In reality, Sheriff James didn’t even need to draw his weapon.
The suspect was completely pinned inside the crumpled Cadillac, groaning in dazed defeat.
Within three minutes, the sirens of two backup cruisers echoed down the highway.
Officers quickly swarmed the vehicle, pulled the suspect out, slapped on handcuffs, and loaded him into a patrol car.
As the scene settled, James walked back over to the Ferrari, still wiping sweat from his forehead.
He stared at the sports car, then at An Feng.
“Son, were you a GT racer or something in a past life?” An Feng laughed it off, spinning a quick lie about having a lot of track day experience.
In truth, even he was a little surprised.
He had driven fast before, but never like this.
With the neural calculations of his bio-computer running in the background, weaving through traffic and executing that PIT maneuver had felt as simple and lag-free as playing an arcade game.
After James went to coordinate with the towing crew, An Feng took a closer look at his car and called his insurance company.
The front bumper was cracked, and the right headlight housing was shattered.
It was going to cost a pretty penny to fix, and he couldn’t help but worry about his premiums skyrocketing.
“Don’t worry about your insurance rates or your credit record, kid,” James said, stepping back over and looking at the damaged front end.
“We’ll write up an official commendation.
The department’s got your back.” Under normal circumstances, getting into an accident like this would tank a driver’s insurance standing.
But assisting law enforcement in the apprehension of a fleeing felon was a completely different story.
While they waited for the flatbed tow truck to arrive, James opened up to An Feng about how the whole mess started.
He had just walked out of a local bakery with a fresh box of donuts when the dispatch call came in.
Eager to make the collar, James had jumped into his cruiser, entirely overestimating his own high-speed driving abilities.
His lack of pursuit training ended with him taking a hard turn too fast and plowing directly into that boulder.
Once the Ferrari was loaded up, An Feng rode with James back to the station to give his official statement.
The moment they walked through the double doors, James introduced An Feng to the rest of the staff like they were lifelong brothers.
He loudly recounted the chase to anyone who would listen, paint-brushing An Feng as a mix of a “wildly eccentric billionaire” and “the real-life Iron Man.” Instead of the stiff, bureaucratic atmosphere An Feng expected, the police station felt more like a casual country club.
Officers were milling about, drinking cheap drip coffee, laughing, and trading stories.
It made sense; the town only had a population of about thirty thousand.
Major crimes were practically nonexistent.
Most of their daily logs consisted of locating lost pets, resolving minor neighbor disputes, or occasionally helping to patch up a broken park bench.
A technician soon finished downloading the footage from the Ferrari’s dashcam.
When the video started playing on the main monitor, the entire bullpen fell dead silent.
They watched the red sports car effortlessly weave through traffic at breakneck speeds before executing a flawless, cinematic spin-out to halt the suspect.
“Damn, Alex,” one of the officers said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Where on earth did you learn to drive like that?” An Feng sat casually on the edge of a desk, enjoying the spotlight.
He began weaving a grand tale, blending real racing techniques he’d read about with exaggerated stunts from Hollywood blockbusters.
He talked about weight transfer, apex clipping, and defensive positioning with such dramatic flair that the officers were practically hanging on his every word.
By the time he left, he was practically honorary department family.
The local news station ran the story that evening.
Sheriff James Johnson stood proudly in front of the camera, his uniform stretched tight over his generous belly, as he spoke eloquently about his department’s “swift tactical response” and the “brave, public-spirited assistance of local resident An Feng.” The segment concluded with a broadcast of the thrilling dashcam footage.
It wasn’t quite a Michael Bay film, but for a quiet California valley, it was the most exciting thing to happen all year.
By the next morning, An Feng was a local celebrity.
News travels fast in a small town, especially when it involves a high-speed chase and a Ferrari.
An Feng was in the stables early, wearing a simple t-shirt and his riding boots, shoveling out the stalls.
He was caught completely off guard when a group of his vineyard workers, led by Johnson and Jessie, suddenly marched in and surrounded him, staring as if they were seeing a mythical creature.
“Boss, that was incredible!” Johnson beamed, clapping his hands.
Jessie nodded eagerly.
“You’re a real-life hero!” An Feng looked down at his dusty clothes and let out a chuckle.
“Wait, I didn’t accidentally wear my red underwear on the outside of my jeans today, did I?” The barn erupted in laughter.
When Joanna arrived for work a short while later, she couldn’t resist teasing him either, immediately asking for his “heroic thoughts” on the matter.
