The Lammy pulls up like a purple thundercloud—wide, low, and lethal. Satin black and violet shards carve across the body, neon glow breathing from underneath like it owns the asphalt. Vented hood, razor-cut splitters, and that twin-tier wing keep it glued while the deep-dish rollers flash every turn. It’s all stealth fighter and street showpiece, a mid-engine menace that glides from Vespucci nights to Bohan scrapyards without breaking a sweat. Pull up, idle mean, and let Los Santos know: this isn’t a car—it’s a statement.