"He's pretty skilled for this area. Saying he's in the top ten isn't an exaggeration—top seven, even. But keep in mind, this isn't New York or some major city with hundreds of underground racers. Here, there are only about 30 serious drivers. Still, his results are impressive," Dilia George stepped in with a smile, perhaps trying to ease the awkwardness after seeing her boyfriend stumble.
Kamacliff turned to her, listening intently.
"Let me point out a few people from here," Dilia continued. "That guy just now—Little Louis—he's actually one of the better ones. Probably top five. But that's expected. He makes a living doing this."
"Make a living? How does that work?" Kamacliff asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
"In these races," Bavita Jean-Dro chimed in, taking over the explanation, "aside from the qualifying events, every race here has a prize. Each racer pays an entry fee—usually a hundred bucks. It all goes into a prize pool. The winner takes everything. There are usually two races a week, sometimes more, with 15 or 16 racers per event. So if someone wins two races a month, that's around $3,000—not bad."
"But Louis doesn't rely on those small pots," he added. "He's more into high-stakes gambling—one-on-one car races where the winner takes the loser's ride. A modified car like that can be sold for $30,000 to $50,000, easily. That's where he really makes his money."
Hearing that, Kamacliff nodded slowly, clearly fascinated. This world was completely new to her—and exciting.
Suddenly, the deep roar of engines filled the air as a group of modified cars thundered in from the entrance. Two in particular caught everyone's attention.
The first was a terrifying SUV. It looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie, with reinforced steel plates and spikes protruding from the chassis like a hedgehog. If the zombie apocalypse broke out, this would be the vehicle of choice. Of course, in daylight, driving that down a public road would likely earn a police escort—to jail.
The second standout was a gleaming sports car with sleek wings—an Aston Martin.
"What car is that? It looks so cool!" Kamacliff gasped, pointing.
Jiang Hai recognized the brand but not the model. Before he could respond, Bavita smiled and said, "That's an Aston Martin Lagonda—costs a cool million dollars. An absolute beast."
"One million?!" Kamacliff rubbed her nose sheepishly. "Wow… that's crazy."
She couldn't take her eyes off it.
This was an underground racing scene, so high-end cars weren't out of place—but even among sports cars, there were levels. In China, you could get a sports car for a few hundred thousand, but it wouldn't be race-worthy. In the U.S., cars were far cheaper. You'd find a lot more BMWs, Mercedes, and Porsches.
Take the BMW 4 Series for example—some versions went for as little as $40,000. Even high-end cars like Ferraris and Porsches could be found second-hand for just a few hundred grand.
The second-hand market in the U.S. was astonishingly cheap. Americans hated paperwork, especially when scrapping items. So instead, people gave away or sold things at ridiculously low prices just to avoid the hassle. That included sports cars. Rich folks would drive a new car for two years and then sell it, often still in pristine condition.
You could find second-hand sports cars with barely 20,000 miles on them for half—or even a third—of the original price.
But among these tens or hundreds of thousands of dollar cars, that million-dollar Aston Martin stood out like a peacock in a chicken coop. It spun to a stop with a stylish drift and parked near the exit.
"Yahoo! Izzo's here!"
"Hey Izzo, looking sharp!"
"Wow, that car is still fire!"
As the driver got out—a flamboyant white guy—he threw in a little dance move, striking a pose like he was on stage. No one interrupted. Once his performance ended, people came over to greet him like a celebrity.
A punk-style girl with colorful hair stepped out from the passenger side, gum in mouth, scanning the crowd.
Meanwhile, two men climbed out of the hedgehog SUV—one a Black man, the other a white man in his 40s or 50s. The moment the older man appeared, the crowd's mood shifted. The chatter died down. Clearly, people were afraid of him. But he simply smiled and nodded politely.
"You came out too early, Dad. The party hasn't even started," Izzo said with a half-joking tone, walking up to the man.
"You can't expect me to sit in that steel box all night. Gotta stretch my legs," the older man replied, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes. Everyone who made eye contact with him quickly looked away—everyone except Jiang Hai's group, who were far enough away to avoid notice.
"Who is that guy? He seems... important," Kamacliff asked.
"Izzoedis. One of the top underground racers here. As for the older guy…" Bavita hesitated.
"That's Christanedis," Jiang Hai answered suddenly, brow furrowed. "Not exactly someone you want to get involved with."
"You know him?" Bavita was surprised.
Jiang Hai hesitated. His instinct was to mention the football game incident that had led to a, let's say, complicated evening with Delia George and Kelly Soren. But with Bavita right here, he quickly changed course.
He smiled and said instead, "Didn't I mention I run in certain high circles?"
Bavita nodded slowly. Dilia had told him Jiang Hai was wealthy. It wasn't surprising that he'd know someone like Christanedis.
"This whole underground scene was actually started by Christanedis and his friends. But as they grew more successful, they stopped showing up. Now his son, Izzo, is the star," Jack King explained, stepping in.
Hearing all this, Jiang Hai felt an urge to leave. Not out of fear, but because he had no desire to associate with someone like Christanedis. They came from completely different worlds.
But before he could slip away, Christanedis spotted him. A Chinese face was rare here—he stood out. Christanedis squinted, then smiled and walked over, bodyguard and driver in tow. Izzo, confused, followed behind.
"Jiang, what a surprise! Fate really is something," Christanedis greeted him warmly.
Christanedis wasn't exactly famous—just a casino owner worth maybe tens of millions. But Jiang Hai? He was worth billions. For Christanedis, knowing Jiang Hai was a big deal.
"Hello, Mr. Edis," Jiang Hai said politely, extending a hand.
"Oh, don't be so formal. Just call me Christian. We've met before, after all," the older man laughed.
They exchanged a brief hug.
"Didn't expect to see you at a place like this, Jiang," Christian continued, leading him aside for a chat. "You into racing too? I was obsessed with it back in the day. People like us… it's hard to find anything thrilling, right?"
Jiang Hai shrugged. "Not really into speed. I prefer tech and security. Usually, I drive a Tesla or the Borla Shield."
Christian chuckled, a little disappointed. "Then your life must be missing some excitement. You should try it—you won't regret it."
Then he leaned in, smiling slyly. "Besides racing, there aren't many thrills left. Drugs? Eh, not worth it. Women? Well, that goes without saying. Gambling, though? Now that's something. If you ever want to visit my casino, I'll treat you to VIP service—everything you can imagine. All the luxuries. Just say the word."
If Jiang Hai had been a typical rich kid, or a reckless thrill-seeker, he might've taken the bait. But he wasn't.
Jiang Hai liked fine food and luxury, sure—but he had his boundaries. He didn't gamble. He didn't do drugs. And while women were a temptation… he didn't lose control.
In the end, he was a man of principle.
To be continued…