The drama inside didn't last long.
After coming out, Leo realized the lawn wasn't the best place to talk. Fingering the unexpected windfall in his pocket, he waved everyone along toward Noodles' Restaurant.
He liked this place for two reasons: one, the owner—nicknamed "Noodles"—had taken him in countless times after his childhood troublemaking; two, as a former Chinese gourmand, Leo genuinely liked Noodles' take on pizza.
Once seated, Desmond asked about what had happened inside the house. Leo didn't plan on sharing his suspicions—there was no need. As far as he was concerned, the matter was closed. Seeing this, the only other person involved, Shawn, wisely stayed silent.
"Joseph, why don't you introduce our new friends here?"
"Boss, this is Charlie Fizz, scout from the Red First Division."
Joseph pointed to a freckled young man.
"Fox O'Connor, logistics corps under General Patton's Third Army."
A short and chubby man stood up and nodded toward Leo. He seemed older than the rest, and Leo immediately picked up a strong whiff of "office work" off of him—clearly a rear-echelon kind of guy.
Joseph then glanced at the last member—a short fellow scratching his head—and said:
"Uh, brother, I don't think we've met before?"
That's when Charlie spoke up:
"Joseph, I met him at the bar last night. He didn't believe the stories I told about you guys and wanted to see for himself."
"Aiken Sullivan."
The man stood, short in stature but with a chin held high and an aggressive tone.
"101st Airborne Division."
"An Eagle! Welcome. I'm Leo Valentino," Leo said, extending his hand.
From Aiken's twitching eye muscles and restrained hunger in his gaze, Leo recognized a kindred spirit—most likely another PTSD case. His aura of bloodlust was fresh, suggesting he hadn't been behaving lately.
Leo didn't want to give him a reason to act up, so he reached out first.
Seeing this, Joseph and the others—ready to step in—sat back down. They knew Leo preferred to handle these matters himself. It was an unspoken understanding from years of camaraderie.
Aiken ignored Leo's hand and sneered.
"Charlie says you're impressive. I don't see it."
Honestly, after four years in the U.S. military, Leo still found its logic baffling. In every circle, confrontation seemed to be the go-to method—no subtlety, just raw power plays.
Especially in the military, maniacs like Aiken were everywhere. As Leo's reputation grew, daily challenges became routine.
At first, Leo tried to uphold his East Asian virtues: humility, restraint, patience. But he learned quickly that those "virtues" had no currency here. Enemies dismissed you, and allies abandoned you.
So now, when met with provocation, he offered one chance. If it wasn't appreciated, he'd make them regret it.
Given Aiken was a friend of Charlie, Leo decided to give him half a chance.
He withdrew his hand and said coolly:
"Aiken, I respect you. But I don't feel that respect returned—you wouldn't even shake my hand. Since you're spoiling for a fight, I'll do you a favor. I'll let you throw the first punch."
Aiken's twitching worsened, eyes bloodshot. He clenched his chest as if holding back a surge of violent energy.
"Right here?" he growled.
"What, you needed a proper ring when you fought the Krauts?" Daniel, seated beside Leo, taunted.
That did it. Aiken launched a punch with a gust of wind.
Leo found the move laughably slow.
Without even standing, he turned his head slightly—just enough to dodge it.
Aiken stepped forward, ready to tackle.
"Free shot's over."
Just as Aiken launched, Leo's body blurred—and the next thing he knew, a crushing force pinned him back into his seat.
Aiken's mind screamed trouble.
Before he could react, a sharp whistling cut through the air. Darkness. His body went limp like a noodle, slumped unconscious in the chair. Only a trickle of blood from his lips indicated he wasn't just asleep.
Noodles, the restaurant owner, emerged at the commotion.
"Haven't seen you in three years, and your hands have only gotten heavier," he said, taking the tip Leo offered and dragging Aiken to the back.
"Careful with that one—he's got a dirty record," Leo advised.
"I've got a new freezer. You guys keep talking."
Leo turned to Charlie apologetically.
"Sorry about that."
"No, no, Leo—uh, boss—I only met the guy yesterday, not exactly best friends. Also… that was incredible," Charlie stammered.
He was impressed. As someone who could actually follow Leo's movements, Charlie realized Joseph hadn't exaggerated—his boss was terrifying.
"Less breathing means more air. Now, let's talk business," Leo said.
Having shown his teeth, there was no need to stay polite.
"I'm starting a real estate company. Any objections?"
As expected, Desmond's group had none. Leo could tell them they were robbing a bank, and they'd still follow him. They were young, small-town guys in their twenties, hadn't seen the world, and wouldn't challenge his vision.
Charlie, still recovering from shock, remained silent.
It was the chubby Fox who finally spoke up.
A logistical officer, he wasn't impressed by Leo's combat prowess. At almost thirty, Fox cared more about reality.
"Major Leo, I worked for Jones Real Estate before the war as a project manager. After returning, I immediately contacted my old boss, Andy Jones."
"But he told me the company hasn't had new projects since the war began. There's no work. Prices are high, the market's dry, and everything looks bleak."
"So, respectfully, why would you enter real estate right now?"
He framed it politely as a question, but it was clearly a test—showing that he knew the industry and couldn't be easily tricked.
A smart one, Leo thought, marking Fox mentally.
In a small town like Lynchburg, population under ten thousand, most folks were dumb as rocks. Someone like Fox? Rare. If he wasn't unlucky, he'd definitely make something of himself here.