After consecutively defeating O'Neal and Dominic and claiming the title of West Coast Car God, Leon's skill alone was already shocking. Though previously unknown, his mysterious aura made him all the more intriguing to the press.
"Rumor has it he used to drive a van."
"Exactly—he beat O'Neal in a van, which got him invited."
"He's a mysterious driver. Every TV station on the West Coast wants a piece of him."
"The mysterious West Coast Car God is about to ignite a new frenzy."
"Last night, NMSL News set a viewership record—35.7%! Unbelievable!"
From a mere 0.1% to 35.7%—an increase of 370 times! Trish had skyrocketed overnight into a top-tier journalist. The anchor's voice was excited, replaying the race footage, including the perilous death track. This course was notorious among drivers—almost unbeatable. Many had tried, only to fail at the last moment. Everyone expected Dominic or O'Neal to break the record. Who could have imagined it would be Leon?
Even funnier, Leon didn't attempt to break the record intentionally; he was merely taking a shortcut to save time. Countless drivers struggled and strategized to complete the same course, only to be outdone by a casual shortcut. Frustration and admiration mixed among onlookers, as they had no choice but to admit Leon's extraordinary skill. Conquering the death track alone cemented his title as the West Coast Car God.
News of Leon's triumph spread quickly across the West Coast. Naturally, his phone began receiving a flood of messages. If it hadn't been dead, it would have driven him crazy.
Leon scrolled through messages from fans, TV stations requesting interviews, programs inviting him as a brand ambassador, and even wealthy investors. Among them was a message from the female journalist who had been filming him on the plane the night before:
"Hi, I'm Trish. Sorry we didn't get to have dinner last night. Can we meet tonight?"
Followed by a few flirty emojis.
Leon smirked. Whether dinner would lead to something romantic was left to his charm. He replied simply, "We'll see," and set his phone aside. A little mystique kept his value high.
He turned back to check the news and online comments. Most were praising his skill, while a few trolls criticized him for speeding or being reckless. Leon chuckled at the foolishness, lighting a cigarette and relaxing.
Then, the familiar roar of an engine outside caught his attention. A Porsche 718 was parked on the street—it was Elena, the audacious female cop who loved racing.
"What's she doing here?" Leon wondered, letting out a lazy blue smoke ring. He extinguished his cigarette and opened the door, leaning casually in the frame.
"Beautiful lady, only a few days gone, and already wrecked another car?" he teased.
Elena's expression was serious, brows furrowed—this was no joke. "I've run into trouble. I need your help modifying a vehicle," she said.
Leon paused. He could tell the situation was serious just by her expression.
"Come in," he said.
"Wait, I have a friend with me," Elena added.
Leon glanced at the car, curious. Out stepped a woman with fair skin, golden wavy hair, and piercing blue eyes—a pure white European beauty. Tall, sexy, dressed in a casual yet alluring chiffon top and short denim shorts. She nodded to Leon:
"Hello, I'm Hattie… Hattie Shaw."
Hattie, the female lead of the "Special Operations" side story, was an elite agent with impressive combat skills. Nicknamed the "White Widow," she was a notorious beauty.
"Come in," Leon invited, gesturing for both women to enter.
Leon's apartment was simple: clean white walls, a sofa, a table, and a TV. Nothing overly luxurious, but neat and orderly.
The two women sat down, and Leon poured them each a cup of black coffee.
"Now," he said, sitting across from them, voice relaxed. "Tell me—what's the problem?"
There was nothing Leon couldn't handle.
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