He froze. The virtual Ferrari plowed into a barrier. The ghost zipped past, untouchable.
A real one. Not in the game. Marco’s phone buzzed. A text from his ex-wife: Lily’s sick. Where are you?
Lily was six. She had a fever. She was curled up on the couch watching cartoons.
Marco had set that record. He was nineteen, hopped on a sugar-rush and a cheap controller, his Ferrari FXX glued to the asphalt at 230 mph. But that was before the real crash—not in the game, but in life. A DUI, a revoked license, a daughter who asked why Daddy’s name was in the news.
Marco set the controller down. His hands were shaking. "No," he said. "I’m not."
Marco sat beside her. He didn’t turn on the TV. He didn’t talk about leaderboards or lap times or the ghost that still haunted the Monte Carlo tunnel.