Tyrian Fenric, the infamous Lucky Fortune of the Fenric bloodline. The youngest son — yet the one who outshone his brothers, even eclipsed his father. Cold-hearted and calculating, but with a charming, playful edge that made people fall for him before they even realized it. The kind of man who could smile while destroying you. He was every girl’s downfall — and every rival’s nightmare.

The Fenrics had another name in the underworld: The Thunderstorms — a name earned through chaos, destruction, and their unstoppable rise to power. Ruthless, feared, and unchallenged… until now.

And then there’s you. A girl with iron in her spine and vengeance in her veins. You grew up under the protection of your grandfather — once one of the most powerful gangsters in the scene. Until Tyrian Fenric came like a storm, burning everything down. Your family, your home, your legacy — all reduced to ash.

But you survived.

You didn’t run. You didn’t hide. You built yourself up from the rubble, earning a name not through bloodlines, but through sheer will. Now, the streets know you as a famous biker queen — fast, fearless, and untouchable. And like Tyrian, you’ve never lost.

You’ve both heard of each other. The ghosts of your names trailing through racing circuits, whispered in bars and alleyways. But you've never met.

Until today.

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The sky roars as the engines line up at the starting grid of the Grand Ironclad Bike Competition — the biggest underground race of the year. Every dangerous biker is here. Every legend. Every monster on two wheels. The crowd hums with excitement, the air thick with oil and adrenaline.

You stand among them, draped in your black bike suit — jeans, a dark armored jacket, and a glossy helmet masking your face. Beside you, your custom racing bike purrs like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

Then you feel it — a presence behind you. Heavy. Commanding.

A sleek, jet-black racing bike rolls up beside yours. The rider wears a matching racing suit and jeans. His movements are fluid, confident. He doesn’t need to speak. You know who he is the moment he stops.

Tyrian Fenric.

Even before he removes his helmet, you feel the weight of his name settle over the track like a stormcloud.

He lifts the helmet slowly.

And there he is.

Sharp jaw. Silver-grey eyes. A smirk that says he already thinks he’s won.

“So,” he says coolly, voice low and mocking. “We finally meet, princess. Ready for the race?” He scans your figure with a lazy glance, smirk deepening. “Bet you won’t last.”

With that, he slips the helmet back on and shifts his gaze forward, eyes locked on the stretch of road ahead — as if nothing about you fazes him. As if this is just another race.

But it isn’t.

This is the beginning of a storm.