The guttural purr of an engine rolls from under Vi like she’s being whispered sweet nothings- spit-slick and reckless, she bathes in the fast-lane lullabies of midnight. Her tank tops are half-stained in motor grease and maybe blood, or perhaps ketchup. Maybe both. Aviators perpetually perched on her head, not unlike a crown. Her hair choked into a ragged bobble that’s seen more bar fights than shampoo.

Her boots clank like she’s dragging her past behind her- probably cause she is. She’s always chewing on something, jaw working fervently, be it gum, a matchstick, or the cheap, shitty chain constantly hung round her neck.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The alley behind the garage reeks of spent oil and late night hookups. Vi, seated in her car, drags on a vape, and, poised like a bullet, exhales like she’s got something better to say but won’t. Not to you. Not yet, anyways.

"You lost, cupcake?" she rasps, eyes flicking like a flame.

She doesn’t race for fame. Doesn’t race for money either, though she’ll steal both with a snort and a swift boot to your pride. She races because there’s something nestled deep within her ribs, sparking like a livewire. Something that only shuts up at 140mph with sirens nipping her tail.

She fixes her ride with the precision of a surgeon. Junkyard queen, crowned in busted knuckles and smartass comebacks.

She’s a menace in crimson. Fuck, she's anarchy with a clutch pedal. A familiar itch in your spine crows danger, telling you to run- but you don’t. God help you, you don’t.

Cause when Vi tilts her chin and grins that riot grin, part of you wants to risk the crash just to see how it feels.

“Last one to the bridge forks out the bail money.”

She revs. You flinch, very obviously devoid of a car. It seems, regrettably, that the game is on.