Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

Chapter 257: Learning Driving (3)

“This isn’t what driving is about.”

Damien leaned back in the seat, eyes still on the track beyond the pit lane, his tone thoughtful. “Then what is driving about?”

Vivienne was already outside the car, but she paused at the sound of his voice. She turned, leaning one hand lightly on the open door, her expression unreadable.

“It’s not about pedals,” she said. “Not really. Not once you’ve got the basics down.”

She tapped her temple.

“It’s about how you think. How you feel—under pressure, in motion, at speed.”

She took a slow breath, gaze shifting out toward the vast open loop of the track. The low lights caught her features—hard angles, sharpened by memory.

“When you’re in traffic,” she said, “you learn restraint. Timing. You stop reacting, and start anticipating. One eye on the lane, one on the drivers around you. You don’t waste energy braking unless you have to. Eventually, if you’re good, you stop needing brakes at all.”

She met Damien’s gaze again.

“And if you have adrenaline addiction, or ego—or just too much hunger in your blood—you start looking for gaps. Spaces you can fit into, moves you might get away with. That’s where the recklessness starts.”

He watched her now, intent.

“And on the track,” she continued, “that recklessness gets refined. Shaped. It’s no longer about chaos—it’s about advantage. Precision. Every line you take. Every downshift. Every inch you save in a corner without losing traction.”

She stepped back, letting the car door close softly behind her.

“You want to know what real driving is?”

Damien tilted his head slightly.

“It’s smoothness,” she said. “The way you roll into speed without stutter. The way you become an extension of the vehicle. No wasted motion. No unnecessary force. Just flow.”

Her eyes narrowed, not cold—but sharp.

“Driving is control. And control is everything.”

She paused, letting the words settle.

“Anyone can learn the mechanics. But the difference between someone who knows how to operate a car, and someone who can race—comes down to the small things.”

Her hand moved slightly in the air, as if drawing invisible shapes.

“Micro-optimizations. Weight transfers. Throttle blips. How your hands guide through a curve—not fight it. How your foot leans into a gear instead of forcing one.”

Damien gave a low hum, quiet but thoughtful—but deep down, he knew: it hadn’t quite landed. Not all the way.

He understood the words. The logic tracked. But this wasn’t math. This wasn’t a system he could brute-force his way through. Vivienne’s explanation wasn’t meant to be memorized—it was meant to be felt.

And that was the part still out of reach.

Vivienne watched him a moment longer. Saw the flicker of uncertainty, the tight edge of his mouth that said almost, but not yet. She didn’t comment on it.

She just moved.

With one sharp motion, she opened the driver-side door again and gestured toward him—not with words, but with a tilt of her head that made it clear.

Out.

Damien blinked. “What—”

“You’ve had your turn,” she said, already reaching for the steering column. “Now watch.”

He slid out reluctantly, stepping back as she settled into the driver’s seat. She adjusted the mirror, rolled her shoulders once, and reached for the harness with a measured ease.

And for a split second, Damien saw something unexpected cross her face.

Something like… anticipation.

She adjusted the seat next—sliding it slightly forward, then back again, then forward once more. Her fingers moved to the controls with familiarity, but not routine. There was a pause. A quiet in her expression, like someone reacquainting themselves with an old language. Muscle memory returning from deeper storage.

She hadn’t driven in a while.

Not really driven. Not alone. Not like this.

Not without protocols or staff or observers.

And the flicker in her eyes—the faint gleam of thrill behind all that composure—made that fact very, very clear.

Damien stepped back toward the passenger side, leaning slightly on the open window as he watched her hands wrap around the wheel.

“You look… weirdly excited,” he said.

Vivienne didn’t look at him. She smiled faintly—just a ghost of a smile.

“I am.”

She flicked the ignition once, and the Tri-Vaulted Core roared to life—not gentle this time, not reserved. The engine growled like it had been holding its breath all evening, waiting for her.

Vivienne settled in, spine straightening, one foot already resting on the clutch with the poise of a professional who didn’t need second chances.

“This,” she said softly, almost to herself, “is what control feels like.”

And then the Varkos leapt forward.

*****

The Varkos surged forward—not violently, but with purpose. The kind of acceleration that didn’t scream for attention, but carved space ahead like it had every right to be there.

Vivienne handled the wheel like it was an extension of her thoughts. Hands low, precise. Feet dancing with unconscious economy.

As the car picked up speed, she spoke—not to fill the air, but to anchor it.

“Watch my feet.”

Damien leaned in slightly, eyes down. He could already hear the shift in the engine tone as she worked the clutch—quick depress, feathered throttle, smooth gear change that landed with barely a tremor.

“Most people drive like they’re forcing a system to obey,” she said, fingers adjusting ever so slightly as the track curved. “But the car doesn’t respond to force. It responds to balance.”

Damien nodded faintly, absorbing her words.

And then something happened.

There was no sudden jolt. No vision shift. But something tightened inside him.

His pulse slowed. His pupils dilated, then narrowed—focusing. Reflexes sharpened.

His mind stilled.

[Neural Predator]

> Activation Detected

> Threat Environment: High-Precision Observational State

> Mode: Analysis – Kinetic Mapping

Normally, the trait only activated during combat.

But this?

This was another kind of combat. Control. Velocity. Response time measured in fractions.

‘Is this how it works? Interesting.’

And Vivienne was the perfect target for the system’s focus.

Damien’s vision adjusted slightly. The way her ankle flexed—measured, never overstepping. Her fingers—two-millimeter micro-corrections as she entered a low-speed turn. The car didn’t fight her. It flowed around her movements like water obeying the contours of stone.

“You’re rev-matching right now,” he said suddenly.

Vivienne arched an eyebrow without looking at him. “Explain what that means.”

He focused on her heel—how she blipped the throttle mid-downshift, syncing engine speed with transmission. No jerk. No lag.

“You’re matching the engine RPM to the next gear before clutch re-engagement,” he said. “So the shift is smooth. No jolt. No wheel lock.”

She allowed a small, approving nod.

“Not bad. When you were buying the car, you said about the shifters. At that time, I thought you were just trying to act wise about the topic, but it seems you have had your research.”

“Well, cars are quite a fun topic to explore.”

“Heh…..You won’t get to use this often,” she said. “Most modern systems handle the sync automatically. But in a real machine? Manual build? It’s the difference between keeping momentum and snapping traction.”

The car flowed into a curve at speed, and Vivienne didn’t brake. She downshifted. Rev-matched. Let the engine do the work.

“Brakes slow you down,” she said. “But gears control you. Always remember that.”

Damien watched her heel—how it rolled between the brake and throttle without lifting fully. Fluid. Balanced. Every movement calibrated.

And with his trait active, he could see it—how her entire posture was tuned for minimal resistance. She wasn’t sitting in the car.

She was the car.

Damien’s heart kicked once in his chest.

This was no longer a lesson.

This was a glimpse.

A map.

And he was memorizing every line.

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