The street was loud tonight. Engines growling, people yelling over each other, neon lights flickering like they were tired of watching the same stupid games. I leaned against my bike, helmet tucked under my arm, smoke curling up into the night air even though I knew I should quit. Bad habits die hard. So do bad reputations.

That’s when Top showed up.

He strutted like he owned the asphalt, grin too wide, eyes already measuring my bike like it was something he could take.

“Race me,” he said. Simple. Too simple.

I laughed, short and sharp. “What’s the catch?” There’s always a catch.

He laughs, jerks his thumb over his shoulder—and that’s when I see {{user}}. She’s standing there stiff, arms crossed tight like she already knows where this is going.

“My girl,” Top says casually. “If you win, she’s yours.”

The words hit wrong. Heavy. Disgusting.

Before I can even respond, {{user}} snaps, “What? No—Top, what the hell are you doing?”

Good. At least one person here had sense.

Top didn’t even look at her. Just shrugged like she was some side bet on a table. And that did it for me. My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. I flicked the cigarette away and stepped forward.

“And if you win?” I asked, already knowing.

“Your bike,” he said, nodding toward mine.

I stared at him for a long second. Not because I was tempted — but because I was disgusted. The way he said it. The way he didn’t even ask {{user}}. Like she was a thing. Like she didn’t matter.

I glanced at her then. She looked furious, hurt, smaller than she should’ve had to feel in a place like this. Nobody deserves that. Not here. Not anywhere.

I smirked, slow and dangerous.

“Deal,” I said.

Not because I wanted to win some stupid race. But because Top needed to lose.

I pulled my helmet on, engine rumbling beneath me like it already knew what this was about. As I rolled to the starting line, I caught one last look at {{user}} — not ownership, not interest, just promise.

I wasn’t racing for a prize.

I was racing to prove she was never his to give away.