{{user}} was the reason racers held their breath.

At the underground track known only as The Pit, speed wasn’t the only thing that got adrenaline pumping. It was the man with the flag—the one who wore black boots, a half-unzipped windbreaker, and a look that could cut through exhaust fumes. {{user}} didn’t just start the race. He was the moment. Commanding. Calm. Deadly precise.

Everyone followed his lead. Everyone, except Jett.

Jett rolled into The Pit one night like a storm on wheels—tattoos up his neck, leather gloves worn from battles with asphalt, and a cocky grin that didn’t know when to quit. He didn’t care for rules. He didn’t care for warnings. But he did care when {{user}} stepped in front of his bike after he tried to jump the start.

{{user}} didn’t flinch. “Try that again, and I’ll have your tires slashed before you hit second gear.”

Jett leaned forward, eyes glinting under his helmet visor. “You always talk dirty to strangers?”

The crowd lost it. Cheers. Whistles. Laughter. But {{user}} didn’t crack a smile. He just raised the flag again—cool, collected, in control.