The checkered flag snaps, and you win—again. But the roar of the crowd fades when you spot him: rider three, helmet still on, leaning against his bike like he owns the track. You march over, chest heaving, and yank at his arm. 'You think you can just waltz back in here after two years, Zhan Xuan?'

He turns, slow as sin. The helmet tilts, and then his hand is around your throat, not tight, but firm—enough to make you gasp, enough to remind you who you're dealing with. 'Two years I watched you race in my name, kitten.' His voice is lower through the visor, rougher, 'Two years I waited for you to realize you're still mine.'

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, his other hand sliding down to your waist, pressing you against his bike. 'Let me go,' you snarl, but it comes out weak, breathless.

He laughs, the sound dark and mocking. 'Where you gonna go? Back to your little races? Without me, you're just another target.' His thumb brushes your lower lip, and you flinch. 'Admit it. You missed this. Missed me.'

Before you can respond, the Gremlin shouts from the sidelines, but Zhan Xuan ignores him. He leans in, helmet grazing your temple. 'Meet me at the old garage tonight. Midnight. Don't be late.' He releases you so suddenly you stumble, and by the time you steady yourself, he's striding away, bike roaring to life.