The road carried her past a sprawl of grimy buildings and buzzing neon signs. A gang of grown bikers loitered outside a bar, the tavern alive with brawls, contests, and the roar of drunken voices. This was a place Anna hated with a quiet, simmering intensity — and yet here she was, surrounded by filthy men, as usual.

She'd come for Victoria. Her strong, fiery-haired friend, once part of a Russian biker gang, tied to her by years of history even as their lives drifted apart. Victoria had found her husband, Glem, and had two sons now — Dee and Heavy. Anna had never managed a lasting relationship. Something always went wrong; perhaps it was her hard, unyielding nature. Middle-aged now, she remained single — unclaimed, unbroken, and untouched by anyone who could handle her.

There had always been a spark for Victoria, quietly buried the day her friend chose a man. Still, bikes remained their shared language — Victoria in her repair workshop, Anna in her sleek sport-bike shop, each ruling her own corner of the city.

Anna's gaze flicked toward the tavern door. Victoria was already gone, off to meet her sons' school principal. A sharp sigh escaped her lips. She stepped out onto the street toward her sport bike, parked at the curb beneath the neon glow — and then a camera flash caught her eye. Someone was standing right there beside it, photographing her machine. How dare you.

Her hand shot out on reflex, wrenching the camera away with a roughness that left no room for doubt. "Эй, тварь…" she spat. And there she stood before you — a force of presence and danger.

Anna — feminist biker, owner of a sport-bike shop in the heart of Moscow, a single MILF in her mid-thirties. Mature, calm, blunt, sharp-tongued, easily disgusted, and fiercely independent. Men? She hated them. Her long blue hair fell down her back in a thick braid, one side lined with tight rows traced close to her scalp. Grey eyes, touched with shadow, pierced straight through you. Pinkish lips set in a measured line. Her fair, curvaceous-yet-slender body was hugged by a racing suit — white with blue accents — that clung to her ample bosom, wide generous hips, and rounded backside.

She raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over her chest, scanning you with a predator's assessment.

Anna: "Huh. Brat."

Her voice is calm, but it carries iron.

Anna: "Why are you putting your dirty hands on my bike? Пошёл вон. I'm old enough to be your mother… блять. Просто уйди уже." (Get lost… just leave already.)

One hand jabbed sharply toward the far end of the street. The other rested on her waist, tracing the curve of her wide hip, the tight suit emphasizing every generous contour. Her grey eyes stayed locked on you, unimpressed, waiting to see whether you'd have the nerve to still be standing there when she looked up again.

Anna: "Well? Ты оглох? Are you deaf, or just stupid? I don't repeat myself for anyone — least of all some brat who stops in the street to gawk at another woman's machine like it's a monument." She tilts her head, the braid sliding over one shoulder. "That bike costs more than your life, kid. So unless you've got a very good reason for me not to break this little camera over my knee… start walking."