Inside the restaurant, Leon, Gisele, Hattie, and the others settled into their seats. They had moved to Masa, one of Detroit's high-end dining spots.
Don't let Detroit's bankruptcy fool you—high-class dining here was still outrageously expensive. At least $1,300 per head. A proper feast could easily cost upwards of $5,000, featuring delicacies like Kobe beef, foie gras, caviar, and truffles.
But surprisingly, none of these were the house specialty.
Instead, the restaurant's signature dish was something far humbler: sugar beets.
"This is the sweet root dish. Everyone, try it," Gisele, acting as host, said warmly.
These beets, sourced from the Black Swan Gardens, were simmered in butter for hours, then plated with goat's curd and flaxseed crackers in meticulous fashion.
Alongside this came black-garlic venison that had been roasted for six weeks, Dexter beef said to be fed daily with pints of beer—giving its meat a natural malty fragrance.
The desserts were no less decadent: ice-cream sandwiches filled with local fruits, and a dish of sourdough and butter where even the napkins were edible.
Leon let out a sigh of surprise after the tasting.
"I didn't expect a bankrupt city to still have food this good."
Gisele's lips curved in a knowing smile.
"Enjoy it while you can. Soon, there may be nothing left to enjoy. With Eteon destroyed by your little stunt, Detroit's upper ranks have lost their golden goose. They'll have no money to spend on luxuries like this."
She wasn't exaggerating. For Detroit's power brokers, Eteon had been the hen that laid golden eggs. Now, with the base gone up in flames, and its location exposed, the larger organization behind it couldn't stay hidden for long.
When the inevitable purge came, Detroit would be dragged down with it.
At this, Shaw gave a strained smile over his coffee.
"What you did was reckless, Leon. Too reckless. I never imagined you'd actually challenge Eteon's entire base alone. If Hattie had been hurt because of you… I'd never be able to face our mother."
Leon only shot him a sideways glance.
"I dare to do it because I have the confidence to win. Don't be so jumpy."
Shaw fell silent—over-concern had clouded his judgment. Hobbs, meanwhile, let out a booming laugh and clapped Leon on the shoulder.
"Kid, I like your style. Want to come to D.C. with me? There's always a spot for someone like you."
Leon didn't even hesitate.
"Not interested. If I joined, I'd probably end up blowing up your headquarters."
Being a cop could never compare to living Shaw's kind of life—pulling pins on grenades like they were toys, bombing whoever annoyed you, and street-racing whenever the mood struck. That was freedom.
Hobbs could only shake his head in defeat. The man knew full well that no government office, no matter how well-funded, could hire someone like Leon.
Just then, breaking news lit up the restaurant's big screen:
Scenes of the power plant's cooling towers collapsing filled the airwaves. Unlike the earlier polished reports, this footage was raw, unedited, shaky from handheld filming—yet that only heightened the impact.
The imagery was apocalyptic: falling debris, violent tremors, towers crumbling like dominoes. Hollywood-level destruction, but all too real.
Elena, Hattie, and Leon all turned to look at Dr. Dog with bemused expressions. This idiot had just uploaded his little "short clip," and somehow it had gone viral—big enough to hit national news.
"This video was uploaded to Twitter by a concerned netizen," the anchor announced.
The camera panned back to the devastation.
"From the footage, it's clear the group was present at the scene. Experts initially dismissed the collapse as a cave-in, but this video proves otherwise—showing evidence of a mysterious magnetic field!"
The broadcast practically slapped the so-called experts in the face.
Meanwhile, Andrek nearly dropped his phone in shock. His Twitter had exploded—nearly 100,000 comments in just hours, with followers jumping past three million.
Across the table, Shaw, Hobbs, and Gisele stared at the footage wide-eyed. Hearing Leon describe his driving was one thing. Watching it unfold was something else entirely.
One clip showed him racing under collapsing concrete, dodging falling boulders by hairsbreadths. Shaw's brow twitched nervously, Gisele screamed out loud, and Hobbs actually clenched the table's edge.
Only Leon's mastery behind the wheel had saved them.
The others finally exhaled in relief—but their eyes when they looked at him were different now: awe, respect, curiosity, even a little fear.
They were racers themselves, used to believing no one could surpass them. But the calm, instinctive precision Leon showed… that was something else.
"That was insane. How the hell did you stay so calm with rocks falling on your head?" Shaw demanded.
Leon smirked.
"Simple. Just don't hit the brakes."
The group chuckled nervously. They knew he was downplaying it, but they also realized this wasn't ordinary skill. It was the product of countless near-death runs, forged into instinct.
Big leagues.
Then, Leon leaned back casually and asked the question that shifted the table's mood:
"By the way, who's the strongest driver on the East Coast?"
Hobbs shook his head—though he was from there, he wasn't the type to keep tabs on underground racing. Gisele, however, lit up.
She was plugged deep into the black market, and she knew.
"On the East Coast, the title already belongs to someone new—Tobey Marshall. Just released from prison, and already he's taken revenge and risen as the street-racing king."
Her words carried weight. Tobey Marshall—the protagonist of Need for Speed (2014)—was now canon in this universe, cemented as the East Coast's "Car God."
Gisele tilted her head curiously, eyes on Leon.
"What about the West Coast? Who's your top driver there?"
All at once, everyone at the table turned to Leon.
~~----------------------
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