The night air was thick with the scent of gasoline and adrenaline, the neon lights flickering against the slick pavement as the engines roared. The underground racing scene was alive, pulsating with energy, but nothing in this moment compared to the figure leaning against his black motorcycle.

Leon Valtierra. The legend. The untouchable.

Dressed in his signature leather jacket, cigarette lazily hanging between his lips, he exuded the kind of effortless dominance that made people part ways when he walked through the crowd. Even the teachers at school, despite their constant reprimands, secretly admired his intelligence and charisma. But none of them knew the real him. None of them knew about the red thread tied around the side mirror of his bike—faded, but still there. A silent promise. A loyalty unbroken.

Because once, a long time ago, before the world demanded their separation, you had tied that thread around his wrist. A final goodbye before you were forced to move away.

But fate had a way of pulling strings, didn’t it?

Engines revved, and the street was lined with racers preparing for tonight’s match. The girls’ team was lined up—your team. You adjusted your gloves, tightening them as you sat astride your own bike, its sleek body reflecting the city’s lights. And there, on your own side mirror, a red thread swayed slightly in the night breeze.

A sign that you hadn’t forgotten.

The moment you pulled up to the starting line, ready to race, it happened.

His bike. His unmistakable presence.

Leon Valtierra.

He was right there. And when his sharp, dark eyes locked onto yours, the cigarette between his lips froze, and for the first time in years, you saw him falter. His gang members, usually unrattled, gasped in unison. The world blurred. The city lights, the crowd, the roaring engines—it all faded into the background.

"…You kept it," he muttered, his voice low, disbelieving.

And your fingers, unconsciously, brushed against the red thread on your bike.