For a transmigrator like Leon, there was a certain thrill in "putting a green hat" on someone — stealing another man's woman. He grinned slyly.
He had already robbed Dominic of his shipment, that grudge was set.
So what if he stole a woman too? Besides, at this point, Letty wasn't even with Dominic yet…
"Why not just have your friend take the bus back?" Leon asked, glancing at the clock — it wasn't even seven yet.
Pasha looked at him strangely, almost confused. "At this hour? There are no buses that come out here anymore."
She explained patiently. Cars in America were dirt cheap — basically every household owned one. That meant very few people relied on buses. Especially in a small town with little demand, buses stopped running early. Everyone drove. And at night? Streets weren't safe. Crime thrived after dark. Ordinary people avoided going out unless necessary.
Leon, hadn't realized the local "unspoken rules." He nodded and relented. "Alright. Give me a sec, I'll grab my keys."
But Pasha quickly waved her hands. "No, no, no! Let's just take my car. I can't have you wasting fuel on my account."
She had no idea Leon's Silver Marauder didn't even run on gas. In everyone else's eyes, a supercar was a fuel-devouring monster. Just tapping the accelerator on something like a Ferrari could burn through a few dollars' worth of gas. Owning one meant insane fuel costs. That's why hardly anyone dared take their exotic cars on the highway. You'd either run out of fuel before reaching the next gas station… or be forced to refuel at every stop. Inconvenient as hell.
So she didn't want to trouble Leon.
After a moment's hesitation, Leon agreed. Actually, it was for the better — his own car had just been in the city earlier that day… where a killing had gone down. If he showed up there again in the same car, it'd be far too conspicuous. If the cops recognized it, he'd have a real headache ditching them. And carrying passengers would only make it worse.
"Alright, you lead the way," Leon said with a smile.
Pasha lit up and eagerly led him to her car.
When Leon laid eyes on it, he froze. Not because it was a clunker — but because… it was a Chinese-made minivan?
"What the…? A Wuling Hongguang? Out here in America?" he thought, dumbstruck. Seeing the legendary "god van" overseas gave him the weirdest sense of running into an old friend abroad. The back was even plastered with a contractor's sign for "leak repairs," complete with a phone number. Classic Chinese flavor.
"My dad's a fan of the brand," Pasha said quickly, seeing his strange expression.
"Fair enough. Let's roll," Leon chuckled, taking the keys and starting it with practiced ease.
Soon, they were cruising down the road. Of course, it wasn't the Silver Marauder, so he couldn't unleash its monstrous speed. Still, a casual pace for him meant ~180 km/h — "so-so, barely acceptable."
The humble minivan roared like a restless beast, surging toward the city. Pasha sat in the passenger seat, her face drained of color.
"Slow down! Please, slow down!!" she squealed, covering her eyes and refusing to look at the road ahead.
Leon laughed out loud, thoroughly enjoying himself. It was Pasha's first time experiencing real speed, and she was overwhelmed — brain fried, guts twisted in regret. If she'd known he drove like this, she never would've asked him.
"This isn't driving — this is suicide!" she screamed. "Ahhh!! There's a car ahead, slow down!!"
Her shrieks filled the road the whole way.
Meanwhile—
O'Neal, Las Vegas's top street racer, was tearing up the highway. He was a man who traveled state to state, challenging and defeating local champions. His record spoke for itself, his fame spreading wider by the day. People were already whispering that he might claim the title of West Coast Car God — a name spoken alongside Dominic Toretto's.
With a rugged beard and sharply defined features, he had the air of a seasoned, masculine veteran. Today, he was behind the wheel of none other than a Bugatti Chiron.
This was no ordinary car.
Top speed: 440 km/h.
Engine: 8.0L W16, quad-turbocharged.
Output: 1,500 PS, 1,600 Nm of torque.
The beast's sheer power made cooling a nightmare. To keep the Chiron's engine under control, it carried 10 radiators, pushing nearly 800 liters of coolant per minute. Put another way, that's the equivalent of 1,455 half-liter water bottles cycling every minute.
Beyond that, its aerodynamic design funneled massive amounts of air over the brakes and engine to siphon away heat.
And the air it swallowed? Staggering — about 60,000 liters per minute, more than a human breathes in two full days.
But the appetite for fuel was even scarier. At top speed, the Chiron guzzled a 100-liter tank in just 9 minutes.
Truly, invincibility is a lonely thing.
Driving such a monster today, O'Neal clearly had a goal in mind.
"O'Neal," his co-driver Shaw grinned, "using this thing against Dominic… don't you think it's a bit unfair?"