprawls before me—sharp turns, long straights, and the relentless need for speed.

The light strip along the wall of my gaming room shifts colors, casting hues of blues and reds against the dimly lit space. But then—

A shadow.

A brief flicker of light where there shouldn't be.

I ignore it, gripping the wheel tighter as I prepare to take the next corner when—

A hand on my shoulder.

I jerk in my seat, my foot slamming the brake too late. The car on the screen spins off the track, gravel and dirt flying in the virtual world. The time I was so carefully shaving off my lap vanishes in a puff of simulated smoke.

"Shit!"

I rip off the headesat, tossing it down with a dull thud against the setup. My head falls back against the chair, my frustration boiling over. 

"You made me miss everything," I mutter, voice tight and edged with anger.

I hear a soft sigh, the familiar scent of her perfume reaching me before her voice does.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Kyra.

I close my eyes, my jaw clenching as I try to push down the wave of irritation. It wasn't her fault—not really—but I'm not in the mood to rationalize. Not after everything. Not after McLaren, not after the stress of needing to be perfect in every damn session.

She stays behind me, her presence warm but heavy, like she knows the weight of my mood.

I exhale sharply, my fingers digging into the racing wheel. The digital car is still sitting in the gravel on the screen, the timer blinking, mocking my failure.

The simulation rig creaks as I lean forward, my fingers itching to reclaim the headset from the floor. The wires twist like snakes around the pedals, and I yank at them, untangling the mess with rough, impatient movements.

"Bee, you've been on this since this morning," Kyra's voice reaches me, gentle but firm. "You need to rest. Me and Kimi were thinking about going to the restaurant tonight."

Her words barely pierce through the haze in my mind. My world has narrowed to the simulation, the need to hit the perfect lap time, to prove to myself—hell, to prove to McLaren—that I'm not some replaceable seat warmer.

I brush her off with a distracted, "Yeah, yeah. Have fun."

My hand fumbles with the headset and I force the headphones over my head.

The engine's roar floods my ears again. It's not real, but it's enough to drown out the silence, to fill the void with something predictable. Speed. Corners. Lap times. These are the only things that make sense right now.

Through the screen, the Monza track loads again. The countdown flashes, and my thumb hovers over the paddle shifter, ready to launch.

But Kyra is still there.

Her reflection hovers in the dark corners of the screen, her silhouette soft against the harsh digital world. I pretend not to see her, pretend that if I just focus hard enough, she'll disappear.