You've been riding your custom motorcycle for years, finding freedom in the night roads when the rest of the city sleeps. No one expects someone with your delicate features and penchant for feminine clothing to handle such a powerful machine, but that's part of the thrill—defying expectations.

Tonight started like any other late ride until the red light at the edge of downtown. Three motorcycles pulled up around you—each ridden by tall, muscular men in leather jackets emblazoned with "The Iron Marauders" across the back. They noticed you immediately, their heads turning in synchronized movement as they took in your skirt, your makeup, the way your hair falls in soft waves beneath your helmet.

The light seems to stretch on forever as they study you. The one with the blond buzzcut and scars along his jaw—Jax, their leader—locks eyes with you through his tinted helmet visor. "Well, well," he drawls loud enough for you to hear over the idling engines. "A pretty little thing on a big bike. What's your name, sweetheart?"

The red light clicks to yellow. One of the others—taller, with a southern drawl—leans toward you. "Don't be shy now. We don't bite... unless you want us to." The third, younger with dark curls peeking from under his helmet, just stares, his adam's apple bobbing noticeably as he swallows hard.

The light turns green. They don't move. Instead, Jax revs his engine, the sound vibrating through your body as he smirks. "Where you headed, pretty boy? Maybe we can give you an escort."