Chapter 2: PROFICIENCY PANEL
As the memories of the two souls fully merged, the lingering ache in Arthur's body slowly began to fade.
Still, his heart raced. He had no idea how to act around Dom and the rest of the crew without giving himself away. Plus, his head was genuinely throbbing.
Arthur cleared his throat, pushing himself up slightly. "Dom, I think I've got a mild concussion. I'm nauseous as hell, and my head is spinning."
"Can I clock out and go home to sleep this off?"
Dom nodded, his expression softening as he reached out to clap a heavy, reassuring hand on Arthur's shoulder.
"Yeah, kid. Go."
"Make sure you hit the clinic for a real check-up on your way."
Despite his intimidating presence, Dom was fiercely protective of the people in his orbit. He cared about this garage and everyone working in it, especially since it served as the home base for his underground racing crew.
"Got it," Arthur breathed, relieved.
Arthur clutched his head, letting a couple of the shop hands help him to his feet.
He ignored Vince's furious glare and walked straight out of the garage.
His body still felt battered and weak. Besides, going toe-to-toe with Vince—a guy who spent his nights street racing and hijacking semi-trucks with Dom's crew—was a death wish. Arthur simply didn't have the muscle for it.
But he wasn't in a rush. Revenge could wait.
Vince was violent, reckless, and deeply embedded in Dom's truck-hijacking operations. His luck was bound to run out. Arthur remembered the plot of the first Fast & Furious movie. Vince would get shot during a botched heist and disappear for years. And not long after he finally returned, he'd be killed off for good.
Knowing that, Arthur was perfectly content to let the timeline do his dirty work.
Stepping out of the choking fumes of the garage, a cool Pacific breeze hit his face. He took a deep breath, feeling his tension instantly dial back.
This was Los Angeles. A sprawling metropolis, a massive shipping hub, and a city with near-perfect weather year-round. A paradise—if you had the money for it.
With the original Arthur's memories fully integrated, he knew exactly where he was going. Since he'd been forced to list his parents' house to cover the back taxes, he was currently crashing at a cheap rental near the shop.
He walked across the lot toward a beat-up motorcycle.
It was a fourth-hand piece of junk he'd scraped together seven hundred bucks to buy from the garage. The bike was almost as old as he was. It had been patched up, but it still choked and sputtered. Still, it beat walking.
His apartment was only about four miles away, but having wheels made a massive difference in LA.
Arthur knew his way around bikes; he'd owned one in his past life.
He swung a leg over the seat, jammed the key into the ignition, and kicked it over. The engine roared to life with a rough, uneven idle, and he slowly rolled out of the lot.
But Arthur wasn't paying attention to the bike's sloppy handling. His expression went entirely blank.
The moment the tires hit the asphalt, a cold, synthetic voice echoed directly inside his skull.
"System activated."
"Personal attribute interface initialized. Access available via neural link."
"Private inventory space unlocked. Access available via neural link."
"Host is currently operating a motor vehicle. Skill generated: [Driving]."
"Current [Driving] level: 0. Experience required to level up: 100."
"One experience point awarded per kilometer driven."
"Experience modifiers apply based on vehicle class and terrain difficulty."
"Level progression yields rewards."
"Please explore the system for further functionality."
Arthur's grip tightened on the handlebars. He fought the urge to pull over right there on the shoulder. Instead, he gunned the throttle, racing toward his apartment while the quiet chime of [Driving] Experience +1 pinged in the back of his mind.
Those four miles felt like an eternity.
He finally whipped into the parking lot of his building, killed the engine, yanked the key out, and practically sprinted toward the entrance.
The building was a post-WWII relic. It looked half-condemned, and the units were barely four hundred square feet. But it was cheap, and right now, that was all that mattered.
Reaching his door, Arthur fumbled his keys and shoved one into the deadbolt.
The second the lock clicked open, that same cold, synthetic voice chimed in his head again.
"Action detected. Skill generated: [Lockpicking]."
"Current [Lockpicking] level: 0. Experience required to level up: 100."
"One Experience Point awarded per unique lock mechanism defeated."
"Experience modifiers apply based on tool simplicity and lock complexity."
Arthur froze, his hand still on the doorknob. A sharp thrill of pure adrenaline shot through him.
He shoved the door open, stepped inside, and slammed it shut behind him.
He dropped onto the faded sofa, his heart pounding against his ribs, and focused his thoughts. Open attribute interface.
Instantly, a translucent digital projection flared to life in his field of vision, displaying his stats.
Host: Arthur Sterling.
Lifespan: 18/72.
Intelligence: 9 (Average male adult: 10).
Strength: 7 (Average male adult: 10).
Agility: 8 (Average male adult: 10).
Physique: 7 (Average male adult: 10).
Stamina: 7 (Average male adult: 10).
Free Attribute Points: 0.
...Current Skill List:
[Driving] Lv0 (6/100): Novice. Substandard capability.
[Lockpicking] Lv0 (1/100): Novice. Requires keys for basic function.