Fletcher pulled up a file on his phone, a firmware patch he had downloaded months ago stored on a micro SD card in his jacket pocket. Not for this car, for study. For the nights he spent at the kitchen table memorizing hybrid powertrain architecture because he couldn't sleep and the Pagani Huayra was the most beautiful puzzle he had ever seen.
He loaded the patch through the diagnostic interface. The progress bar crawled across the screen. 20%. 40%. 60%.
The showroom was dead silent. Every person behind the glass was frozen in place. 80%. 90%. Complete.
Fletcher closed the laptop, stood up, and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Start it," he said.
Chad reached for the ignition button on the diagnostic tablet. His hand hovered over it. He looked at Fletcher. Fletcher nodded. Chad pressed the button.
The V12 turned over. The roar filled the service bay. Deep, full, even. No stutter, no hesitation. The hybrid system engaged seamlessly.
The e-motor relay clicked once, clean, decisive, and held. The dashboard showed a single green status light where six red fault codes used to live. The cooling fans spun up to the correct cycle. The battery temperature read nominal. The idle was smooth, steady, perfect.
A low, contented hum, like a heartbeat finally finding its rhythm. Chad stared at the diagnostic screen. Every parameter green, every threshold normal. Zero fault codes.
"How long did that take?" Todd whispered.
Chad looked at his watch. His eyes went wide. "Four minutes. He did it in four minutes."
Through the glass partition, the showroom erupted. The two customers started clapping. The receptionist covered her mouth with her hand. The salesman just stood there, shaking his head.
Eleanor Ashford hadn't moved. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, watching Fletcher with an expression that was hard to read. It wasn't surprise. It was recognition. The look of someone who had just found something they had been searching for without knowing it.
Dale lowered his phone. He had filmed the whole thing. And behind everyone, standing alone by her desk, Victoria Whitmore stared through the glass at the young man she had called trash. The young man she had tried to arrest. The young man who had just done in 4 minutes what two factory engineering teams and $200,000 could not do in three weeks.
Her face was blank. But her hands were shaking. Victoria didn't clap. She didn't congratulate. She pushed through the service bay door and walked straight toward the Pagani like a prosecutor approaching the stand.
"Anyone can start an engine," she said. "That doesn't mean it's fixed. I want a full road test. Every system, every mode. If one single warning light comes on, I'm calling the police."