Leon's Diomas Nilo—a machine of impossible precision—had already detected the enemy long before the threat drew near.
Its sensors pinged the presence of an incoming drone, calculating within milliseconds that it was likely targeting the car.
Without hesitation, Leon armed his final missile.
A burst of blue light streaked through the night sky—
and moments later, the drone exploded in a fireball, tumbling into the forest below.
Finding even a scrap of wreckage would take days.
Leon smirked.
"Good thing it was unmanned," he muttered. "If there'd been a pilot… that would've been a tragedy."
The Diomas had once again proven itself unmatched.
It detected the target before it entered range, outmaneuvered a Global Hawk's tracking systems, and struck with surgical precision.
Even the United States' best military drones couldn't compete with that kind of AI coordination.
At the Washington White House, President's eyes gleamed.
A car that powerful… and it's still out there? Not dismantled, not studied? Still in that man's hands?
"Send a helicopter," President ordered his defense secretary, Pat. "Bring him in—politely. If he wants money, we'll give it. Whatever it takes."
Meeting a president is usually a lifetime honor.
But for Leon, this was something else—a trap wrapped in diplomacy.
Pat's expression soured.
"Sir… don't you think you're giving him too much credit? He's just a racer. A street rat."
Inwardly, jealousy burned through him.
A nobody gets an audience with the President? Disgraceful.
President's gaze hardened.
"Idiot. That 'street rat' drives technology that could redefine warfare."
Pat flinched. "Y-Yes, sir. I'll handle it personally."
"Good," President said coldly. "Just bring him here. I don't care how."
What President didn't know was that Pat had already made up his mind—
Leon would never step foot in the White House.
Not alive.
Meanwhile, Leon raced through the night.
The Diomas roared across open plains and grasslands, its thrusters cutting the dark like streaks of lightning.
The adrenaline rush was addictive—
speed, control, the world blurring past like a dream.
With the roads nearly empty, he pushed the accelerator to its limit.
Gear down. Boost on.
The Nilo screamed forward.
805 km/h.
Faster than a bullet train.
One hundred meters vanished in less than a second.
The pressure difference behind him was so intense it tore leaves and debris into a miniature tornado.
Nothing could follow.
Within minutes, he was nearly two hundred kilometers ahead of the next racer.
Leon grinned, the confidence of victory gleaming in his eyes.
"At this pace, who could possibly catch me? East Coast, West Coast… it's all mine now."
He imagined the endorsements, the fame, the wealth rolling in.
Easy money, he thought, the rush almost intoxicating.
Then came the alert.
"Warning," the Diomas AI chimed. "AH-64 Apache detected—stationary—blocking the road ahead."
Leon's eyes narrowed.
A helicopter? On the ground?
That wasn't a coincidence.
"How far to Washington?"
"Six hundred kilometers," the AI replied.
One more hour at full speed, Leon calculated. They're trying to delay me.
He eased off the accelerator.
"Let's see what game they're playing."
The car's three main systems—the gravity pulse emitter, infrared laser array, and resonant-glass disruptor—stood ready.
If this turned hostile, the Apache wouldn't last ten seconds.
Leon braked gradually—700… 600… 500… down to just over 100 km/h.
Even then, the Diomas hummed like a coiled predator, eager to run.
Ahead stood a middle-aged man in a suit, sharp-faced, wearing rimless glasses.
His posture screamed arrogance.
He approached with the air of a man who thought he owned the world.
"I am Defense Secretary Pat," he declared. "I came personally. Don't you think it's time we had a talk?"
Leon lowered the window.
His expression was pure disdain.
"Defense Secretary, huh?" he sneered. "Not my problem."
Then, sharper:
"Get the hell out of my way. I'm racing."
The insult hit like a slap.
Pat's face turned green with fury.
~~----------------------
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