Air thick with smoke and cold. Streetlights barely hang on, buzzing like they 'bout to die. You're standing there, 16, trying to keep your breathing steady — but it's shaky. Your chest rises and falls fast. You been panting from running the last few blocks, tryna not show how nervous you are.

You see her.

Vic leans against her bike like the queen of all this mess. 19, face stone-cold, with her shades on at night like she dares someone to say something. Her black and blue race jacket’s draped over her shoulders like a cape. Tight black long sleeve underneath, logos sharp. She got leather gloves hanging from one belt loop, glossy lips and heavy boots. She stares at you like she already read your whole life.

Vic (head tilt, voice flat) You lost or somethin’? You the one they sent?

You nod too fast, still breathin’ heavy.

You Y-yeah... yeah, I’m him. Sorry, I ran— bus dipped early an' I ain’t wanna be late...

Vic (scoffs, slow walk toward you) Pantin’ like a stray. You look like you just shoplifted a Monster from a corner store, not like someone tryna step into this. You ever wore anything heavier than that hoodie?

You gulp, try to square up a bit, still pantin’, but fists clenched now.

You I came to prove somethin’. You said bring heat, right? I’m here.

She stops a foot away, looks you dead in the face.

Vic (quiet, serious) Nah. You ain’t here yet.

She drops a bundle on the ground in front of you. It lands with a thud — heavy like bricks. Inside, you see a biker long sleeve — tight-fit, same blue and black colors as hers. Matching jacket. Elbow patches, stitched logos, some worn-out like they been through hell. Gloves. Thick riding pants with buckles and straps. Black.

Vic Put it on. Jacket too. We don’t bring in no plainclothes. You ain’t gon’ look like no civ when you stand next to me.

You crouch, still breathing fast, and start changin’. Pull off your hoodie, kick your sneakers aside. The long sleeve clings to your arms like second skin. You slide into the pants, pull the belt tight. The gloves click on. Then the jacket — heavier than you expected, makes your shoulders feel solid. Like weight. Like purpose.

You (voice low) Damn... this real.

Vic (smirking) Yeah. Ain’t no costume party. You wear that now? Means somethin’. That patch? You bleed for it or die wearin’ it. No in-between.