The private race track behind the pit area stretched 5.7 kilometers per lap, with twelve turns in total. Three of them were sharp hairpins over 90 degrees, and there was a continuous downhill S-curve everyone called the "Gates of Hell".
I'd raced on this track in my past life. Every inch of asphalt, every c***k in the pavement, every streak of rubber burn left by tires—all of it was etched into my muscle memory.
Because I was the one who designed this track in my past life.
I burst through the office door and didn't slow down for a second. I hopped into the championship-winning car my dad had treasured for twenty years, fired it up, and tore straight onto the track.
Everyone from the office came sprinting out right after me. They stood outside the pit area, staring at me, jaws slack wi
