The morning light filtered softly through the tall bay windows of the DeMarco estate, casting long golden stripes across the hardwood floors of Leonardo's bedroom. The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, whispering a rhythm that seemed to match the gentle chaos of his thoughts.
He was ten years old.
Or rather, his body was. His soul, filled with memories of a world filled with smartwatches, streaming platforms, and self-driving cars, belonged to a man who had died unceremoniously thanks to divine clerical error.
Leonardo Arthur DeMarco. He tasted the name again.
This life belonged to a child born into wealth, wrapped in legacy and tragedy. His father, Vincent DeMarco, a racer-turned-mogul. His mother, Helena, a mechanical genius in a coma. The accident that had taken one parent and nearly claimed the other had left this boy, himself, as the sole heir to a budding automotive empire.
And now, the mind behind the eyes was no longer that of a grieving ten-year-old—it was something else entirely. Someone with foresight, reason, and a fire to shape the future.
After breakfast, Leonardo withdrew to his room and sat on the floor, cross-legged with a thick leather-bound journal open on his lap. His handwriting was small, clean, and precise. The pen—an old fountain model—scratched with a satisfying whisper as he outlined his goals.
He wrote without flourish. Just thoughts. Plans. Priorities.
He sorted the memories that now coexisted in his head—this new life's childhood moments blending strangely with the echo of college exams, ramen dinners, and the occasional existential dread of his past adulthood. But those old problems no longer mattered.
What mattered was that he had time.
Ten years. A full decade before the Fast and Furious canon would begin. Before Toretto. Before Brian. Before quarter-miles turned into global wars.
He had time to prepare.
The first thing he did was take stock.
That afternoon, he requested Alfred—his personal butler and now legal guardian—to give him access to the family's estate records. There were no sleek holographic tables or AI interfaces. No passwords or retina scans. This was 1991. Information lived in filing cabinets, safes, and notebooks.
Alfred guided him to his father's private study. It was a dignified room—dark wood paneling, built-in bookshelves, a brass lamp on the desk, and the lingering scent of pipe tobacco and engine oil. There was no computer. Just files.
They spent hours going through records. Bank ledgers. Real estate documents. Shareholder reports. DeMarco Holdings was vast, but not flashy. The family-owned multiple properties across the globe, including a modest villa in Florence, a workshop in Tokyo, and an industrial garage in São Paulo. There was money—enough to make a small country jealous—but it was intelligently invested and difficult to misuse without notice.
The car collection was extensive. Forty-two vehicles. Some classics. Some prototypes. Some designed by Vincent and Helena themselves. Leonardo made a note to begin cataloging them in more detail later.
He also found notes—handwritten ones—on upcoming projects. Diagrams. Blueprints. Among them, one name stood out.
"Aegis."
A lightweight turbocharged engine concept. Designed by his mother. Years ahead of its time.
He pinned it to the corkboard in his room. A reminder.
When he wasn't studying documents, Leonardo wandered the estate. Not aimlessly—he was watching. He learned the names of the staff, their routines, how they moved when they thought no one was watching. He offered help where he could. A child offering to carry tools for a mechanic. Offering a chair for the gardener on break. Listening to the older cook's stories about racing in the '60s.
The staff began seeing him differently. Not as a fragile orphan, but as something sharp and strange beneath the politeness. Curious, always watching. He didn't try to lead—he earned their trust first.
He asked Alfred for daily exercise. No private trainer, just a basic regimen. Running the grounds. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Shadow boxing. Alfred raised an eyebrow but arranged for gloves, pads, and an old punching bag from storage.
Leonardo found time every evening to sneak into the garage. He would sit on the hood of a 1969 Mustang Boss 429 and read engineering textbooks. Real ones, borrowed from the estate library. College-level material, some of it written by people who'd later become legends.
He learned by cross-referencing what he read with what he could touch. Real engines. Real tools. No internet. No tutorials. Just grease, diagrams, and intuition.
He didn't speak of the future. Not to Alfred. Not to anyone. He knew what was coming—the rise of Dom's crew, the DEA investigation, Brian O'Conner's infiltration. He kept that knowledge buried. It wasn't time yet.
Once a week, they visited his mother. The drive was long. The hospital was quiet. She lay still, wrapped in wires and sterile light. He never cried. He told her what he learned. What he planned to do. And once, he whispered, "Don't worry. I won't let them ruin what you built."
He began to prepare a space in the garage for his own work. He asked for a workbench, tools, a vice, a cabinet. No fancy lifts yet. Just a place to learn. Alfred arranged it all without comment, though Leonardo noticed the man watching him more closely after that.
The days were slow but rich with intention. He built routines. Drew blueprints of designs he hadn't yet seen in this timeline. Made a list of modifications he would one day add to the DeMarco S-12 prototype tucked at the back of the garage—the last car his parents worked on together.
He named his journal. Not out loud, but to himself.
"Blueprint Zero."
The beginning of it all.
He didn't dream much those nights. But when he did, he saw a silver skyline under moonlight. Engines roaring like thunder. And a boy—small, silent, dangerous—watching it all with eyes that knew too much.
He would grow into that boy.
And one day, the world would hear his engine.