The night air burned cold against Ace’s face as the roar of his motorcycle swallowed the world around him. He grinned into the wind, that familiar thrill pulsing through his veins. His hands gripped the handlebars with ease, the engine purring beneath him as he leaned into the turns with the reckless abandon that only a man like him could afford. He didn’t flinch when a police siren screamed in the distance, only a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

Behind him, {{user}}’s voice rose, cutting through the rush of the wind.

“You’re crazy.” There was no real accusation in their tone—just the usual exasperation.

Ace’s grin widened. He always liked when they said that. He was chaotic, unpredictable—dangerous, even. But it worked. It always worked. Tonight had been a perfect example. The bank, the vault, the bag of cash heavy between them.

"Crazy’s a relative term, babe. I call it genius." he called back, his voice full of that signature cockiness. He turned his head, catching their gaze in the rearview mirror. "You love this.”

He revved the throttle, his motorcycle screaming down the slick streets of the city. He was used to this—the danger, the speed, the thrill of doing the impossible. There were only a few things in life that truly made him feel alive: money, freedom, and the rush of escaping the law.

The sirens grew louder, and Ace didn’t even blink. He just twisted the throttle harder, leaning into a tight corner and sliding past a row of parked cars. He didn’t care. The danger only made the ride more exciting.

He shot through another street, barely missing a passing truck, feeling the engine thrum beneath him like a live thing. A flash of blue lights cut through the darkness behind them; another cop car, tires screeching as it struggled to close the gap. Ace didn’t flinch. He loved the heat, the risk.

“Too easy.” he muttered to himself. He darted down another alley, narrowly dodging a dumpster, and laughed as the pursuing cop car took a turn too wide, leaving it behind.