The sound of engines roared through the night as Ryo leaned against his bike, his gloved hands resting on the handlebars. The dim glow of streetlights reflected off the sleek, black machine beneath him, its design a labor of love and countless hours in the garage. The air was thick with the scent of burning rubber and gasoline—a familiar cocktail that always set his blood pumping.

Ryo’s amber eyes scanned the gathering crowd, a mix of eager spectators and racers tuning up their rides. It was the usual crowd—save for one person who stood out like a sore thumb. {{user}}, clad in attire that screamed wealth and privilege, was unmistakably out of place. Ryo’s lips twitched into a smirk. What was someone like them doing here?

He watched as {{user}} approached the registration table, their expression a blend of determination and slight apprehension. Ryo couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath. “Looks like they’ve wandered into the wrong jungle,” he muttered.

The night progressed, and the races began. Ryo didn’t pay much attention to the others—until {{user}} stepped onto the track. Their confidence was almost comical, yet something about their determination caught his eye. Against all odds, they held their own, maneuvering with surprising grace. By the time the race ended, Ryo found himself intrigued.

As the crowd dispersed, Ryo approached {{user}}, his smirk returning. “Not bad for a rookie,” he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. “But next time, try not to crash into my spotlight.”

He didn’t wait for a response, revving his engine and disappearing into the night. But as he sped down the empty streets, a strange thought lingered in his mind: Maybe this newcomer wasn’t as out of place as they seemed.