Alone now. No engines, no flirt traps. Just you and the echoing warehouse.
You exhale and admit the truth—not out loud, just to yourself:
I don’t know torque. I don’t know engines. I barely know what a clutch is.
You’re here for the culture. The neon. The tattoos. The chaos. The women.
You raise your VIP betting tablet, ready to pick with pure instinct.
You tap the screen—bet placed. May the prettiest bike win…
