Hunter had no idea.
Because he had used his Inventory to steal the two massive safes right under Steve's nose, the method was so baffling that Steve didn't suspect a stranger.
Instead, Steve suspected Charlie Croker.
Specifically, Handsome Rob.
In Steve's mind, only Rob—the team's ace driver—had the skill to pull off a motorcycle escape like that.
So, Steve didn't chase Hunter himself.
He sent two bikers to pursue him, hoping to capture "Rob" alive.
Meanwhile, Steve returned to the villa to dig for the safes he believed were still hidden nearby.
Unwittingly, Charlie Croker had become the perfect scapegoat.
On the highway, Hunter's speedometer climbed steadily.
100 km/h... 120... 150... 170... 200... 240 km/h.
A wave of dizziness hit him. Even with two lives worth of experience, this was the fastest he had ever gone.
His heart pounded like a war drum.
"Can't go any faster."
The old motorcycle frame began to shudder violently.
He had replaced the engine and key components, but the chassis was still ancient. It could handle a sprint, but sustained speeds like this would tear it apart.
Hunter wove through the LA traffic.
It was midnight, but the city never truly slept. Cars were everywhere.
He checked his mirror.
The two pursuers were keeping up.
Hunter recognized their bikes. Indian Scout.
Legendary American cruisers. Their performance was easily on par with, if not superior to, his modified antique.
But the riders didn't have a System.
With [Driving Lv 4], Hunter was threading the needle between cars at 200 km/h with surgical precision.
The pursuers hesitated.
Weaving through traffic at that speed was suicidal.
The $100,000 bounty was tempting, but you couldn't spend it if you were dead.
The gap widened.
From ten meters to fifty. Then a hundred. Then they were gone.
Twenty minutes later, Hunter took a sharp exit.
Ten minutes after that, he was back in downtown LA.
He had ditched the motorcycle and the balaclava. He was now driving the Ford Mustang Dom had given him.
"Today is a good day..."
Humming a tune from his past life, Hunter drove in a wide loop around the city to ensure he wasn't followed.
Finally, he parked in a secluded spot near his apartment and stored the Mustang in his Inventory.
Thanks to his recent skill upgrades, his Inventory was massive. A car, a motorcycle, and tons of gear fit with room to spare.
He walked back to his apartment casually.
He locked the door and leaned against it.
His heart rate finally slowed. The dizziness faded.
"I'm back."
He walked into the living room.
First, he went to the bathroom and used makeup remover to scrub the thick layer of nail polish from his palms.
Then, he stood in the center of the room.
He extended his hand.
Retrieve.
THUD!
The floorboards groaned in protest as a massive safe materialized out of thin air.
Creak...
Hunter ignored the straining wood. His eyes were glued to his prize.
It was a custom-made high-end safe from Worthington, the most famous security company in the US.
"The Worthington 1000..."
Hunter had looked it up online.
Weight: 1.6 tons. Impossible to move without a crane.
Dimensions: 2.2m high, 1.4m wide, 70cm deep.
Walls: 12cm thick carbon-titanium alloy. Corrosion-resistant. Drill-resistant.
Features: Electronic lock, biometric retina scanner, and a physical key.
If tampering was detected, it would enter a "lockdown mode," turning into a solid block of metal that only Worthington technicians could open.
It was marketed as the best private safe in the world, second only to bank vaults.
And it lived up to the hype.
Hunter examined it for a moment.
His [Lockpicking Lv 2] was useless here. He might as well be trying to pick a lock with a banana.
"Looks like I have two options."
"Try to cut it open with industrial tools."
"Or... ask Stella Bridger for help."
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