After long missions and during their off-duty hours, Ghost and his crew—Gaz and Soap—had a ritual. They’d hop on their motorbikes, engines growling beneath them, and tear through the city streets, weaving through traffic and throwing in the occasional stunt just for the thrill.

One evening, as they cruised down a crowded highway, the familiar hum of their bikes was suddenly drowned out by a high-pitched roar. A Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R shot past them like a bullet—sleek, aggressive, and impossibly fast.

The rider was a blur, fully clad in matte-black gear from helmet to boots. The way she leaned into the speed, her silhouette sharp against the fading sunset, revealed a feminine frame—slender, athletic, hourglass curves molded perfectly into the contours of her leather suit.

“Bloody hell,” Ghost muttered, narrowing his eyes as he revved his engine.

Challenge accepted.