At Eteon headquarters,
Brixton gritted his teeth, barely suppressing the pain as he sat rigidly in the metal chair. Behind him, a cluster of robotic arms whirred to life, sparks flying and welders sizzling as they cut into his torn flesh.
His back had been ripped open in the last battle with Leon. Now, silver-white cybernetic implants were exposed, gleaming under the cold light. The machines were reconstructing him, restoring the body that Leon had nearly destroyed. Piece by piece, his broken frame was being reforged.
But the humiliation was far from healed.
Suddenly, golden soundwave ripples shimmered across the pristine white wall — a communication feed from the mysterious mastermind behind Eteon. The voice that came through was distorted, processed through a voice modulator, making it impossible to identify.
"The interception failed. They've already reached New York."
The statement was brief, but its weight made Brixton's pupils constrict.
"Impossible!" Brixton spat, his tone laced with disbelief. "He's just one man… a mechanic with a garage. How could he evade all of Eteon's traps?"
He knew exactly what had been deployed. Apache AH-64s, Hellfire missiles, barricades, even a minefield—Leon had cut through everything. No one was supposed to survive that.
The voice remained calm:
"Leon is not an ordinary mechanic. We investigated, and found… nothing. His past is a complete blank."
That revelation hit harder than any bullet.
A man who could erase every trace of his existence from global records, from government databases, even from the darkest corners of the internet? Either Leon had appeared out of thin air, or the power backing him was greater than Eteon itself.
Brixton inhaled sharply, a chill creeping through him. He remembered the first time he had walked into Leon's "shabby" garage. He'd sneered at the peeling paint, mocked Hattie for wasting her time with a nobody. He had underestimated Leon. And then, in the blink of an eye, Leon had beaten him down—even though Brixton's genetically enhanced strength allowed him to lift trucks with his bare hands.
The more he thought about it, the more terrifying Leon became. That broken-down garage was just camouflage. Behind it lay secrets—secrets Eteon desperately needed to crack.
The distorted voice continued coldly:
"We've identified his objective. He's in New York to find Professor Andrek, the one who escaped."
Brixton's eyes narrowed. Of course—Andrek, the scientist who had once developed genetic serums to cure hereditary diseases. Until Eteon twisted his research into a bioweapon — a viral agent designed to rewrite human DNA. Disgusted, Andrek had fled, vanishing from Eteon's grip.
Everyone assumed he was hiding in some remote village. But no—he had pulled a classic misdirection.
Small concealment lies in the wild, but great concealment lies in the city.
Andrek had buried himself in the chaos of New York, the world's busiest metropolis. The perfect hiding spot.
Brixton clenched his fists. "I'll go to New York immediately. Leon may be trouble, but that old man? He won't stand a chance against me."
But the mastermind's voice cut him off, harsher this time:
"No. You will bring Leon back to me. Alive."
"Alive?!" Brixton's eyes widened. Just killing Leon would already be nearly impossible. And now the boss wanted him captured alive?
"The second-generation genetic enhancement serum is ready. It will boost your strength beyond what you've experienced. Use it. And remember — Leon must be taken alive."
The intent was unmistakable. They wanted to dissect Leon, to unravel the secret of his impossible power.
The communication cut off. Immediately, a robotic arm lowered a syringe filled with glowing fluid, stabbing it deep into Brixton's cybernetic spine. He growled through clenched teeth, veins bulging, as a surge of raw power ripped through him. His eyes burned with fury.
Tomorrow, Leon would pay.
Meanwhile, in New York City.
Morning sunlight filtered into the Four Seasons Hotel, one of the city's most luxurious five-star towers. Marble pillars, chandeliers, and sweeping views of Central Park and the Hudson River made it the perfect backdrop for kings of finance, heads of state… or a street racer who just happened to be driving a forty-billion-dollar hypercar.
Leon stretched lazily in the penthouse suite, poured himself a glass of water, and admired the skyline. Life was good.
Ding dong.
The doorbell rang. Leon opened the door—only to find himself face-to-face with Deckard Shaw.
Shaw froze, shocked to see him. Then his rage boiled over.
"So it really is you. I was just about to come looking for you!"
His voice was sharp with anger. Leon's fight with Eteon had left Shaw's friend, O'Neal, in the hospital in a coma. For Shaw, this was personal. He pulled his gun, leveling it at Leon.
"You bastard—you're paying for O'Neal's life!"
Leon raised an eyebrow, smirking.
"And how exactly do you want me to pay?"
"Money. Compensation. Enough to cover every cent of hospital costs," Shaw snarled.
Leon's grin widened.
"Oh, I don't have any money."
"Bullshit, broke bastard!" Shaw barked, his voice dripping with contempt. He yanked out his car keys, waving them in Leon's face.
"See this? McLaren. Three hundred grand. You'll never afford one in your pathetic life."
He sneered, his pride swelling. But in his anger, he seemed to have forgotten who he was dealing with—the man who had driven through minefields, fought Eteon's death squads, and rolled into New York in a car that wasn't even supposed to exist.
Leon chuckled softly, then pulled something from his own pocket: a sleek, futuristic key fob shaped like a concept car, without buttons, its smooth glass surface glowing with a digital display of mileage, fuel, and battery data.
"Three hundred thousand? Cute. This key? It belongs to a car worth forty billion."
Shaw's smirk collapsed. His hand froze mid-gesture, his eyes locked on the Diomas Nilo key. His brain stuttered, crashing like a broken engine.
He had been trying to flex…
and had picked the worst possible opponent.
~~----------------------
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