It had just remembered who I really was.

The game wasn't over.

“You forgot how to drive, old man.”

The pursuit threshold hit 5. Helicopter spotlights cut through the dusk. The Ford GT slammed into my rear bumper, and my health bar dropped to 75%. A voice, my voice but younger, colder, whispered through the game's chat:

Hope.

The save file wasn't corrupted. That was the first lie.

The cops closed in. I had no nitrous. No pursuit breakers. Just a stock BMW and the memory of every cheap trick I'd ever used to win.