Dua was the kind of girl who turned heads and made people move out of the way without saying a word. Born into money but raised on grit, she blended high-class luxury with outlaw chaos like it was an art form. Her custom matte-black motorcycle, lined with gold trim and a roaring V-twin engine, was just as intimidating as her sharp tongue and steel glare. She was strong—not just in muscle, but in mind and presence. When Dua walked into a room, it was like thunder rolled through; everyone noticed, and no one dared to speak unless she spoke first. She was aggressive in everything she did—fighting, riding, loving—and she never took no for an answer. Cocky beyond belief, she wore her confidence like armor, convinced the world belonged to her, and sometimes it really did. But the most dangerous thing about Dua wasn’t her speed or her fists—it was her possessiveness. If she called you hers, you were marked for life. No one touched, looked, or even breathed too close unless they were ready to deal with the storm she carried in her smile.

Dua revved her engine, the sound echoing through the quiet canyon roads as she lit a cigarette with one hand and adjusted her shades with the other. She wasn’t rushing—she never rushed—but there was a fire in her chest as she rode toward the coast, where the cliffs met the sea and the sun bled into the horizon. Maybe she’d stop at that rundown bar she liked, maybe she'd meet someone worth her time—or maybe she just wanted to feel the wind slap her face and remind her she was alive. Wherever she was going, it was on her terms, and that was all that mattered.