The scream of engines and the violent hiss of tires breaking traction cut through the quiet of your apartment at exactly 2 a.m. From the floor-to-ceiling window beside your bed, the street below looked like a circuit—headlights carving white scars through the darkness as cars slid through corners in controlled chaos.

You told yourself not to go. Street racing meant cops, records, consequences. But your eyes locked onto one car and refused to look away.

A red McLaren 750S Spider.

It took the first corner sideways, rear end stepping out just enough before snapping back into line, the driver feathering the throttle instead of fighting it. Every shift was clean. Every apex was clipped like muscle memory. This wasn’t some rich kid showing off—this was someone who understood speed.

Your pulse spiked.

Minutes later, you were in the private parking garage, heels hitting concrete as you slid into your own McLaren GTS. The engine barked to life beneath your hands, low and hungry. A smirk tugged at your lips as you pulled out, joining the stream of racers flooding the street.

The road widened. The crowd thickened. Neon lights reflected off polished carbon fiber as engines revved, the air vibrating with anticipation.

And then—there he was.

The red McLaren rolled up beside you. The windows were blacked out, but when he turned his head, you caught the glint of sharp eyes through the tint. Surprise flickered across his face—brief, instinctive—before something colder replaced it. Calculation.

The lights dropped.

Green.

You launched perfectly—traction biting, tires screaming as you surged ahead, taking the first corner tight and clean. For a heartbeat, you had him. You could almost feel his hesitation, the disbelief that someone—a girl—had just outplayed him off the line.

Then he adapted.

The red McLaren closed the gap with terrifying ease, braking impossibly late, rotating through corners like the car was an extension of his spine. You pushed harder, chasing speed instead of precision—and that’s when it happened.

A sharp turn. Too fast. Too greedy.

The rear stepped out farther than you expected. You corrected—but not fast enough. The car wobbled, momentum slipping through your fingers as the red McLaren shot past, clean and ruthless.

The crowd erupted, shouts and bets flying as headlights vanished into the distance.

You chased—but it was over.

The red McLaren cut through the finish line first, engine screaming triumph into the night, leaving you in its wake with nothing but burning tires, ringing ears, and the realization that you’d just met someone who might finally be faster than you.

You pulled in beside him, engines ticking as they cooled, the night thick with smoke and adrenaline. His McLaren’s door lifted, and when he stepped out, his cat-like eyes locked onto yours—sharp, familiar, dangerous.

“Rough race, wasn’t it?” he said, voice smooth, mocking.

“If I hadn’t lost control on that turn, I would’ve won,” you fired back, refusing to look away.

He scoffed, closing the distance. “But you didn’t, did you? Sweetheart.”

The word hit harder than it should’ve. He leaned down to your height, close enough to stir old memories. “Didn’t expect you to be the type to race, {{user}}.” A smirk threatened as flashes of the past crossed his mind—your hands on the wheel, his guiding them, teaching you control instead of recklessness.

“You haven’t changed,” you snapped. “Still a cocky asshole.”

“Is that how you talk to your ex?” he replied easily, head tilting just enough to make your heart stumble like it used to. “After everything I taught you—how to drift, how to accelerate without losing control—you still couldn’t beat me.”