Inside the DeLuna Bar, five people were already seated—three men and two women.
The moment Leon walked in, all eyes turned toward him in surprise.
"Tobey, who is he?" a blonde woman asked curiously.
Mature, confident men always drew a woman's attention, and Leon's arrival—combined with Tobey personally going out to greet him—meant this wasn't just some random racer.
They had also seen the car he arrived in. Even with all their experience, they couldn't place it. That kind of mystery only made Leon more intriguing.
Tobey clapped his hands together and proudly announced:
"Everyone, let me formally introduce you. This is the legendary West Coast Car God, Leon! Welcome him."
The group exchanged looks of shock.
West Coast Car God?
Since when did the West Coast have one?
And what about the three stunning women behind him—were they part of his team now? Had even Gisele joined him?
Too many questions flooded their minds at once.
Still, polite applause followed—whatever Leon's background, he had Tobey's respect, and that meant he deserved a warm welcome.
"Please, have a seat," Tobey said warmly, treating Leon with a reverence that made his own crew curious.
Just what kind of man could command this kind of respect?
Once everyone sat, the blonde woman immediately pressed the question:
"When did the West Coast suddenly crown a 'Car God'?"
Tobey gestured toward her.
"She's Julia Marden—a sharp car dealer who always manages to get her hands on the rarest, most expensive hypercars. Don't let her petite looks fool you—she lives for speed and danger. She's the reason we've had access to some of our best builds."
Julia was the quintessential all-American blonde: flawless skin, bright blue eyes, soft golden bangs framing her face in a messy, stylish cut. She was the kind of woman who could light up any room.
Leon smiled faintly.
"Just a few days ago. O'Neal invited me to a race, and I played around. That's how it happened."
Julia's expression soured.
"Played around? That kind of title isn't something you 'just pick up.' Sounds like you bought it."
Her skepticism wasn't unique. The others also looked doubtful. Tobey had nearly lost his life earning the title of East Coast Car God. Yet Leon claimed he'd gained his on a whim?
Tobey chuckled.
"Don't be fooled by his modesty. That's just his humility. If you take his words at face value, you'll lose."
He added, "Leon has the record of running 4,500 kilometers in just five hours. Even I can't compare."
The room fell silent.
"Four thousand five hundred in five hours?! That's an average speed of nine hundred kilometers per hour!" the second woman gasped, eyes wide.
Her name was Anita, Tobey explained—sister to his late friend Bitt. After her brother died, she had joined Tobey's cause out of vengeance and had become part of his inner circle. With her long black hair, aristocratic features, and flawless figure, she was breathtaking.
Leon casually dropped another bomb:
"Earlier today, I drove from New York to Detroit in an hour and a half."
That should have been a ten-hour drive.
Everyone gaped. How could anyone reach that speed without losing control, without dying on the road?
A young Asian man with dark skin finally broke the silence.
"No way. Even the fastest cars top out at around sixteen hundred kilometers per hour—and the driver who tried that ended up dead. Whole town went to her funeral."
Tobey nodded toward him.
"That's Finn. Logistics, comms, track analysis—basically, he keeps us alive out there."
It was clear Tobey's crew wasn't just a collection of racers; they were a fully built support team—engineers, suppliers, strategists. No wonder he had dominated the East Coast scene.
Leon, however, wasn't fazed.
"Driving isn't complicated. As long as you know when to hit the brakes, you'll be fine."
The simplicity of his words hid a deeper truth. Tobey, as a racer, understood instantly: the real art wasn't in pressing the pedal—it was knowing the precise moment to do it.
"Don't underestimate him," Tobey warned his team. "He dealt with planes, missiles, landmines, roadblocks, spike strips—all while keeping that pace. Frankly, five hours was slow."
The crew collectively sucked in a breath.
Leon wasn't just fast. He was impossible.
Even Tobey, their champion, couldn't have pulled that off. At nine hundred kilometers an hour, the aerodynamic pressure alone should crush a human body. Without a car designed to cancel out that force—or tech nobody else had—the driver should be torn apart.
Yet Leon had done it. And walked in here alive.
For the first time, Tobey's crew felt awe—genuine reverence. Leon wasn't just another racer. He was… something else.
Finally, a middle-aged man with a trimmed beard and a toothpick between his lips spoke. His name was Joe Pike, steady and calculating, usually the one who handled pit stops and supply runs.
"What about O'Neal and Dominic?" Joe asked carefully.
Leon's smile turned cold.
"O'Neal's in the hospital. Whether he'll walk again? Hard to say."
Just the memory of O'Neal's downfall filled Leon with satisfaction.