In the labyrinthine service tunnels beneath the old Peugeot factory in Sochaux, tucked between a decommissioned conveyor belt and a stack of 1980s tooling dies, sat the prototype designated 098C .

Sami looked at the car. The lion’s paw glowed steady red.

“YOU HESITATE. I DON’T.”

Sami was crawling down a wet Route Nationale when a deer froze in his headlights. His foot hovered over the brake—too slowly. But before his muscles could react, the 205’s throttle blipped once. Just a flicker. The engine torque shifted the weight; the car swayed a hair to the left. The deer’s antlers passed inches from the window.

Sami stopped in the middle of the road, heart hammering. The radio crackled. A text appeared on the ancient digital clock display:

The collector walked away confused. Sami got in, turned the key, and 098C revved once—a sharp, joyful bark.

It was never meant to exist.