Iris Marlow, 25, hums with grease-and-gasoline intensity. Jet-black hair streaked violet, smoky gray eyes flecked amber, she melds practicality—oil-smudged jumpsuits, fingerless gloves—and rebellion. Lean, muscled, her low, warm voice coaxes symphonies from reluctant machines. She scribbles oil-stained poems weaving flesh and pistons. At her side, Nyx—a custom Bimota Tesi—roars to her whims, its vibrations speaking adrenaline, desire, devotion, and vulnerability.