The new millennium dawned with quiet anticipation.
Fireworks, headlines, and bug-eyed fears of Y2K dominated the public consciousness, but none of that touched Leonardo's world. While the rest of society stepped into the year 2000 with superstition and champagne, Leonardo stood alone at the DeMarco estate's hilltop balcony, overlooking the city he intended to change—slowly, smartly, and in his own time.
His mother was finally home.
The house felt different. Alive again.
Downstairs, her laughter had returned to the kitchen. Alfred had reverted to his subtler, more sarcastic self—his stress visibly lowered. The halls no longer echoed with absence. The estate, once a quiet echo of tragedy, now held the rhythm of recovery.
That morning, Leonardo entered the quiet study, a place untouched since his father's passing. The mahogany desk bore dust and dried ink stains, the shelves still heavy with ledgers and photo frames of a happier time.
He stood before a small portrait of his family—a rare candid shot: his mother smiling, his father's hand ruffling his hair, and Leonardo mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes squinting from the sunlight.
Now, he looked older than the boy in that picture.
Not just in body.
In burden.
He took a deep breath and placed a fresh blueprint folder beside the photo. Labeled simply: 2000-2005 Roadmap: DeMarco Performance Division.
Inside was a careful evolution. No tech from the future. No wild leaps. Just well-timed innovation.
Early modular ECU mapping. Lightweight chassis concepts. Aerodynamic refinements inspired by practical aviation. All based on his growing knowledge—but framed in a way the world could digest.
He was building a bridge between now and the future. One blueprint at a time.
In the weeks that followed, Leonardo accompanied his mother on walks around the estate gardens. She was weak at first, needing rest and care, but her recovery was rapid—almost suspiciously so. Yet, the doctors had found nothing harmful. Only miracles and a well-timed treatment.
"You never told me what exactly you gave me," she said one afternoon as they sat beneath the olive tree.
Leonardo smiled softly. "Something experimental. From our biotech division. It wasn't even named yet. I had to pull strings."
"That doesn't sound safe," she replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Neither does leaving you in a coma," he countered playfully.
She gave him a long look. One that mothers give when they know you're not telling them everything.
But she let it go.
Another time, she caught him tinkering in the garage again.
"Why does that car look like it's being dissected?"
Leonardo didn't look up. "It's a prototype. I'm trying to teach it how to think."
She gave him a skeptical glance.
"Kidding," he added quickly. "Mostly."
She laughed, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity in her gaze.
Privately, Leonardo continued refining Project Oblivion.
He didn't touch the AI cores or futuristic energy storage. Not yet.
Instead, he focused on traction control systems within 2000's acceptable tech range—mechanical-digital hybrids. He explored adaptive suspension inspired by rally tech. He integrated onboard telemetry logging systems without real-time connectivity, respecting the limits of the era.
Each improvement served a dual purpose: to advance his understanding and to prepare the industry for gradual change. If he pushed too far, too fast, it would only raise questions. And questions could become threats.
Every week, the system offered him new daily sign-in rewards.
Some he stored. Some he dismissed. And some, he translated into ideas that would take years to manifest—but only when the world was ready.
One of the more fascinating blueprints was a limited-use simulation interface—a neural link module that allowed for real-time vehicle telemetry feedback in test environments.
He spent weeks reverse-engineering it, then scaling it down. By spring, he had turned it into a non-invasive haptic-feedback driving simulator—marketed publicly as an advanced motorsport training tool.
It would be the flagship product of DeMarco Tech's motorsport division. And it was 100% timeline-appropriate.
He scheduled its launch for early 2001.
One day, as the sun set behind the hills, his mother approached him in the garage. She stood beside him silently, watching as he polished the fender of Oblivion.
"You're not just building a car, are you?" she asked softly.
He paused.
"No," he replied. "I'm building something that lasts."
She rested a hand on his shoulder. "Your father would be proud."
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
In the background, Alfred continued managing the estate and screening external inquiries. Interest in DeMarco Motors had grown rapidly after the DVA system was revealed, and now industry giants were watching. Offers were arriving daily—collaborations, licensing requests, even attempts at buyouts.
Leonardo rejected them all.
He didn't want partnerships with corporations that would stifle his vision or push him into rushed exposure. He wanted time, control, and most importantly, freedom.
By mid-year, he had implemented a layered innovation cycle:
Tier 1: Road-safe enhancements like early anti-lag tuning, exhaust recycling flow tech, and modular ECU chips
Tier 2: Internal-only racing technology to be deployed under the company's motorsport wing
Tier 3: Project Oblivion and other experimental vehicles—completely off the grid
He hosted a small press event by fall.
The prototype driving simulator was unveiled with moderate media interest, but professional drivers were blown away by its accuracy. Within a month, DeMarco Tech received its first motorsport training contract from a local performance school.
It wasn't global recognition.
It wasn't flash.
But it was a foundation.
And that's all Leonardo needed.
At year's end, Leonardo stood once again on the same balcony overlooking the city. The sky was lit with December fog, Los Angeles bathed in gold and grey. Behind him, his mother was inside, laughing with Alfred as they decorated a modest Christmas tree.
He was taller now. Sharper. Steadier.
He'd built things. Released tech. Changed lives. Saved one.
And no one—not the public, not the industry—had any idea how far he would go.
Current Age: 18