The stage was set.
Everyone who needed to be there had arrived. Time to race.
At O'Neill's command, the drivers jumped back into their cars.
The lineup order was simple: first come, first served.
Arrive early, you start at the front. Show up late, you start in the back.
Unfair? Maybe. But nobody complained. This was underground racing—if you were really good, you could claw back from anywhere.
Dominic cast one last glance at Leon's machine, suspicion still lingering.
Then he climbed into his Hennessey Venom F5, the real-life record-chasing hypercar, capable of speeds north of 480 km/h. Even Dom wasn't sure if Leon was the same mysterious driver from that night—but he intended to find out.
With the grid filled, the "race starter" strutted into the middle of the street.
A curvy woman with a mischievous grin, she reached into her clothes and pulled out a pair of pink panties—tonight's starting flag.
Every driver's eyes locked on the fabric.
Feet pressed hard on throttles. Engines howled like caged beasts ready to kill.
The crowd screamed as the roar shook the block. So many supercars gathered in one place—collectively worth billions—it felt more like a festival of excess than a race.
"Tonight's finish line is the entrance to District Nine, San Francisco!" she called out, smiling.
From Los Angeles to San Francisco was about 630 kilometers.
At normal speed, a car might take six hours. A bus—nine.
But for these monsters, cruising at 200+ km/h, it could be cut to three hours.
If nothing went wrong, they'd cross the finish before sunrise.
"Rules? There are no rules. This is street racing. Ready?"
She laughed, then dropped the panties.
Engines exploded with fury. Dozens of cars shot forward, wheels screeching, nitrous flaring blue flames into the night.
The steel floodgate burst open. Cars surged forward like unleashed beasts, snarling for blood.
From above, it was a river of fire—chaotic, beautiful, and deadly.
Drivers jostled for every inch, slamming the throttle to the floor. Some reached for insane speeds—0–400 km/h in seconds—swerving through the smallest gaps.
Crashes came fast.
Rear-ends, side-swipes, spins.
The skilled drivers caught their slides, holding the line.
The less skilled? Not so lucky.
One car lost control, clipped from behind, spun three times before smashing through a guardrail.
The hood crumpled like paper, sparks showering the crowd.
"Damn, that almost hit me!"
"It skimmed my jeans!"
"This is insane! Do it again!"
The audience screamed, adrenaline surging. In the world of outlaw racing, wrecks weren't tragedies—they were part of the thrill.
Up front, the chaos turned the leading pack into a demolition zone. Ironically, the drivers at the very back were in the safest position.
That meant Leon, who had arrived late, now had the advantage.
Inside the Silver Marauder, Leon smirked as he watched the pileup ahead.
"Idiots. In street racing, no rules is the only rule."
The road ahead was jammed with wrecks—no way to build speed.
So he looked around, spotted a narrow side street, yanked the handbrake, and slid the Marauder into a perfect drift.
The car carved a flawless arc, slipping into the alley at speed without losing momentum.
The move stunned the crowd.
"Wait, isn't that the Asian kid's car?"
"What the hell, he took another route?"
"Is he nuts? Even GPS doesn't work in there—you'll get lost!"
"Hah! Thought he was something special. He's dead now."
The alley was infamous: narrow, winding, barely wide enough for a single car. At hypercar speeds, entering it was suicide. Nobody believed he'd come out intact.
Dominic's eyes narrowed. He yanked his own handbrake, slid the Venom F5 sideways, and followed Leon in.
He wasn't about to let this mystery driver slip away.
"What? Dom too?" O'Neill muttered, dumbfounded.
The path ahead was clogged, leaving him no choice but to stay on the main road. He wasn't about to gamble blind on a labyrinth he didn't know.
Besides—he had the Devel Sixteen. With its claimed 5,000 horsepower and insane straight-line speed, he didn't need shortcuts. Once the wrecks cleared, he'd unleash hell on the straights.
His confidence surged. Victory was his.
And then the crowd screamed again.
"Look! The silver car's already out!"
O'Neill's head snapped up.
It was true. In the blink of an eye, Leon's Marauder burst from another alley, exploding onto the main road in a blaze of silver.
Its headlights cut through the night, its body gleaming with untouchable pride.
The car leapt forward like a king returning to claim his throne.
O'Neill's jaw dropped.
For the first time, he felt it—
Leon wasn't just another racer.
He was watching a god behind the wheel.
~~----------------------
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