The opposing driver had some skill. Even after being sideswiped, he didn't panic — he steadied his muscle car, glared at Leon, slammed into gear, and floored the throttle.
The beastly roar of the V8 filled the road as his speed surged, and in a flash he overtook Leon's gray van.
"Not bad," Leon smirked, cat-and-mouse amusement glinting in his eyes.
But to him, this was nothing more than a child showing off in front of a master. Like swinging a toy sword in front of Guan Gong himself.
Inside the muscle car, a burly passenger asked:
"Muller, can you shake him off?"
The driver's name, naturally, was Muller.
"Of course. How could a piece of junk like a minivan ever match a Ford?" Muller sneered with utter contempt.
To him, the very thought was laughable.
No one had ever beaten a Ford with a van. Ever.
It wasn't even worthy to be called an opponent.
Muller lifted his chin, basking in confidence. He was already a well-known local street racer, with plenty of wins and plenty of stolen cars in his collection.
Against a van? That was beneath him.
"Hold tight! Watch this!" Muller shouted, giddy with adrenaline. He stomped the brakes, yanked the wheel, and drifted through the corner.
It wasn't like Leon's drifts, which had the grace of pure art.
And truth be told, muscle cars were never made for corners. They were built for straight-line brutality.
Every muscle car shared the same weakness: stiff, clumsy cornering. Slowing down was inevitable.
As Muller cleared the bend, he glanced in the mirror.
No sign of the van.
He grinned smugly.
Trash. And here I thought he had something. Worthless.
"Nice work," the burly man — Jack — exhaled in relief. "I'll report this to the boss. You'll get praise for sure."
Muller was one of the boss's hand-picked drivers. Said to be top-tier, flawless for this job. Jack had doubted it — but now, he was convinced.
A driver could make or break an operation. And Muller? He could handle even the stickiest tail.
"Ha! Thanks, Jack. Just watch me," Muller laughed, ego swelling. In his head, he was already the fastest racer in Los Angeles.
But just as he floored the throttle again—
From a side road, a gray minivan blasted out.
Its nose smashed straight into the Ford.
BANG!!
The impact was brutal. The Ford lost all control, tumbling end-over-end five times, skidding for over ten meters before finally screeching to a halt — wheels pointing helplessly skyward.
Other cars weren't so lucky. Several were wrecked in the chaos, twisted metal and broken glass littering the road.
The sudden crash stunned everyone nearby. Drivers slammed brakes, traffic snarled, pedestrians froze.
"Why did he hit him like that?!"
"Looked deliberate. That van straight-up rammed him."
"Gang retaliation?"
"Are the people inside even alive?"
Phones came out, videos rolled, 911 calls lit up. The scene spiraled into chaos.
But Leon didn't care. He swung open his door and stepped out.
Amidst a sea of white and black faces, his Asian features drew stares. Gasps followed.
No one expected the perpetrator to be… a Chinese guy.
Pasha bolted from the van, racing toward the overturned Ford.
"Letty! Are you okay?!" she cried, on the verge of tears.
The Ford was mangled, crumpled in on itself, smoke curling from the hood. To any bystander, survival seemed impossible.
But Leon was calm. He was sure Letty would be alive.
The others? Maybe dead. But Letty? Protected by the bodies that had cushioned her in the crash. At worst, she'd be knocked out.
Sure enough—
"Pasha?" a weak voice called.
The door creaked, and a limp, unconscious thug tumbled out. Then Letty herself crawled free, bruised and bloodied but intact. Scratches marked her forehead and arm, but her bones were fine, her body still strong.
"Oh, thank God! You're alive!" Pasha sobbed, clutching Letty tight. "I thought I lost you."
Leon stepped closer, glaring down at the groaning men inside. Then, with a smirk, he flipped them the middle finger.
Who's the trash now?
Couldn't even outrun a van — and they still had the gall to brag.
For Leon, it was deeply satisfying, a release of pent-up scorn.
"Come on, we should go. Too many eyes here," Leon urged.
"You are…?" Letty asked, blinking at him.
"Pasha's neighbor. Let's move," Leon grinned, turning to leave.
But suddenly—
Grab.
A bloody hand latched onto his ankle. One of the battered thugs, teeth red with blood, rasped:
"Don't go… our boss… won't let you get away…"
Leon's eyes narrowed.
"F*ck off TRASH"
And with that, he raised his foot and kicked the man square in the face.