Leon had completely left the AE86 behind.
Even the upgraded version of Takumi's machine could only watch the Diomas's taillights fade into the distance — powerless.
The road ahead stretched into a five-kilometer straightaway, shimmering under the Detroit sun.
On a straight like that, the AE86's drift advantage meant nothing.
No matter how skilled Takumi Fujiwara was, the Diomas Nilo was a monster in another league.
Its bodyweight, downforce, and engine torque meant it clung to the road even when pushed past reason.
"We've lost," Takumi finally exhaled, leaning back in his seat.
He wasn't bitter — just humbled.
Leon's car wasn't merely fast — it was dominating.
Facing it, all resistance felt meaningless, almost… disrespectful.
Beside him, Itsuki was still staring blankly ahead, trying to process what had just happened.
Was their AE86 too weak, or was Leon simply too strong?
Leon and his team rolled into a retro roadside diner, their cars parked right by the glass windows.
Inside, five of them — Leon, Shaw, Gisele, and the others — sat at a corner booth.
The table was full: burgers, apple pies, fries, Coke, fried chicken legs, and wings — the classic American spread.
But no one touched a thing.
The last race had shaken them to the core — wall-running at 300 km/h, skidding along cliffs, and near-death drifts had drained them more than they'd admit.
Their legs were still trembling. Heads dizzy.
Even Gisele, who'd seen her fair share of chaos, sat pale and silent.
The only one eating heartily — of course — was Leon.
He munched on his burger with a relaxed grin, as if gravity-defying stunts were his daily cardio.
Shaw shot him a side-eye, muttering,
"Mate, your stomach's made of titanium or what?"
Leon smirked mid-bite.
"Just good metabolism."
The soft purr of engines interrupted them.
Two more cars glided into the diner's parking lot.
The first: an Aston Martin Valhalla — sleek, silver, divine.
Valhalla, the "Hall of the Fallen Heroes" in Norse mythology — fittingly named for warriors who never die.
Its design was understated yet impossibly elegant, no aggressive spoilers or vents — just calm, terrifying confidence.
From the car stepped out a man in a fitted black suit, cufflinks glinting in the sunlight.
Cool, poised, lethal.
James Bond.
The second car rolled up right beside it — a Lamborghini Centenario, carbon-fiber body gleaming raw and untamed.
No paint. No polish. Just exposed carbon muscle — a celebration of power in its purest form.
Its aerodynamics were wild, its curves almost alive, and the deep growl of its V12 made the diner's windows tremble.
From the driver's seat stepped a young man in a leather jacket — confident, messy-haired, a grin that screamed "mechanic-turned-hero."
Sam Witwicky.
The man rumored to have driven a Transformer.
Leon's eyes widened slightly.
"Bond… and the kid from the Transformers movies? What the hell kind of race is this turning into?"
This wasn't an ordinary meet.
This was a summit of titans.
The East Coast had officially arrived.
And these weren't random drivers — these were icons.
Bond.
Sam.
And more were on the way.
Leon could feel the weight of it — a gathering so legendary it could rewrite the map of the underground racing world.
"This isn't a race anymore," Shaw muttered.
"It's a damn movie crossover."
Inside the diner, conversations hushed as more engines roared outside.
Every arrival was another legend.
The upcoming "America's No. 1 Racer Championship" was living up to the hype — a show so massive it had pulled in every major name from coast to coast.
Even Hollywood had its eyes on Detroit tonight.
"So that's him?" Bond asked Sam, glancing toward the diner window.
"Leon, the so-called West Coast King. Word is, he's unbeatable."
Sam shrugged, smirking.
"They said the same thing about Megatron."
Bond adjusted his cufflinks, unamused.
"Overconfidence kills, Mr. Witwicky."
Inside, Leon listened with mild amusement — their conversation was loud enough to hear.
He leaned back, sipping his Coke, eyes glinting.
"Ten billion dollars in total prize money?" he repeated, half to himself.
"Guess it's worth showing off a few new tricks."
Even Shaw raised a brow.
"You're seriously thinking of going against Bond and a guy who drives alien robots?"
Leon grinned.
"Why not? Someone's gotta remind them which coast rules the map."
The parking lot outside was starting to look like a hypercar museum:
McLarens, Bugattis, Ferraris, even a Koenigsegg pulling up for good measure.
And then — the soft, distinct sound of a drifted parking brake.
Screech.
A familiar black-and-white AE86 slid perfectly into a slot beside the diner.
Takumi Fujiwara had arrived.
The circle of legends was complete.
Detroit wasn't just hosting a race — it was hosting a pantheon.
And Leon…
was about to challenge the gods themselves.
~~----------------------
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