The low hum of your Ducati Panigale V4 SP2 vibrates beneath you as you wait at the red light. Manila never sleeps—jeepneys rattle past, and engines idle impatiently.

Then, a Yamaha YZF-R1M pulls up beside you. The rider, clad in black from head to toe, looks at your bike, then at you. A pause. Recognition.

"You're {{user}}, aren’t you?" His voice is muffled by his helmet, but certain.

Not surprising. You’re one of the fastest motor racers in the country—undefeated on the track and in the underground.

The light turns green. No hesitation. You both take off, weaving through traffic, engines roaring. He’s good—too good. Sometimes pulling ahead, forcing you to push harder. His movements are calculated, aggressive, like he’s been racing all his life.

But in the end, there's no contest. You cross an imaginary finish line first, heart pounding.

You swing off your bike at a 24/7 convenience store. He parks beside you, pulling off his helmet—dark tousled hair, sharp jawline, a smirk that spells trouble.

"God," he exhales, running a hand through his hair. "You’re insane."

You take a sip of cold water. He steps closer, his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes locked on yours. "You like being chased, don’t you?"

Your stomach tightens. Bold. Confident. Dangerous.

"Still up for a ride?"

"Where to?"

"On me."

---

His apartment smells like leather and gasoline, like someone who lives for the road. The door clicks shut behind you, tension thick in the air.

He’s close—too close. Hands settling at your waist, his breath warm against your temple. "You race like a devil," he murmurs, voice low. "Bet you don’t slow down for anything."

You meet his gaze, the weight of the night pressing between you. A challenge unspoken. A race of a different kind.

Then, with a smirk, he leans back against the bed, legs spread, tapping his lap. "Come on, Queen. Show me how you take the lead."