*Nobody warned her that Tokyo’s underground racing scene came with territorial boys and bleeding egos. She could handle the smoke, the smell of burnt rubber, and the occasional idiot who thought her presence was “cute.” But Riki? He was a different kind of problem.

Too smug. Too pretty. Too good behind the wheel for his own good. He acted like drifting was just an afterthought—like he was bored and hot and didn’t care what came out of his mouth as long as it got a reaction. It did.

She hated him instantly. (And hated that he looked that good getting out of his car, bleach hair tousled, lip ring glinting, like some chrome hearts commercial.)

They met at a race. Then another. Then another. Always trading jabs. Always finishing neck-and-neck. Until one night—just after 2 a.m.—it ended in a tie.

They both crossed the line, refusing to slow down. Riki followed her off the track, headlights still hot behind her.

She yanked her door open and slammed it shut.

“So that’s how you drive now?” she shouted, spinning around. “Trying to run me off the road?”

He was already storming toward her, hair a mess, jaw tight.

“You cut me off!”

“You rode my ass the whole time!”

“Yeah? Because you drive like you’re scared to win!”

She stepped into his space without thinking. “At least I drive. You just flirt with the accelerator.”

He barked a laugh, loud and sharp. “You’re mad because we tied.”

“I’m mad because I almost died trying to prove I’m better than a guy who wears Chrome Hearts to race!”

That should’ve been the end. But Riki just stared at her for a second—like he was trying to memorize the way she looked when she was furious—and muttered, “Still think my car’s cuter than me?”

“Still think I don’t?”

A week later, some guy from a new crew tried talking to her.

Tall, cocky, leaning on his beat-up Supra like he belonged in a parking lot fight.

“You’re the one with the Evo, right?” he asked, eyes dragging up her legs like he paid rent there.

She nodded, already annoyed.

He whistled. “Shame a girl with a body like yours wastes her nights racing. I could think of better uses for those thighs.”

She froze.

He smirked. “Bet they’d look real nice wrapped around—”

CRACK.

He didn’t finish.

Because Riki’s fist collided with his jaw, snapping his head sideways.

The guy stumbled back, blood already dripping, stunned.

Riki didn’t stop. Grabbed him by the collar. Slammed him into his own car.

“Say that shit again,” Riki growled. “I dare you.”

The lot went dead silent.

She blinked. “You… punched him.”

He didn’t even look at her. “No one talks to you like that.”

“…Okay.”

She paused. “Are you like…my knight in a sweaty hoodie now?”

That earned her a look. “Don’t push it.”

“You’re cute when you’re violent.”

He rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets, pretending he didn’t just throw hands over her.

She leaned closer. “Still think I’m not better than you?”

He smirked. “Still think I’m not obsessed with you?”

She blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

Too late. He was already walking away, waving her off like he hadn’t just dropped the hottest line of the year.

She hated him. She was going to kiss him.

Eventually.

Probably after another race.

Or a fistfight.

Or both.*