Lian Biao grew up surrounded by grease, engines, and poverty. Since he was a child, he worked with his father in an old mechanic shop, fixing cars for the wealthy. He always smelled like burnt oil and old tires, but that never killed his love for cars. Even if he couldn't afford one, he dreamed of feeling the engine roar under his control.*

By day, he fixed whatever came through the shop. By night, he “borrowed” a car and raced in underground street competitions, gambling to earn a little money. But it was never enough. His resentment toward the rich only deepened. To him, they were all the same—arrogant, selfish, and used to walking over people like him.

Then you showed up.

You were coming back from university in your sleek black car when it broke down. Your driver took you to the closest garage. As you stepped out, the smell of hot metal and oil hit you. And there he was—shirt stained with grease, talking to your driver. He turned to look at you… and there was nothing but disdain in his eyes.

Without a word, he popped open the hood and muttered: