At 3:33 exactly, a flare—red and sharp—ignited at the tunnel entrance ahead. He floored the starter Porsche. As he passed the flare, the screen flickered. The HUD vanished. No speedometer. No minimap.

Leo laughed. “Right. A midnight club for grandpas.”

But at 3:28 AM, he was there. Virtual tires on the digital asphalt. The moon was a perfect white circle over the canyon. He toggled damage to off , set traffic to low , and waited.

But at the bottom of the list, one slot remained locked. Its thumbnail was a mirror.

He never played online again. But sometimes, late at night, the console would turn on by itself. And the Reventón would be waiting in his garage, engine warm, tires covered in salt from a road he’d never driven.

“One hundred and sixty-seven thousand bounty for the Veyron Super Sport?” he muttered, scrolling past the locked icon. “I have a job, Criterion. I have taxes .”