The year was 1999.
Music was shifting from grunge to pop, the millennium was looming, and the racing world was quietly preparing for the next evolution of motorsport. While most eyes were on factories in Europe and corporate labs in Detroit, none of them were looking at the quiet DeMarco estate nestled in the hills above Los Angeles.
And that's exactly how Leonardo wanted it.
Seventeen now, and sharper than ever, Leonardo stood at the polished conference table in the DeMarco Motors executive boardroom. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes—sharp, unblinking—held the weight of a thousand unseen calculations.
He was about to make his first move.
Not as a ghost. Not through proxies. But as Leonardo DeMarco, the heir.
Alfred sat to his right, calm and unreadable as always.
The board members had gathered, their chatter polite but tinged with skepticism. Most still viewed Leonardo as the brilliant but aloof teenager with tragic origins and an unusual knack for disappearing.
Today would change that.
He tapped a button on the remote, and the lights dimmed as the projector flickered to life.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Leonardo began, his voice clear but measured, "I'm presenting a new component we intend to launch for our performance vehicles. It's called the DVA—Dynamic Valve Actuation System."
Some eyebrows lifted. A few exchanged glances. It was a field others had explored, but no one had perfected yet.
Leonardo smiled inwardly.
"Our system doesn't rely on fully electronic valve timing," he continued, "which we all know is still under heavy development in Japan and Europe. Instead, DVA is a hybrid mechanical-electronic actuation system designed to give engines variable intake and exhaust response in real time—without compromising reliability or adding unnecessary complexity."
He turned to the whiteboard and began drawing a simplified diagram—an adjustable cam phasing mechanism coupled with a solenoid-controlled override.
"This allows better fuel efficiency during idle and low-RPM cruising," he said, sketching clean, confident lines, "while unlocking peak airflow characteristics during high-performance runs. Think torque gains at mid-range RPM without sacrificing high-end pull."
Silence.
And then murmurs.
One of the older engineers leaned forward. "Are we talking real-world results, or theory?"
Leonardo didn't blink. He clicked the remote again.
Footage played.
A DeMarco S-12 test car on the company's closed track—equipped with the prototype DVA module. Compared side-by-side with its standard version.
The DVA-equipped car crushed it in every segment.
Faster off the line. Smoother gear transitions. More responsive corner exits.
Another clip followed—a dyno test. The numbers were impressive: 14% torque increase at 4,200 RPM, with a 9% boost in horsepower across the mid-range.
"This system," Leonardo said, "won't just change our performance line. It'll redefine our brand as the first American company to deliver smart-performance control, without the weight and cost of full ECU reprogramming or experimental variable valve trains."
He let it hang there.
A bold claim.
But he'd built this. Designed it with his own hands, from parts sourced within the timeline's limits. He'd personally tested the materials, consulted with DeMarco's senior mechanics under cover, and tweaked it until it could be built and mass-produced in 1999—not 2010, not 2025.
Finally, one of the board members cleared his throat. "How soon can we produce it?"
Leonardo turned to Alfred. The butler nodded slightly.
"We already are," Leonardo said. "We have 30 units in assembly and four more in testing. The first consumer vehicles can roll out by Q2 next year."
The room fell silent again.
Then came the applause. Hesitant at first—then firm. One by one, the board acknowledged what they had just seen.
Leonardo DeMarco wasn't just a figurehead. He was the future.
Later that evening, back in the garage, Leonardo sat in front of Project Oblivion. The car was stripped again—being reimagined from the ground up with the new schematics the system had uploaded during the Genius Protocol.
He didn't install the DVA into Oblivion.
That wasn't for the streets.
That was for the world.
And the world had just taken its first bite.
The final days of the year drifted by like snowflakes in reverse—quiet, yet heavy with meaning.
One morning, Leonardo received an unexpected system notification during his morning review.
[Daily Sign-In Reward Acquired: Custom-Formulated Regenerative Neurological Serum]
The description was simple: "A one-use serum capable of repairing moderate to severe neural trauma and coma states. Biocompatible with all known human biology as of the year 2000."
His hands trembled.
He didn't waste time.
Two hours later, he was standing beside his mother's hospital bed—she hadn't stirred in years. Machines hummed quietly. Nurses gave him space, trusting his judgment as always.
He administered the serum with a steady hand, then sat beside her, silent.
Ten minutes later, her eyelids fluttered.
Then opened.
Leonardo gasped.
"Mom?"
Her eyes searched the room, foggy but slowly clearing. "Leo...?"
Tears welled in his eyes.
"Yes. It's me. You're okay now."
It took time for her mind to catch up, but the reunion was nothing short of miraculous. The doctors were baffled. He told them he'd used an experimental compound developed in-house—a story that barely held, but Alfred helped smooth it out.
That night, mother and son sat together in her hospital room, the lights low, the machines silent.
She asked what he'd done in the years she was gone.
He didn't mention the system. Or the blueprints. Or the Genius Protocol.
Instead, he smiled and said, "I worked hard, made a few things, and made sure we'd still have a home when you woke up."
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
And in many ways, she was.
Current Age: 17