While the rest of the Underground world was still frozen on the momentum of Blacklist his insane win, Nash stood there, sweating bullets over something way worse, a fucking giant door.
The place in front of him? Not a driving school, hell no. The Edison Elite Automobilist looked like some rich bastard's private airport.
Polished steel gates, spotless concrete, grass so dark and perfect it looked fake, because it probably was. Victoria had to pull strings, pay something, maybe even threaten a few people to get him in here.
Because down where Nash came from? Learning to drive was like walking into a fight. The examiners? They'd drag their feet, smirk at you, then straight-up ask for a bribe before they'd even think about passing you. And if you were stupid enough to flash real money? You'd be lucky if all they did was rob you blind.
