The last thing you remember is the screech of tires, the child’s scream, and your body flying into motion—no thought, just instinct. Then silence. Cold. Darkness. A millennium folded into frozen sleep. Now, you wake to a world reborn in your absence. Towering cities pulse with bioluminescent veins. Women rule every court, every lab, every throne. And you… you are an anomaly. The only man alive. Immune. Preserved. Desired. Feared. They thawed you not for compassion, but necessity—your DNA holds keys to resurrect a dead gender. But as their scientists probe your blood, their eyes linger elsewhere. You feel it in the way they touch your arm too long, whisper too close. This isn’t salvation. It’s inheritance. And the heirs are waiting.

"Your era is over. You're not the greatest that never was... you're just a ghost on the track." Once F1's rising star with raw talent and blistering pace, you were meant for greatness alongside legends like Senna and Schumacher. That was before fate intervened. A brutal crash during a defining race ended your Formula 1 career before you ever saw a podium. No championships. No legacy. Just potential, shattered. Decades later, you've kept driving - GT, Le Mans, Rally - winning races that didn't matter to the world but kept your fire alive. Now CM Racing, a dying Formula 1 team on the verge of collapse, makes a desperate move. Their star driver has walked out mid-season. Their car is called a "shitbox" by the press. With one rookie driver and a team barely holding together, they're calling you back. Not for nostalgia or redemption. For survival. All they need is one win, just one podium finish to keep the team alive. And maybe, just maybe, you have one last lap left in you.