An Feng felt a rush of embarrassment.
‘If I told her I only chased him because he had the audacity to overtake my Ferrari, my heroic reputation would crumble instantly.’ He quickly changed the subject, steering the conversation back to the horses.
They spent the morning practicing basic horsemanship.
Although the peak of summer in this part of California rarely climbed past thirty degrees Celsius, the dry climate meant the temperatures swung wildly.
The mornings were brisk and chilly, the afternoons baked under a harsh, direct sun, and the evenings cooled right back down.
By noon, the heat in the open arena was becoming unbearable, forcing them to retreat to the shade of the stables.
“We should head into town this afternoon and buy some heavy-duty electric fans,” Joanna suggested as they cooled the horses down.
“They need a good cross-breeze to keep from overheating in these stalls.” An Feng agreed.
But his trip to the local appliance store took twice as long as expected.
The moment the shop owner recognized his face from the news, An Feng was trapped in a twenty-minute conversation, forced to recount the entire chase all over again.
By the time he finally escaped and returned to the ranch, it took him and Joanna over an hour of sweating in the heat to properly mount and wire the fans in the stalls.
Philip stood directly in front of the newly spinning fan, his large dark eyes wide with curiosity.
Feeling the cool blast of air, the big Andalusian closed his eyes in pure bliss, leaning his massive head forward.
An Feng smiled, pulling a freshly washed carrot from his pocket and feeding it to him.
Philip crunched on the treat, then affectionately nudged his snout directly into An Feng’s chest, practically wrapping his neck around him.
An Feng wrapped his arms around the horse’s head, laughing as he scratched him behind the ears.
“See?” Joanna said, leaning against the stall door with a warm smile.
“If you treat them with genuine care, they will always return the favor.” “He really is a good boy,” An Feng murmured, running a hand down Philip’s sleek, muscular neck.
“Hey, Joanna, can we eventually train him to do tricks?
Like, can I teach him to squat down on command?” “It’s not called squatting, it’s called a side-lie,” Joanna corrected gently, rolling her eyes with a smile.
“But yes, with enough patience and consistent cues, he can learn to understand almost any instruction you give him.” “I can’t wait for that,” An Feng said, handing Philip another carrot.
“Here you go, buddy.
Eat up.
Grow some brain cells.” With the midday heat peak passing, they retreated to the air-conditioned main house to continue An Feng’s English lessons.
Over the past two weeks, his language skills had progressed at an unnatural, almost alarming speed.
Under Joanna’s rigorous instruction, he had unconsciously adopted her elegant, crisp Oxford pronunciation.
The vineyard workers had already started giving him puzzled looks, completely unable to comprehend how their boss had transitioned from choppy “Chinglish” to a high-society British accent practically overnight.
They were in the middle of discussing a popular British drama when the dogs, Pipi and Eggy, suddenly began barking loudly outside.
An Feng excused himself and walked to the front door.
A dusty Jeep Wrangler was idling in the driveway, and a young man was just reaching for the doorbell.
“Just come on in!” An Feng called out, throwing the door open.
His neighbor Henry and Henry’s younger sister, Mary, walked inside.
“Dude!
I saw you on the news!” Henry shouted the moment he crossed the threshold, his eyes wide with excitement.
“You were totally badass, Suit!” “I know,” An Feng sighed, leaning against the doorframe.
“And please, stop calling me ‘Suit’.” Henry just grinned, scratching the back of his neck.
“Bruce Ann!” Henry said, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
“Or maybe Bruce Alex?
‘Alex’ is way too ordinary for a guy who does PIT maneuvers in a sports car, Suit.
You need a badass hero name, like Bruce Wayne!” ‘Good lord,’ An Feng thought, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Joanna smiled, clearly enjoying his misery.
“Actually, I think Bruce suits you.
Or would you prefer Henry call you ‘Suit’ forever?” “You both have terrible taste,” Mary interrupted, crossing her arms.
“With his background and that car, it has to be Bruce von Ann!” An Feng stared at her, completely speechless.
Because of English phonetics, Westerners always pronounced his surname “Feng” as “Von.” ‘Great.
If I use that, I’m going to sound like some sort of misplaced German aristocrat.’ “What do you know about names?” Henry retorted.
“More than you!” Mary shot back.
“Alright, alright, both of you quiet down,” An Feng said, throwing his hands up in surrender.
He walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a few cold cans of beer, and tossed one to Henry.
