Leon slowly opened his eyes and turned to the voice outside the window.
The guy was yellow-skinned, black-haired, clearly Asian in physique and features. Maybe a local Asian-American, maybe an immigrant. Either way, the type who got a little money and thought he ruled the streets.
Behind him stood six lackeys. Two muscle cars were parked behind the Silver Marauder, blocking it in.
Hah. With clowns like this, trying to buy my Marauder? More like trying to jack it.
Leon kept a straight face, lowered the electric window, and said lazily:
"And who the hell are you supposed to be, dumbass?"
The man's face twisted. The insult cut deep.
"F**k! You listen up. Name's Johnny Tran," he spat, eyes flashing with malice. "Sell me this ride for fifty grand, and I'll forget what you just said."
The menace in his voice was clear.
Johnny Tran — head of a notorious street racing and car-theft crew. This was his turf. He'd lost a big race to Dominic Toretto before, and ever since, he'd been hell-bent on revenge.
In his mind, he didn't lose because Dom was the better driver — only because Dom's car was stronger. Tran wanted a machine that could beat Dom's Dodge Charger, the legendary American muscle beast.
The Charger had gone through generations, from the classic '69 two-door to the later four-door versions. With mods, it could pump out 425 horsepower and even more if tuned right. A monster that could tow safes through the streets and laugh about it.
And it belonged only to Dom.
Johnny Tran was desperate for a car that could match or beat it. Muscle cars were usually the best candidates — cheap base, raw horsepower, endless upgrade potential.
Today, he was supposed to be scouting for one. Instead, fate threw him face-to-face with the Silver Marauder.
An exotic, futuristic beast in silver. And the driver? Some young guy. Easy prey, Tran thought.
So he swaggered over, flanked by his goons. And that's how this little standoff began.
When Leon heard Johnny offer a measly $50,000, he almost laughed himself to death.
He sneered, voice dripping with contempt:
"You really think your broke-ass 'offer' is funny? You're just advertising your own poverty, dumbass."
For trash like this, Leon wished he could slap them twice on principle.
Fifty grand? You think you're hot sht with that? Please.*
He shook his head. Idiots with no strength, no brains, just attitude.
Johnny's face twisted with rage. "You little sh*t… believe me, I'll put you down right now!"
He lunged, yanking Leon by the collar, grinding his teeth like a rabid dog. Around him, five lackeys circled closer, grinning viciously.
"Hand over the ride, punk."
"You don't deserve to drive something like this."
"Trash like you should stick to bicycles!"
"Don't give it up, and you're dead!"
Their taunts rained down, arrogant and sharp.
Leon narrowed his eyes, sweeping his gaze across each face, burning them into memory.
Fine. You'll all pay for this.
Johnny, mistaking Leon's calm for fear, threw his head back and laughed. "Ha! Trash will always be trash. What are you gonna do? Spit? Pfft!"
He raised a hand to slap Leon across the face—
—but Leon's arm snapped up like lightning, his fingers clamping down on Johnny's wrist like an iron vice.
Johnny froze. His eyes widened in shock. He tried to yank free, but Leon's grip was unbreakable.
"You… you dare fight back?!" Johnny snarled, panic flickering in his eyes.
The circle of lackeys tightened. Their hands drifted toward their belts. The air grew tense.
Leon's eyes narrowed further, his tone like a blade:
"Try me."
He squeezed. Bones cracked audibly.
"AAAHHHHHHHHH!" Johnny howled, his face contorted in agony. Sweat streamed down, his skin turning pale, lips trembling. His knees buckled.
"L-let go! LET GO!!!"
Leon's smirk was ice-cold. Pathetic. Ants daring to roar before a god. Their strength? Barely fifty. Against me? A joke.
"Step back," Leon said evenly, his voice laced with menace. "Or your boss here loses his hand… and his life."
The lackeys froze, eyes darting to each other. None dared move first.
"Don't just stand there, you idiots!" Johnny screamed, half-delirious with pain. "Pull your guns, you morons! SHOOT HIM!"
The henchmen stiffened. Yes, they had guns. But staring at Leon's unshakable calm, none dared be the first to draw.