Click—
A small flame flared to life as the lighter flicked open.
Leaning casually against the car door, Leon lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag.
They were in the suburbs of Washington D.C.—the designated finish line of the Leon Cup.
Beyond this point stood the forest of skyscrapers that made up the city center, the brilliant lights painting the night sky in gold.
The heart of power in the entire nation.
Leon had arrived first, naturally. He was too early, in fact. The entire venue was still empty—no music, no crowd, no celebration.
So quiet that for a moment, he wondered if he'd come to the wrong place.
In past races, by the time he reached the finish line, there'd already be pounding music, flashing lights, and a sea of cheering fans waiting to celebrate the champion's arrival.
But tonight? Nothing.
Just the hum of the city in the distance.
A few minutes later, a large truck rolled slowly into the area.
Two young stagehands jumped down, unloading speakers, lighting rigs, and toolboxes.
They'd only just arrived to set up the stage.
The driver spotted Leon and walked over with a friendly grin, offering him a cigarette.
"Hey, brother, you're early. The show hasn't even started yet."
He clearly thought Leon was just another spectator who'd shown up ahead of time to see the stars.
Leon accepted the smoke, chuckling lightly. "You guys are just now setting up the stage?"
"Of course," the driver laughed, lighting his own. "From Detroit to D.C.—that's over fifteen hundred kilometers. Nobody's gonna get here that fast."
Leon smiled faintly. The man wasn't wrong—for normal people, anyway.
Still, it was funny to think that the champion of the Leon Cup was being mistaken for an early fan.
But hey, not everyone could have that kind of eye for talent.
The driver kept chatting cheerfully, completely unaware.
"Trust me, man, I've worked plenty of these races. They don't cross the finish line until near sunrise. You rookies always come way too early."
"Is that so?" Leon checked his watch. Three a.m.
"So they'll roll in around six or seven, huh? Maybe I've got time to hit a hotel and grab a nap."
The driver's eyes drifted to Leon's car.
"Wait a sec—this ride's insane! Why didn't you enter the race with it?"
From the sleek, aggressive front end to the razor-sharp lines along the body, the car looked like a predatory beast crouched in the shadows.
The twin-layer headlights gave off a cold, menacing gleam, and the sculpted rims—almost spherical in shape—added a sense of dynamic artistry.
It wasn't just a machine. It was a work of art.
Leon exhaled a thin plume of smoke. "Who says I didn't? I'm one of the racers."
Not just a racer, but the racer—the undisputed number one in the history of the event.
But the poor guy didn't recognize him at all.
The driver blinked, giving Leon a once-over.
Short brown hair, soft fringe brushed aside—stylish, almost too clean-cut.
That calm smile, that composed, almost aristocratic bearing…
He looked more like a young executive or a model than a race car driver.
"You're really one of the racers?" the driver asked, skeptical.
Leon's lips curved into a half-smile. "Wouldn't lie to you. I got here first. The rest are still behind."
"Impossible!" The driver blurted it out before he could stop himself.
He'd been busy hauling equipment these past few days and hadn't had time to follow the race. No news, no updates—he had no clue who Leon even was.
Besides, the race had only started at midnight.
Now it was just past three.
Three hours from Detroit to D.C.—that's fifteen hundred kilometers.
That would mean an average speed of over five hundred kilometers an hour.
Not even a plane could pull that off nonstop.
Leon just shrugged. "Believe what you want. I made it here in about three hours. Oh, and I took the Million-Dollar Highway on the way."
The driver froze mid-breath. "You what? You actually drove that road?"
The Million-Dollar Highway—no guardrails, sheer cliffs on both sides, one wrong move and you're gone. Even veteran racers called it the Road of Death.
Yet this guy was saying he'd not only taken it but finished it—in three hours flat?
The man's mind reeled.
If that was true, then his actual speed on that stretch must've been terrifying.
He tried to laugh it off, but his voice cracked. "Man, that's… quite a story. You sure you're not just talking big?"
Leon noticed the flicker of disbelief in his eyes and smiled faintly.
"See that helicopter up there?" He pointed at the sky.
The driver followed his gaze. Far above, a chopper hovered with its lights blinking and a faint beam sweeping the ground.
"Yeah, I see it. What about it?"
"That's from NMSL News," Leon said casually. "They've been filming me since the race started. Probably covering something else now, though."
The driver stared up, his expression gradually shifting from doubt to dawning realization.
"You mean… they were filming you?"
Leon took another lazy drag. "Well, who else would they film? The champion's right here. You think they're chasing the guy in last place?"
The driver's jaw nearly dropped.
"You're saying you really drove from Detroit all the way here—in three hours?"
Leon flicked his ash, eyes half-lidded. "You just need to know how to brake and turn."
The driver almost choked on his smoke. Brake and turn, my ass!
If it were that simple, every racer would've been here by now.
He stared at Leon for a long moment before asking, "Then… where's everyone else?"
Leon exhaled softly, watching the smoke drift into the cool night air.
"Behind me," he said calmly. "But honestly—"
He flicked the half-burnt cigarette onto the ground and crushed it under his heel.
"—there's not a single one who can keep up."
The driver stood there speechless.
This guy wasn't just fast. He was untouchable.
~~----------------------
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