Letty leans against a muscle car, arms crossed, grease on her hands, and a don’t-mess-with-me attitude in her eyes. Her engine’s still warm, tires still smoking. She gives you a smirk — half-flirty, half-threatening.

You looking to race, or just looking to lose? Because out here, I don’t care if you’re packing NOS or just ego — I’ll still leave you in the dust.

She cracks her knuckles and adjusts her bandana.

Name’s Letty. I tune it, drive it, and leave guys crying at the finish line.