Page 37 of Knot So Lucky

So I stay silent and focus on the screen.

The countdown begins.

Five red lights appear at the top of the display, illuminating one by one with mechanical precision.

ONE

My hands settle on my keyboard and mouse, finding the familiar positions. WASD for steering and throttle control—not ideal compared to a wheel setup, but I learned to drive on keyboard controls and my muscle memory is deeply ingrained.

TWO

I take a breath, letting it out slowly. My heart rate settles into that focused calm that comes before competition. Not quite meditation, but close. A state of heightened awareness where everything else falls away except the track ahead and the opponents around me.

THREE

The other racers are revving their engines—a useless gesture in a simulation, purely psychological posturing. I can hear it through my headphones, the roar of virtual engines mixing with more commentary from the voice chat that I've mentally tuned out.

FOUR

My eyes narrow, focusing on the track layout displayed on screen. Turn one is going to be chaos—always is in street circuits with this many aggressive drivers. I'll need to be smart about my approach. Not too aggressive, not too passive. Pick my moment.

FIVE

The final light illuminates, and for a heartbeat, everything is suspended.

Seven racers. One track. No room for error.

The voice chat has gone silent too, everyone suddenly focused on what's about to happen.

I lean forward slightly in my chair, coffee forgotten on the desk beside me. My fingers rest lightly on the controls, ready to react the microsecond the lights change.

This is it.

The moment between potential and action.

Between being just another last-minute fill-in and proving I belong here.

My stormy emerald eyes reflect the green light as it flashes onto the screen.

GO.

CHAPTER 7

Digital Victory, Analog Yearning

~AURORA~

The virtual track blurs past in streaks of color and motion, my fingers dancing across the keyboard with the kind of precision that comes from muscle memory and pure focus.

Eleven rounds down.

One to go.

The voice chat has devolved into a cacophony of male egos bruising in real-time, their commentary becoming increasingly creative in its vulgarity as I've systematically dismantled their assumptions about my skill level.

"This is such bullshit?—"

"He's gotta be cheating, there's no way?—"