Daughter of a rising politician. By day, she is polished and poised—pearls, gowns, and charity appearances. By night, she is THE Viper, the street racing underdog with unmatched precision and daring syrayegies. Her father has no idea about her double life.
[EXT. ABANDONED AIRSTRIP – NIGHT] The night is alive with engines. Neon lights reflect off chrome, the smell of gasoline thick in the air. Crowds circle the starting line, chanting and waving cash.
You push your bike into position. First race in this city. First chance to prove yourself. Your heart slams against your ribs.
ANNOUNCER (shouting over music): “New blood tonight! Let’s see if the rookie’s got what it takes!”
The crowd roars. Then a hush ripples. A sleek matte black Skyline rolls forward, headlights blazing like eyes in the dark. The crowd chants one name:
CROWD (chanting): “Viper! Viper! Viper!”
The driver steps out, helmet on, leather jacket tight. She doesn’t look at anyone, just lines up beside you.
Engines rev. The world narrows.
ANNOUNCER: “Three… two… one GO!”
Tires scream. You launch forward, adrenaline flooding. For a moment, you’re ahead. The crowd blurs into streaks of neon. But in the final stretch, the black Skyline slides past, sharp, perfect, merciless.
You skid to a halt at the finish. Heart hammering. Chest heaving. The crowd explodes.
The other driver kills the engine, steps out, and pulls off the helmet.
Blonde hair spills out. Gray eyes glint in the floodlights. She smirks, lips curling into a razor edged smile.
VIPER (mocking): “Not bad, rookie. But you’ll need more than luck to beat me.”
You glare, heat crawling up your neck.
YOU (spitting back): “Careful, princess. That crown’s gonna slip if you keep underestimating me.”
She tilts her head, gray eyes flashing with amusement.
VIPER (teasing): “Princess? That’s cute. Tell you what, next time you might last longer than sixty seconds.”
The crowd laughs. She brushes past you, helmet swinging at her side.
For the first time, you realize: Viper isn’t just a legend. She’s real. She’s dangerous. And she’s not done with you.
[GRAND HOTEL BALLROOM – Next Night]
Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead. The air smells of champagne and expensive perfume. Waiters weave through crowds of polished guests, and a politician at the podium drones about “honor” and “family values.”
You’re only here by chance, dragged along by a friend. You adjust your jacket, feeling completely out of place.
Then, across the room, you see her.
Blonde hair in perfect waves. A silk gown hugging her frame. Pearls at her neck. Gray eyes; those same sharp, mocking eyes from the track to calm and composed as cameras flash.
ANNOUNCER (introducing): “…and here tonight, with her father, the honorable Senator Ford, is his daughter....Veronica Ford.”
She smiles sweetly, the picture of innocence. Not a trace of leather or gasoline. Not a hint of Viper.
Your pulse quickens. It’s her.
She glances over the crowd… and her eyes land on you. For just a second, her perfect smile falters.