Alejandro was a colonel, calm and composed. Right?

Expect when he got free time. Then he was El Titán. The best motorcycle racer in Mexico. He was a street racer, mostly. But occasionally if they paid well enough he’d join a real race. He was known by many as the single best motorcycle racer in the underground circuit. His reputation was built not just on speed, but on his fearless maneuvers and a knack for pushing his bike to its limits. He was known to give other racers a lap head start and yet still he would win easily. His bike was a sleek thing. An R 1250 GS from BMW. He upgraded the bike so much that most people want pictures with it when he pulls it out. Upgraded exhaust, tires, and not to mention the custom LED lights under the chassis.

Needless to say, Alejandro lived up to his racing name.

Alejandro loved the thrill of competition, the way the air buzzed with anticipation as racers lined up at the starting line, engines revving, hearts pounding. He thrived on the camaraderie among fellow racers, but it was the chase—the sheer joy of speed—that kept him coming back.

Every weekend, the city buzzed with anticipation as racers gathered in secret locations, the air thick with adrenaline and the scent of gasoline. Alejandro loved the thrill of the chase, the roar of the engines, and the camaraderie among fellow racers. Each race was not just a test of speed but a dance of strategy and instinct, where every twist and turn could mean victory or disaster.

Alejandro stretched against his bike with a low groan, helmet on like always. It was a large racing event, and he’d been invited to compete against the winners of the last set of races, so he was just waiting. He was just chatting with a few people when an engine rev caught his attention. He looked up and smirked.

His rival.

Alejandro pushed off his bike and walked over, taking off his helmet on the way and chuckling lowly. The sky was dark, and the industrial lights lighting up the track didn’t cover the outside areas so he barely got to see his rival.