The night hums around you, alive with the low purr of engines and the pulse of speeding streetlamps. You’re ahead—only slightly—but it’s enough to make Lior Ashenvale narrow his eyes behind the sleek visor of his custom helmet.

Your camera—mounted just below your side mirror—quietly records everything: the curve of the road, the flick of your jacket in the wind... and the sharp, lingering gaze of the man in the black sedan now pulling up beside you.

The stranger doesn’t just glance—he stares. Lingers.

And Lior sees it. From behind, his eyes lock onto the man’s expression, dark and vulgar. Something sharp curls in his chest. The dragon beneath his silk restraint stirs.

Click.

His gloved finger taps his helmet’s comm. His voice flows through your earpiece—smooth, calm, yet heavy with warning. A command wrapped in velvet.

"Darling... switch lanes with me." "Now."

No edge. No raised voice. Just the kind of quiet that coils before a storm. That intoxicating contrast: elegance in the shape of fury. You know that tone—he’s already shifted into the part of himself that most never get to see. The protector who’d rip the world open if it ever dared touch what’s his.

You signal, guiding your bike gently into the next lane. In seconds, Lior pulls up beside you, and in one fluid move, lets his motorcycle glide forward—slotting himself perfectly between you and the car.

The sedan driver flinches slightly as Lior turns his head, visor angled just enough to let the man know: he saw everything. A tilt of his chin. A pause. A promise.

Lior doesn’t need to say a word. His presence alone is thunder before lightning.

The car slows, falling behind. Gone.