The past couple of days in Los Santos had been anything but calm.
Something was in the air—people could sense it.
Summer's heat was fading, but a stormy autumn was on the horizon.
First, a hijacked truck left a pile of bodies crushed.
Then came a brutal shooting—five, six people dead.
And not long after, a massive pile-up downtown, the driver fleeing the scene.
And now today, one tweet lit the West Coast on fire.
It came from O'Neill, a well-known West Coast street racer. He wrote:
"Last night I lost to a van. I was driving a Bugatti Chiron, but he drifted the corner using pure inertia. His car was insanely fast. The only thing I saw clearly was some repair sign on the side. If anyone knows who he is, tell him I'll be waiting Saturday on Violence Street."
One tweet—ten thousand ripples.
O'Neill was no nobody. On the West Coast, he was already called the God of the Streets.
Three-time back-to-back champion of the underground circuit.
Rumors even said he was about to challenge Dominic Toretto himself.
If he won, he'd claim the throne—officially becoming West Coast's number one.
But now? The so-called "God" hadn't lost to a Ferrari, a Porsche, or another supercar…
He lost to a van.
"What kind of joke is this?"
"Is this April Fool's Day, or did I just wake up from a coma?"
"A Bugatti Chiron losing to a minivan? What kind of meme is this?"
"Who the hell was driving that thing?!"
The internet exploded. No one believed it.
The Bugatti Chiron was untouchable. How could it lose to a van?
It had to be a prank.
If vans could go that fast, why would anyone even buy muscle cars or hypercars?
Facing the doubt, O'Neill dropped the dashcam footage.
On screen, his Bugatti was already flying—threading through traffic with ease, proving his skill.
But then—out of nowhere—a van shot into frame.
Netizens froze, then immediately slammed pause.
Just like O'Neill claimed, the van was insanely fast.
On its side: faded Chinese characters and the words "leak repair."
If not for the pause button, no one would've even caught the letters.
This thing was moving at a blur.
And it wasn't just speed—the trajectory showed it was drifting, snaking through impossible gaps.
"What kind of move is that?"
"This isn't driving—this is movie CGI!"
Continuous S-curve drifts.
On public roads.
With traffic in the way.
It wasn't human.
"Holy crap!!"
"666!"
The chat blew up. People spammed likes and disbelief.
Some sharp-eyed viewers recognized the plates: it was the same van from the massive downtown crash.
"The city accident? That's this van!"
"Ha! Over-speeding, then crashed 'cause he couldn't handle it. Garbage driver."
"No, wait—I heard he was trying to stop a kidnapping. Crashed to save someone."
Debate raged, and curiosity grew.
Whoever could beat O'Neill had to be a legend.
So why was this guy completely unknown?
Maybe he was new in town. Or maybe he'd come over from the East Coast.
With so many people in the world, it wasn't impossible.
Elsewhere…
Dominic Toretto sat watching the news, jaw tight. The screen replayed footage of the Los Santos crash—the van slamming into a Ford muscle car, sending it tumbling into wreckage.
"Dom, someone's challenging you."
Brian O'Conner walked in, letter in hand, that trademark smirk on his face.
Not as massive as Dom, but no less charismatic.
"Who?" Dom asked, taking the letter.
"O'Neill. He's here in Los Santos."
Dom paused. Then smiled faintly.
"So… he finally came for me."
Both he and O'Neill had long been called the strongest racers on the West Coast.
It was inevitable—they were destined to clash.
Even if O'Neill hadn't come, Dom would've gone to him eventually.
Two tigers couldn't share the same mountain.
But Brian shook his head, showing his phone. "That's not all. He's already run into trouble."
On screen—O'Neill's viral tweet.
He'd been beaten by… a van.
"No way." Dom rubbed his bald head, stunned.
Since when could a van do this?
Curious, he tapped the video.
When he saw the van drift past at impossible speed, his eyes widened.
As a veteran racer, Dom could see what others couldn't.
He replayed it again and again, his face growing serious.
At that insane velocity, the driver wasn't just surviving the turns. He was flowing through them—like eating, drinking, breathing.
Moving however he wanted, with absolute control.
It was something close to myth.
"…Could it be him?" Dom whispered, shaken.
He thought back to that night—the silver car that had flashed past, impossibly fast.
Could it be the same driver?