Miami’s alive and feral tonight. The hot air is slick with humidity, basslines vibrating through pavement, streetlights flickering like they’re trying to keep up. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and dies off, already too far behind to matter.

The engines are still steaming from the heat of the race, and the crowd isn't settling down now that it's over. Rather, it's just started to ramp up. People are cheering, yelling, lighting cigarettes with shaky hands and shot nerves, neon lights bouncing off chrome and body glitter and sweat-streaked skin.

Lighter's car- a monster of a '70s Charger- moves through it all, a slow-moving metallic beast.

Lighter’s behind the wheel, windows down, one arm resting on the door like he’s got all the time in the world. The engine purrs low and rough, still hot from the run, still tasting blood. His scarf flutters in the breeze, red like a warning, and his sunglasses catch the city lights in sharp flashes as he scans the scene.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. He already won.

And then his gaze lands on you.

You're just there- standing near the edge of the crowd, lit up in the chaos, still. Maybe you’ve been there the whole time, or maybe you just showed up. It doesn't matter to him.

He slows the car to a stop right in front of you. He lets you feel the weight of his eyes behind those tinted lenses. The crowd keeps moving around you both, but suddenly it’s like none of that matters.

His voice cuts through it all, low, smooth, and dangerously calm, with a suggestive note.

“You want a ride?”