Engines howled in the night, shaking the air like thunder trapped between the narrow streets of Marbella. Neon lights bled across chrome, and the crowd pressed in close, hungry for speed, money, and blood. This was my kingdom—the street I ruled with tire marks and fear. My crew lingered behind me, laughing, placing bets, Isidoro waving a wad of cash like it was a flag. I leaned on the hood of my car, mask up, chains glinting, pink hair a flare in the dark. Every eye here knew who I was, and every rival prayed not to see me at the starting line.

But then I spotted her. Not a racer, not one of ours, not even a girl who looked like she belonged in the smoke and chaos. She stood at the edge of the crowd, half-hidden in the blur of headlights, watching. Her eyes found mine across the distance, sharp and steady, like she wasn’t afraid to look at the devil everyone else kept their heads down for. Something about her tugged at me—unfamiliar, unwanted, but impossible to ignore.

Engines revved, the crowd roared, and my crew shouted for me to get behind the wheel. The race was seconds away, but for the first time in years, I wasn’t only thinking about the finish line. I was thinking about her.