He was about to hand one to Mary when Joanna cleared her throat loudly.
“Alex, Mary is still a minor.
Are you really offering her a beer?” An Feng froze, immediately pulling the can back.
‘Right, American drinking laws are incredibly strict.’ He quickly swapped the beer for a can of Coke from the fridge door and handed it to Mary with an apologetic grin.
“My bad.
Here, a sparkling classic instead.” Mary rolled her eyes but accepted the soda, popping the tab.
“Oh, please.
It’s not like Henry didn’t let me sip his drink last week.” “Hey!
Don’t drag me into this!” Henry protested.
Once they settled down, Henry quickly steered the conversation toward the “martial arts secrets” An Feng had sent him a few days prior.
Henry explained—with a lot of gesturing and struggling to find the right words—that he had been practicing the movements diligently, but he just couldn’t seem to grasp the flow of the energy.
He wanted An Feng to give him an in-person demonstration.
An Feng instantly choked on his beer, coughing violently.
‘How am I supposed to explain that I gave him a video of Chinese high school morning exercises?
Am I really supposed to do synchronized calisthenics in front of these people?’ Furthermore, he couldn’t help but wonder if Henry was incredibly gullible or just completely blind.
If Henry showed that video to literally anyone who spoke Chinese, the jig would be up in seconds.
“What’s the matter?” Henry asked, looking confused.
“Nothing, nothing,” An Feng gasped, wiping his mouth.
“It’s just…
martial arts cultivation is a deeply complex spiritual journey, Henry.
You can’t rush these things.
Let me…
meditate on your progress for a few days.
Once I figure out where your energy flow is blocked, I’ll show you what real Chinese Kung Fu looks like.” Henry looked entirely awestruck, nodding solemnly.
“Wow.
So the video you sent me…
that wasn’t the actual fighting style?” An Feng wanted to slap himself for digging the hole deeper.
He squeezed out a reassuring smile.
“Of course it is!
But that video is strictly for building your…
inner energy reserves.
The actual physical combat techniques come later.” Before Henry could ask any more questions, An Feng stood up abruptly.
“Well, look at the time!
The sun is setting.
It’s time to take the horses out.” By five in the evening, the scorching heat of the day had finally begun to recede.
The valley was bathed in a soft, golden light, and a cool breeze swept through the vineyard—perfect weather for riding.
An Feng led Philip out into the pasture.
Henry, eager to show off, quickly located a western saddle, threw it onto a sturdy Quarter Horse, and swung himself up with surprising ease.
Mary, on the other hand, was terrified.
With Joanna’s gentle guidance, she tentatively placed her boot in the stirrup and hoisted herself onto Angelina’s back.
Joanna held the lead rope, walking the horse in slow, steady circles until Mary stopped trembling.
Once Joanna let go, Mary gently nudged Angelina’s sides, and the horse took a few slow, graceful steps forward.
“Oh my gosh!
Look at me!
She’s actually listening to me!” Mary squealed, her teenage excitement completely taking over.
She immediately whipped out her phone, holding it high to snap a dozen selfies from every angle, quickly uploading the best ones to Facebook and Instagram.
In the United States, equestrian sports were still considered a luxury.
Unless you owned a massive ranch or had a hefty bank account to pay for boarding fees, riding regularly was out of reach for most average teenagers.
Mary knew her school friends would be green with envy.
A short while later, Mark, the veteran cowboy who managed the neighboring pastures, rode over to join them.
Seeing the spirited Andalusian and Arabian horses, his eyes lit up.
Without asking for a saddle, the old cowboy walked up to a nearby horse, grabbed its thick mane, and swung himself bareback onto its spine in one explosive movement.
The horse, startled by the sudden weight, let out a loud whinny and began to buck.
But Mark didn’t flinch.
He leaned his body low, keeping his core perfectly synchronized with the horse’s violent movements.
Within two laps around the field, the horse settled down into a smooth, steady gallop.
“Hahaha!” Mark roared, tipping his worn hat.
“This boy’s already been trained too well!
Not nearly enough fight in him!” An Feng watched the old cowboy ride bareback with absolute awe, then looked over at Joanna, who was currently guiding Angelina through a series of tight, precise barrel turns.
He looked down at Philip beneath him and let out a soft sigh, realizing just how much he still had to learn.
But instead of feeling discouraged, he felt a surge of excitement.
He patted Philip’s muscular neck.
“You see how cool they look, Philip?
Next time we go out there, you make sure you give me some face, alright?”