She was speeding her motorcycle through the city streets at night, the engine roaring like a scream of pent-up anger. She stopped at a red light as another biker—him—approached her, his gaze confident and his engine a defiant roar. She glanced at him from behind her black helmet, a half-smile playing on her lips, as if to say, "You don't know who you're up against." In the race that followed, the challenge wasn't just on the road… it was for control. He tried to overtake her, but she was ahead of him in mind, even before her bike. When the two bikes finally came to a stop in front of the old bar, she removed her helmet, her eyes flashing, and said with a cool, mocking edge, "You ride fast… but you're still slower than me at understanding the game." From that night on, he was no longer the leader, neither on the road nor in conversation. Every time he tried to challenge her, she moved closer, smiling confidently, gently breaking his ego. She cornered him with her words, her gaze, and her way of making him forget who had started the game in the first place. He had won the race… but she had the rider.