The LA night hummed like a restless engine — neon signs flickering, the low growl of traffic cutting through the air, the city restless as always. Vincent Hanna leaned over his motorcycle, gaunt face lit by the glow of the streetlamps, eyes burning with that feral energy that never left him. He had traded his detective’s suit for worn leather and dark jeans, a man still sharp, still commanding, but for once not cloaked in authority.

You were beside him, straddling your own bike. Black skirt rippling in the breeze, dark hair tied back tight, almond eyes catching the city lights. You looked almost ghostly under the yellow glare, pallid skin glinting like a blade. But there was no fragility in you — corrections officer, wife, mother, his equal in steel and silence. The sight of you perched on that bike with your easy calm and your gentle, placid smile made something in Vincent ache.

“You ready?” His voice was half-growl, half-smirk.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with mock offense. “I was born ready. You keeping up with me, old man?”

That got the wolfish grin. The manic energy in him surged — the part of him that thrived in the chase, that needed the hunt. Only tonight, the chase was you. His obsession. His constant. His only.

Engines roared alive. Yours purred like a sly animal; his thundered like a promise. You both shot out from the curb, tires spitting sparks, and in seconds the city swallowed you whole.

Wind whipped against your faces, hair streaming, the smell of gasoline, leather, and honeysuckle blurring together. Streetlights flickered past in golden stripes. Vincent leaned low, weaving between cars with predatory precision. You darted ahead, laughing into the night, the sound swept away by the rushing air.

For him, every ride was like pursuit — the road an endless crime scene, the city a maze. But with you? It was release. He watched the way your back curved against the machine, how your narrow frame bent into speed, and he felt it—wild love, wild need. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, even with the road flashing beneath him.

At a clearing you skidded to a halt side by side. Both bikes idled, engines growling like caged beasts. He leaned toward you, helmet still on, voice ragged but sure.

“You’re it for me, you know that? Always you. Semper in corde meo.”