When Dominic Toretto and O'Neal were still battling for supremacy on the West Coast,
the East Coast had already crowned its own racing god.
That title belonged to Tobey Marshall.
In his legendary duel against Alan on the East Coast, Tobey—driving the SSC Tuatara, armed with monstrous horsepower and sheer willpower—seized victory. His dominance earned him the title of "God of the East Coast."
It wasn't just a win.
It was an annihilation.
An unforgettable feat that became the pride of the East.
The SSC Tuatara was no ordinary car. Hailed as the world's fastest production hypercar, its very design bordered on insanity. Its bionic aerodynamics were inspired by the New Zealand lizard—the tuatara—renowned for its evolutionary perfection.
The car's tail wing mimicked the reptile's aerodynamic tail, enabling it to slice through the air with predatory efficiency.
Under the hood?
A 7.0L V8 twin-turbo, designed in-house by SSC.
Zero to 100 km/h in 2.78 seconds.
Every inch of its chassis and body made from carbon fiber.
The wheels? Single-piece forged carbon fiber, only 5.9 kg each—the first production car in history to feature them.
A monster built for one thing: speed.
And with Tobey's skill behind the wheel, the legend was cemented.
For years, the East Coast boasted of their godlike driver, sneering at the West.
"Dominic? O'Neal? They're nothing compared to Tobey."
To the East, there was only one name worthy of America's Racing God: Tobey Marshall.
That day, Tobey was sitting outside a café in New York, the Tuatara parked like a caged beast at the curb.
The moment he heard the Diomas Nilo's engine note, his eyes sharpened.
As a man who'd started out as a blue-collar mechanic, Tobey could identify any car just by listening to the exhaust. Ferrari, Maserati, Porsche—every note was etched into his memory.
But this… this was something else.
The sound was vicious, untamed.
Like a predator bursting free from its cage, hunting with bloodlust.
Every slower car was prey to be shredded.
Ferrari? Maserati? Lamborghinis? Lambs to the slaughter.
Only titans like Aston Martin Valkyrie, Koenigsegg Jesko, or SSC itself could stand toe-to-toe.
When Tobey saw Leon drift-park the Diomas Nilo into a tight Wall Street space with a spiral flourish, his blood boiled.
That kind of precision driving?
Equal to his own.
Maybe… even beyond.
"An East Coast challenger, huh…" Tobey muttered, eyes never leaving the car.
Beside him, his friend Benny sipped his coffee, then scoffed when he saw Leon step out.
An Asian face. Young. Broad-shouldered, muscular—more than most white men.
But Benny didn't see strength. He saw insult.
"Not a white guy? No way he's your rival." Benny sneered.
"Asian drivers? Please. They can't hold a candle to us. He's not even fit to lace your boots."
Benny worshipped Tobey blindly. To him, the East Coast god was untouchable.
Tobey shook his head, unfazed.
"Don't be so sure. Word is… the West Coast already crowned their own god."
Benny blinked. "What, Dominic? Or O'Neal?"
To him, Dominic Toretto—the West Coast legend of muscle cars and family—was the obvious choice. And O'Neal had both money and connections. Surely one of them.
Tobey's reply hit like thunder:
"Neither."
He glanced out at Leon, who was on his phone across the street.
"They both lost. To him. His name is Leon."
Benny's jaw dropped, his coffee nearly spilling.
Dominic lost.
O'Neal lost.
Both defeated by… an Asian?!
"This is impossible! In America, whites rule racing. No way some Asian beat them!" Benny's voice cracked, panic laced in his tone.
"Not only did he beat them," Tobey said bitterly, "on the way here he also shattered the Death's Wish Canyon record. Just to pass the time."
"W–Wait… shattered it?" Benny's hands shook. His throat went dry.
The Death's Wish Canyon—a notorious deathtrap of a racing course.
Every year, countless drivers perished trying to conquer it. Even Tobey himself had avoided it, deeming the risk too high for his career.
But Leon?
He'd done it. Easily. And he was still here.
"No… no way. He must've cheated!" Benny stammered.
"I wish he had." Tobey shook his head, face grim. "But no. He was hunted the whole race—guns, rockets, even helicopters firing missiles at him. And still, he won. If anything, all that slowed him down. Without the attacks, his Silver Marauder might've broken the world speed record outright."
Benny sat frozen, pale, his worldview crumbling.
For the first time in his life, he felt fear.
"The West Coast picked a true god this time," Tobey murmured, almost in awe.
Even with the mighty Tuatara at his command, Tobey knew—
there was no such thing as eternal dominance.
No car stayed king forever.
And this new Asian driver… might just end his reign.
Benny finally croaked, "When are you two racing?"
"He's already here," Tobey replied, sliding his phone across the table.
Benny glanced at it, his face draining of color.
"Last night, Leon drove here from Los Angeles. That's 4,500 kilometers."
"And? How long did it take?" Benny asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Tobey raised five fingers.
"Five hours."
Clatter! The phone slipped from Benny's hand and hit the floor.
His eyes bulged, horror written across his face.
4,500 kilometers in five hours.
That wasn't racing. That was myth.
~~----------------------
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