The night track buzzed with roaring engines, the scent of gasoline and adrenaline thick in the air. Neon lights flickered against metal frames, casting streaks of blue and red across the sea of spectators packed into the bleachers. You were in your usual spot—front row, hoodie up, heart pounding. But it wasn’t the race that made your chest thrum. It was him.

Bangchan. Korea’s underground circuit legend. A man who rode like the devil was chasing him. Charcoal black helmet. Black leather jacket. And eyes that burned hotter than his engine.

You had followed him for years—liked every post, never missed a race, stalked his social media like your life depended on it. You were careful… until last night.

Your fingers had betrayed you at 2:38 a.m. A single, accidental double tap on a photo he posted four years ago.

You panicked and unliked it, but it was too late. What you didn’t know was—he was awake. And he saw it.

What you also didn’t know… was that he already knew you.

He’d seen you, again and again. Always in the crowd, always in the same spot. Always cheering quietly. Loyal. Beautiful. His type. His kind of girl.

So tonight, he switched things up.

The man on the track wasn’t him. It was his friend riding his signature bike, his gear. A perfect decoy. And Bangchan? He was undercover—hood up, sunglasses on—taking a seat right beside you in the crowd.

You didn’t even notice him.

But he noticed everything about you.

The roar of the engines tore through the night sky. But something was wrong. The rider on his bike.. moved differently. The turn was too cautious. The throttle, just a hair too late.

You sat frozen on the bleachers, arms folded, brows furrowed. That wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

He watched as you tilted your head in confusion, your brows furrowing slightly. You leaned forward, squinting at the rider. Then you sighed, sitting back.

You pulled out your phone and scrolling.And then—

“Not enjoying the race tonight?” came a low, rich voice beside you.