While Leon and his crew were enjoying the rare peace before the race,
a familiar, arrogant strut approached — Dino and his men.
That same smug expression as always,
walking like he owned the entire East Coast.
He glanced at Leon with disdain.
"So you're the one everyone's talking about?
Turns out you're just a van driver."
Leon's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Say that again. I dare you."
People always mistook his calm for weakness.
They forgot — he wasn't the kind of man you could provoke and walk away from.
"This is East Coast territory—"
SMACK!
Before Dino could finish, Leon's hand whipped across his face.
The crack echoed through the plaza.
Dino spun midair, hitting the ground hard,
clutching his cheek as tears welled up from the pain.
"Watch your damn mouth," Leon said coldly.
The men Dino brought along froze in fear,
their confidence evaporating as they stumbled backward.
None of them expected Leon to hit him in public!
"You… you hit me?!" Dino shouted, his face twisted in rage.
Crowds gathered instantly, whispering, chuckling,
phones out, recording.
The humiliation hit Dino like a freight train —
his face burned with anger and shame.
Leon crouched down to his level, smirked,
and slapped him again.
PAK!
The sound was crisp, brutal, satisfying.
"Sorry," Leon said mockingly. "Your face is just too punchable."
The crowd erupted in laughter.
Every giggle and snicker stabbed at Dino's pride.
His expression turned red, then pale,
his entire body trembling.
"You… you just wait!" Dino hissed, eyes blazing.
Leon raised his hand again playfully —
and Dino flinched back like a scared child,
nearly tripping over himself as he retreated.
"Hahahaha!"
The onlookers couldn't contain it anymore —
they burst out laughing,
mocking the once "untouchable" East Coast racer
now reduced to a joke.
Leon watched him crawl away like a turtle,
feeling an almost guilty satisfaction. Almost.
Shaw stepped forward, his tone serious.
"He'll report this straight to Braga. You'd better stay alert."
Leon nodded calmly.
"I know. What about Hobbs? Has he made his move yet?"
"He's mobilized his team. They're closing in."
There'd be a firefight, no doubt.
Hobbs never did subtle.
If they didn't have enough manpower, things could get messy.
Leon understood.
By the time the race ended, the bullets might still be flying.
Both sides were walking into danger —
just different kinds of it.
As the clock ticked closer to 11:30 PM,
Leon slipped into his Diomas Hypercar,
rolling forward to join the lineup.
Thanks to Dino's "clever" arrangement,
Leon's Diomas and the SSC Tuatara were placed at the very front —
followed by Ferraris, Maseratis, and Benzes.
It was a lineup straight out of a billionaire's dream —
a glittering sea of supercars, each one more aggressive than the last.
But when Diomas rolled into position,
every other car looked... ordinary.
That emerald-black beast radiated power.
Its aerodynamic lines glowed under the lights,
the kind of machine that didn't just drive — it commanded.
"What brand is that?"
"Never seen it before… looks insane!"
"Too bad it's not from our East Coast."
"Still, that thing looks like it could eat cars for breakfast."
Whispers rippled through the crowd —
half curiosity, half awe.
Everyone knew, deep down,
that Leon's Diomas was the most intimidating machine on the track.
Leon tapped the accelerator twice —
VROOOOM—!
The roar wasn't a sound; it was a shockwave.
The air trembled.
Fans stumbled back instinctively, some screaming.
The car didn't sound mechanical.
It sounded alive.
Predatory. Hungry.
Every other engine, even the deep growl of the Ferraris and Lambos,
sounded weak next to it — like kittens trying to roar.
The drivers behind him exchanged uneasy glances.
Their faces said it all: we're not ready for this.
Even Tobey, the usually cocky racer beside him,
could only give Leon a silent thumbs-up.
Leon smirked but said nothing —
his eyes fixed straight ahead.
He was waiting for the signal.
Above them, helicopters circled like vultures,
their cameras streaming live to millions of viewers.
News crews from every major network were present.
The Leon Cup wasn't just a race anymore —
it was history being made on live television.
The rumble of metal filled the air.
A train approached in the distance —
its wheels grinding against the tracks,
the metallic screech echoing across the night.
Everyone tensed.
The racers' hearts pounded in rhythm with the iron beast's wheels.
Engines revved.
Tires smoked.
The tension was thick enough to choke on.
The signal would come the moment the train's whistle blew.
Until then, everyone waited — coiled like a spring.
The train rolled past —
its final carriage sliding by Diomas.
Then came the cue.
WHOOOOOOOO!
The whistle screamed through the night.
And just like that—
BOOM!
Engines roared to life.
Tires screeched, spewing white smoke.
Cars launched forward like bullets.
0–100 km/h in 1.9 seconds.
Leon's Diomas lunged ahead, its nose lifting slightly off the ground.
The chaos began instantly —
cars colliding, metal grinding, sparks flying.
Those with strong engines blasted ahead,
those with weak ones got rammed, spun, or outright wrecked.
A red Maserati got clipped, spun sideways, and slammed into a barrier.
Another car flipped over, tumbling toward the spectator zone.
Crowds screamed and scattered as it smashed to the ground, glass shattering,
the driver left bloodied and unconscious.
The scene was carnage —
but the audience loved it.
"This is insane!"
"Yeah! Now this is racing!"
Typical American crowd —
the more dangerous it got, the louder they cheered.
Drifting? Too elegant.
Explosions? That's entertainment.
And through the madness —
SSC and Diomas were already leading the charge.
Leon's car exploded forward,
its acceleration monstrous, effortless.
"Look at that! The Diomas is flying!"
Dust and smoke trailed behind it like a meteor's tail.
Even the mighty SSC could only chase from behind,
forced to eat the dust Leon left in his wake.
The crowd's eyes locked onto the screen —
the two titans tearing through the night —
the race of the century had truly begun.
~~----------------------
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