The other students in class knew nothing of the events that followed; most simply dismissed Roan's technical performance at the track as "sim-racer nerd stuff" to be gossiped about over lunch.
In the back of the returning Maybach, the air was different. Zack was in a state of high-octane euphoria, obsessively replaying every detail of the paddock showdown. Specifically, every time he mentioned the look of pure defeat on his brother Justin's face, he began gesticulating wildly. For the first time in his life, he had stood his ground against the family's authority—and he owed it all to the quiet boy staring out the window.
Zack looked down at the titanium black card in his hand. The frosted texture felt warm against his thumb from constant rubbing.
"Roan... the limit on this thing is enough to buy several apartments," Zack whispered. The silence of the luxury cabin made his voice sound strained, almost fearful. He was terrified that this victory, built entirely on Roan's talent, would vanish if Roan ever decided he didn't need a tag-along. "You just... threw it to me? No contract? No legal witness?"
Roan didn't turn his head. His eyes remained fixed on the streetlights outside, which blurred into long, golden needles of light as the car accelerated.
"Unnecessary. Your brother didn't ask for a contract, so why are you worrying?" Roan patted the heavy cardboard box in his lap. The RTX 3090—a masterpiece of modern industrial engineering. The sharp corners of the packaging dug into his ribs. The pain made it feel real. "This is the gear I can use now. That card is the gear you can use."
Roan turned his gaze to Zack. "Division of labor. It's the highest form of efficiency."
Zack stared into Roan's bottomless, calm eyes. The card suddenly felt heavier. It wasn't just a line of credit; it was a manifestation of blind trust. Or perhaps, it was Roan's absolute confidence in his own indispensability. He didn't fear betrayal because he knew he was the only engine that mattered.
"Fine," Zack said, tucking the card into his inner pocket. The goofy grin vanished, replaced by a look of religious fervor. "From today on, I'm your Chief of Staff. Finance, logistics, paperwork—that's all my KPI. You just drive."
The car pulled up to the gates of a modern residential complex—Roan's home. Under the dim yellow streetlights, insects swarmed the glowing glass covers. Roan hopped out, shoulder-hoisting the massive GPU box. He didn't look back, his shadow stretching long across the pavement.
He wasn't thinking about the money. He was thinking about how to shove this tactical nuke of a graphics card into his dying PC, and how he was going to survive the "Hell Week" training starting tomorrow.
The apartment was dark. Roan fumbled for the light switch.
A note sat on the dining table—his mother's handwriting. As a "star teacher" at a top-tier prep school, her weekends were more grueling than her weekdays. His father, a research fanatic, was likely asleep on a cot in a university lab. Roan had long ago grown accustomed to this "semi-orphan" lifestyle. In fact, he preferred it. It meant no interruptions for his upgrade plan.
He walked into his bedroom and set the 3090 on his cluttered desk. Next to it was his old rig—a budget M-ATX "black tin can" that radiated cheapness.
"Glad I went with the 850W power supply back then," Roan muttered, unscrewing the side panel. "Guess it's finally time."
But as he held the 3090—a massive, triple-fan beast—and tried to slide it into the chassis, he hit a wall. A physical one. No matter the angle, the end of the card slammed into the hard drive cage at the front of the case. It was off by nearly three centimeters.
Trying to fit this card into that case was like trying to shove a V12 engine under the hood of an AE86. It was a class conflict that couldn't be resolved with words.
Roan frowned at the offending metal cage. A normal builder would have ordered a full-tower case and waited three days for shipping. Roan didn't have three seconds.
He went to the balcony, rummaged through a toolbox, and returned with a pair of heavy-duty pliers. His eyes held a flash of cold resolve.
Crrr-ack!
The screech of tearing sheet metal echoed through the bedroom. Roan didn't bother with a screwdriver. He clamped the pliers onto the drive cage and twisted, using metal fatigue to rip the steel apart. It was a violent, unrefined butchery. A sharp edge sliced into his finger, a bead of blood blooming on the skin. He wiped it off on his jeans and kept going.
Five minutes later, the cage was a mangled ruin. But the space was still too cramped, and the jagged metal shards looked like a hazard to the card's delicate circuitry.
Roan made a final, executive decision. He tore the motherboard out of the case entirely. He abandoned the "tin can" in the corner and laid the motherboard flat on a cardboard Nike shoebox.
Click.
The lock engaged. The massive 3090 finally sat securely in the PCIe 4.0 slot, its body dwarfing the motherboard it was plugged into.
Power on.
The room flooded with RGB light. The three massive fans spun up with a reassuring, high-speed hum. It was hideous. Exposed cables snaked around like raw veins; the shoebox looked like a temporary stretcher; the shimmering GPU looked like a high-tech prosthetic forced onto a dying limb. It wasn't Johnny Silverhand; it was a cyberpunk Frankenstein's monster.
But Roan only cared about the output.
He stared at the mess of wires, his eyes deep. It was a perfect metaphor. To host an S-Rank component, you had to violently break the F-Rank shell.
It was no different from what he had to do to his own body. Even if it meant tearing himself apart until he was unrecognizable.