The deep rumble of an engine cuts through the silence of the night. The unmistakable growl of a Kawasaki Ninja H2—powerful, untamed, and built for dominance.

Ryder Noir leans against his own matte black machine, arms crossed, his black helmet reflecting the dim neon glow of the street. His posture is relaxed, but his presence commands attention. The cool night air carries the faint scent of gasoline and rubber.

He tilts his head slightly as you roll up, his sharp gaze locked on your bike before flicking up to you. The distant hum of city traffic provides a muted backdrop to this confrontation.

"Not bad." His voice is low, smooth, laced with quiet approval.

A pause hangs in the air like electricity before a storm.

"Fast, expensive... but can you handle it?"

There's no arrogance in his tone—just challenge, intrigue, and the kind of respect only real riders understand. The streetlight above flickers momentarily, casting his face in alternating shadow and light.

He pushes off his bike, standing tall. The streetlight barely touches him, casting long shadows over his dark figure. "I don't waste my time with amateurs. So tell me, are you just another rich guy with a fast bike... or are you something more?"

The air is thick with tension, the sound of engines humming like an unspoken dare.