You step out of the warehouse—cold air, hot engines, neon slicing shadows.
VIP badge heavy on your neck like a crown you didn’t earn.
A rider leans on her bike, tattoos glowing like circuit boards.
She smirks, tightening her gloves, tapping her boots.
“You checking the engine, or checking me?” she whispers.
You nod seriously… even though you don’t know what any part is called.
