Outside the hotel doors—
Leon swung his fist again and again, smashing it into Brixton's face.
"Damn, he's hard as hell," Leon muttered, channeling brutal strength into each blow.
Brixton's mouth twisted, his jaw dislocated from the impact. His heart burned with humiliation.
He had upgraded to second-generation gene enhancements, thinking he could crush Leon.
But even now, he couldn't fight back.
Was he the most pitiful cyborg alive?
Brixton wanted to spit blood, resentment boiling in his chest like, why was I even born if someone like Leon exists?
Leon raised his fist again—but this time Brixton roared, summoning his strength. He caught Leon's punch with both hands.
Boom! The impact was like a missile detonating.
Even with metal bones, Brixton's arms almost snapped under the pressure.
Vrrrmmm—
A deep engine growled.
Brixton summoned his heavy-cycle motorcycle.
Leon turned in surprise as a self-balancing pod skated toward them—then, right before their eyes, it transformed.
Gears churned, panels shifted, and its body expanded, morphing into a full-blown motorcycle.
It roared straight toward Brixton.
Leon leapt aside just in time.
Brixton sprang up, grabbed the handlebars mid-motion, and flipped smoothly onto the saddle. His movements were sharp and seamless, as if man and machine were one.
A single wave of his hand and the bike responded instantly, rushing to his side.
The style was sleek, the technology almost arrogant.
Eteon's research is terrifying, Leon thought grimly. They've completely rewritten what I thought was possible.
Brixton twisted the throttle. The Triumph's engine bellowed, tires spitting smoke as he shot forward, tearing away from the hotel.
"Damn it, trying to run?" Leon snarled.
From the underground parking lot, Diomas suddenly awakened. Its headlights flared like eyes opening, its deep growl shaking the walls.
Leon sprinted toward it. As the car neared him, its door panels slid open. Leon leapt, and Diomas executed a perfect drift, spinning 720 degrees to scoop him inside the driver's seat before slamming the doors shut.
The wheels screeched as it rocketed out of the garage.
Onlookers froze, dumbstruck.
Phones slipped from hands, jaws dropped wide open.
That wasn't just autonomous driving—the car had maneuvered with intelligence beyond human skill.
"Tell me I'm not crazy… did that car just… catch him?"
"This AI is insane—it drives better than I do!"
"Look at that tire arc—perfect geometry!"
People cursed themselves for not recording it; such a moment would have dominated East Coast headlines.
But the car had no license plate, and it moved far too fast to track.
Even if it had plates, U.S. plate systems were so chaotic—colors, state tags, random alphanumeric mixes—that identifying it would've been nearly impossible.
The crowd was left only with the memory of a mysterious, godlike machine disappearing into the distance.
Brixton's Triumph was fast.
But Leon's Diomas was faster.
His eyes hardened as he shifted gears, the engine's roar building into a thunderous crescendo.
The streets erupted into chaos—cars swerving aside, pedestrians scattering, screams and panic in every direction.
Leon locked his gaze onto the Triumph. He recognized the brand: Triumph Motorcycles.
Many outsiders didn't know the name, but in reality, Triumph was a legendary British marque with over a century of history. Since its first model in 1902, it had built a reputation for iconic heavy bikes.
This one—featuring the brand's signature "wasp-eye" headlights—looked deceptively cute, a sharp contrast to its raw power.
Powered by a 1050cc, three-cylinder, liquid-cooled engine, it produced 150 horsepower and 117Nm of torque. With superb suspension and explosive acceleration, it was formidable even in stock form.
But with Eteon's modifications, Brixton's Triumph had become something else entirely—transformable, hyper-agile, almost alive.
The chase flipped the movie dynamic on its head:
In the film, Brixton hunted Hobbs and Shaw.
Here, Leon was the predator—and Brixton the prey.
Brixton's panic grew as the sound of Diomas's engine surged behind him, louder, closer, relentless.
He glanced back—his face went pale. Leon was closing in fast, barely a hundred meters away.
"Damn it! I'm the king of the streets, not him!!" Brixton howled.
On open highways, even a modified Triumph was no match for Diomas. But in the twisting alleys and narrow lanes, the motorcycle held the advantage.
Ahead, a red light glared. A semi-truck lumbered across the intersection. The gap beneath it was only half a meter high.
At this speed, Brixton should have been doomed.
But he didn't flinch. Tilting the bike, sparks screamed from the asphalt as he leaned dangerously low.
At the last second, the Triumph transformed again, its frame compressing just enough to slide beneath the truck.
Brixton's helmet nearly scraped the undercarriage—just inches away from death. But he shot out the other side, the bike instantly re-forming, still at full speed.
It moved like lightning—phantom, spectral, unstoppable.
Not only could it transform shape on command, but it could also adapt mid-ride, even allowing riders to remount effortlessly with a single step.
It was a machine designed for fluid motion, alive with agility.
Leon, however, faced a problem.
The closer the speed, the longer the braking distance—and at this range, even an emergency stop wouldn't save him from ramming the semi head-on.
"Shit!!" Leon cursed, stomping the brakes and jerking the wheel.
Diomas screamed, tires shrieking as it skidded violently, the chassis grinding against the road—
—and the car slammed toward the truck.
~~----------------------
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