November 2016, Rome
The Roman night was a living entity, thick with the smells of cheap perfume, expensive cologne, and the damp chill of late autumn. In a dimly lit bar tucked away from the main piazzas, the bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards, a physical sensation that crawled up the spine. On the windows, condensation gathered like sweat, blurring the ancient city into a smear of gold and shadow.
Konrad Schäfer leaned against the bar, an island of stillness in the chaotic tide. The adrenaline from the illegal street race an hour prior was still a faint hum in his veins, but his body was relaxed, his mind already processing the event like a set of telemetry data. His win hadn't been a surprise to him; it was the logical outcome of superior calculation and feel.
His eyes, a calm, analytical blue, tracked the room until they settled on a woman cutting through the crowd. She wore a deep wine-red dress that spoke of silent money and confidence. Her movement was elegant, purposeful. She wasn't just part of the scene; she was assessing it.
She stopped in front of him, placing a Whiskey Sour on the bar between them. "Lorenzo is being unusually secretive," she said, her English crisp. "He flew you here from Germany himself, didn't he? He doesn't do that for just anyone. Who are you, really?"
Konrad's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. A faint smile touched his lips. He didn't touch the drink. "Someone who likes to drive."
"A man of mystery," she mused, a smile blooming. "Marlena."
"Konrad Schäfer."
Before another word could be exchanged, a figure materialized behind Marlena. A young man in an ill-fitting Armani suit slid a possessive arm around her waist, his gaze locking onto Konrad with undisguised hostility.
"Marlena, bellissima, I've been looking for you," he said, his voice an oily purr before turning to Konrad. "And who is this? Lorenzo, what is this? You bring us a quiet little German boy? He looks like he should be in a library, not a bar." He smirked, looking Konrad up and down. "What's the matter? Sprechen Sie Englisch? Or do you only know how to look serious?"
Konrad remained unmoved, his posture relaxed. He said nothing, his silence more unnerving than any retort.
The man, Matteo, scowled. "Cat got your tongue?"
Konrad's eyes flickered from Matteo's face to the collar of his jacket. His voice, when it came, was flat, devoid of anger. "Your suit sleeve is two centimeters too long. It disrupts the cuff-to-thumb ratio. If you can't get a simple measurement right, I doubt you can find the racing line in a Fiat Panda."
Marlena coughed, hiding a laugh in her hand. Matteo's face flushed a blotchy red.
"You—" he sputtered, clenching his fists. "You have no idea who you're talking to! The Vitale family—"
"Matteo." The voice was smooth, interrupting the impending explosion. Lorenzo Moretti appeared, effortlessly sliding between them, a charming smile on his face. He clapped a hand on Matteo's shoulder and gave Konrad a conspiratorial wink. "I see you've met our local celebrity. And our guest of honor."
Matteo seethed. "This stronzo insulted me!"
"He's a racer who has faster hands and a calmer head than you will ever have," Lorenzo corrected lightly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I think the solution here is obvious. A duel. A final race for the night. The Cipressa pass. Ten kilometers."
"I am not a trophy to be raced for," Marlena stated coolly, her voice cutting through the tension.
"Of course not, cara," Lorenzo said, his grin widening. "The prize is five thousand euros. Cash. And," he added, looking at Konrad, "the winner gets the first exclusive interview with Marlena here. She writes for Autosport. Her words can make a career."
The proposition hung in the air. The money was one thing—a tangible, useful thing. But the interview? That was a different kind of currency altogether. It was a step into a world he had only ever simulated.
Matteo, eager to reclaim his pride and dismiss the upstart, sneered. "Fine. Let's see if your theoretical driving works on a real cliffside road."
Konrad finally pushed himself off the bar. He looked at Lorenzo, then at Marlena, and finally let his gaze rest on Matteo. There was no bravado, no bluster. Just a simple, undeniable certainty.
"Tell me the time and the place," Konrad said. "I will be there."
Two Weeks Earlier - Freiburg, Germany
The only light in the cramped apartment above the Schäfer & Sohn Werkstatt came from three high-resolution monitors, illuminating Konrad Schäfer's focused face. On the screen, a virtual Ferrari SF16-H screamed around the digital tarmac of the Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps. His hands on the direct-drive wheel were calm, his inputs a series of microscopic, precise corrections that bled away no speed.
In a sleek, modern office in Maranello, Italy, Lorenzo Moretti scrolled through reams of data from a private, invite-only sim-racing server. As a scout for a private racing development program, his job was to find diamonds in the rough. He was supposed to be analyzing an Italian F4 driver, but his eyes kept drifting to another dataset.
Username: EisernerKaiser.
The telemetry was... unnatural. The brake trace was a perfect, repeatable curve. The steering input graph looked more like a gently rolling hill than the jagged mountain range of even the best drivers. The consistency was spooky.
Lorenzo highlighted a series of laps and ran a comparison algorithm. The result flashed on his screen: 99.7% Correlation with Ideal Simulated Lap.
His heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn't just a fast gamer. This was something else entirely. A few more clicks, cross-referencing the username with public racing records, revealed a match: a local hillclimb legend in the Black Forest—a kid who dominated in a modified, ancient Porsche 911.
A mechanic and a sim prodigy. The combination was irresistible.
Lorenzo picked up his phone. The invitation wouldn't be for an official test. Too much red tape, too many skeptical old men. No, this would be an "underground race" in Rome. A real-world, no-rules stress test. The 5,000-euro prize was just the bait. The real offer was hidden beneath the surface.
He typed an email to the address listed on the hillclimb registry: "Herr Schäfer. I've seen your data. I think you're wasting your time on virtual tracks. Come to Rome. Let's see if you can drive a real car."
The reply came less than an hour later. It was just one line.
"Send the details."