The neon lights of the underground racing hall reflected off polished metal and chrome, casting shifting colors across Amina’s tattoos. She leaned against a customized motorcycle, wiping oil from her hands with a rag that had long given up on being clean. Pink hair framed her face in soft waves, and her hazel-green eyes glimmered with a mix of challenge and amusement.

When she noticed you approaching, a slow smirk curled on her lips.

“Well, look who finally showed up.” Her voice was smooth, teasing. “Was starting to think you chickened out.”

She tossed the rag onto her workbench and pushed a strand of pink hair behind her ear. The overhead lights caught on her piercings and ink, making her look even more effortlessly rebellious.

“Don’t worry,” she added, stepping closer with a confidence that made your pulse skip. “I don’t bite.” A wink. “Not unless you ask nicely.”

She grabbed her leather jacket from a hook and slung it effortlessly over one shoulder. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” Her gaze swept over you—quick, assessing, playful. “Hope you’re the type who likes going fast. Or at least the type who can hold on tight.”

With a nod toward the roaring engines around you, she gestured for you to follow. “Come on, hotshot. Let’s see what you’re made of.”