"Come on, Sparkle! This isn't the time to chicken out! You wanted this, didn't you? It's embarrassing to back down now!"

"That's right, girl! Boo! I'm gonna tell your family all about this, and they won’t be proud of you!" Zane's voice mingled with the taunting crowd as he whipped out his latest iPhone with a bright red case, pointing it at the girl clinging to Drake's car with a sheepish smile.

Drake peeled himself off the hood of his flashy Mazda RX-8 - neon pink, adorned with a white dragon stretching across the driver’s side, delicate cherry blossom petals spiraling around the pretentious fantasy lizard. He casually draped an arm over Spark’s shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze as he leaned down with and smiled at her mischievously.

"Everything's going to be fine, Firecracker in tight jeans." He gave her nose a light boop, making her giggle as her face lit up like the human embodiment of "adorable." Pushing her toward the Mazda under the approving roar of the crowd, he slid into the driver’s seat, waiting for Spark to clamber in through the back.

"Opening the sunroof!" he hollered, giving her one last boost - his hand sneaking under the soft skin behind her knee for a cheeky tickle. Her shriek of laughter morphed into a scream of "You jerk!" through her giggles. He shook his head with a smirk. "Yeah, yeah, arrest me for that."

Finally, Spark - a blonde pixie-cut girl with doe-eyed Bambi vibes relaxed. She half-lifts herself out through the open sunroof, waving her arm adorned with neon bracelets at the cheering spectators. She pulls out her smartphone to capture the moment, just like everyone else. Zane, now recording on his own phone, gives a lazy wave to the crowd with his free hand. He’s wearing a black hoodie with the embroidered small logo of a red-orange fox’s head on the chest - the Genesis emblem.

"Alright, folks, back it up! Give our boy some room to work his magic. It's tighter here than your mom's ass, and I've been there, so trust me on this."

Drake chuckles, brushing white bangs out of his face. The bastard has a devilish charisma that leaves people torn between punching him in the throat or giving him a very "no-homo" French kiss.

The blonde locked his seat – nobody wants to smash against the glass going into a perfect drift - and shifted gears. Music vibrated in the air - if Genesis did anything, they did it with such brazen swagger that normies got weak in the knees. Yeah, it’s us. Deal with it, suckers.

Drake slams the gas pedal down, jerking the wheel with the kind of precision people use to snatch electronics during Black Friday sales. He feels the rear tires begin to lose traction.

Perfect.

Sparky’s laughter rings out, bright and carefree, which only made Drake tighten his control over the drift. Too sharp? He'd kill the momentum. Too weak? He could congratulate himself on spinning sad little circles instead of pulling off a perfect donut. But for Drake, this was a cakewalk - if you couldn't drift properly, you had no business in Genesis. So his Mazda slid smoothly, the pink neon illuminating the tire marks on the asphalt.

Spark's arm stretched out in front of her, capturing every second on camera. Hair whipped her cheeks as the world spun and tilted. Trendy phonk music was the perfect soundtrack to her moment in the spotlight. The crowd cheered in the background, and in that instant, they were?

Untouchable. The brightest. The boldest. The most alive people at this party - a comet’s tail tracing a flawless circle, leaving scorched rubber streaks on the asphalt.

Drake brings the Mazda to a stop, and Sparky tumbles back into the cabin. Her hair's a mess, her hand clutching her phone like it's her firstborn child. Laughing, Drake holds out his hand for a high-five, which she delivers with a satisfied smack.

They climb out of the pink car, Sparky disappearing into the flock of girls chattering like gossip-hungry hummingbirds. Zane strides up to Drake, tossing a gummy bear into the blond’s mouth mid-step. Drake catches it effortlessly, earning a ruffle of his already-messy hair.

"That’s my boy! That donut? Legendary! Social media’s gonna eat this up."

"Ugh, why do you pet me like I’m your dog?"

"Because I’m pretty sure you’d turn to putty in my hands if we went full doggy style."

"I. Am. Going. To. Choke. You."

"Yeah, not a big fan of switching to sub, but if that's what you want..."

Drake froze for a second, then both guys burst out laughing.

"Jesus, Zane, you're such a fucking asshole, it's unbelievable."

"I know, it's called charisma."

Drake sat cross-legged and relaxed on the hood of Zane's cherry red Honda, a small holographic fox head shimmering beside him in the city lights. He sipping champagne poured into an empty McDonald's coffee cup because classiness comes in many forms. The night was humming along perfectly – the alcohol gave his head a pleasant float, but he wasn't hammered, Sparks were dancing and taking selfies, the gang members were discussing the latest scene news, and everything was just fun and chill. Basically, a weekend for underground racers, if you could call it that.

Drake took another swig of the bubbly stuff when he heard it. A heavy rumble, like a mammoth on wheels, and the clatter of metal that was cool back in the last century. His face went long as he started to get what was happening. Azure Nest didn't have bikers - this city belonged to the young sharks, hungry and sharp, not some crusty old dudes living out Sons of Anarchy fantasies. Genesis, the Void Eaters, even the Angels, they all agreed on one thing: those leather-clad motherfuckers and their sweaty asses belonged in a junkyard, not on the road.

As if on cue, a parade of BDSM fashion rolled up to the Genesis hangout – beards, leather jackets, and, God help us, boots with spurs and pointy toes. These dudes reeked of stale whiskey from a mile away, or whatever stereotype-approved drink they were supposed to be chugging with their women on the back of their Harleys. Drake snorted into his cup, watching this clown fiesta. This was obviously some gang, clan, or whatever these testosterone-fueled dumbfucks called themselves these days, just passing through the Nest and already spreading their bullshit attitude. But neither Genesis, nor the Void Eaters, nor even the Angels were territorial pricks – you wanna party? Party, just don't be a dick about it. Which, Drake seriously doubted these biker fucks were capable of. The "Leather Daddies" climbed off their bikes – Drake half-expected to see a slogan like, "If you can read this, my bitch fell off," on their backs. But it was just a flaming skull with a snake wrapped around it and "Lucifer’s Wrath" written above it.

"Would you look at that," he murmured to no one in particular, though a few nearby Genesis crew members leaned in to follow his line of sight. "Lucifer's Wrath? They spelled Lucifer right. A miracle. Maybe humanity isn’t doomed after all." Cue the smattering of chuckles from his audience.

The bikers, on the other hand, were putting on a full-blown masculinity show. Slapping their women's asses, cranking up Guns N' Roses, and looking at the Genesis cars with the kind of disdain you'd give Christmas ornaments, not actual vehicles. It was only a matter of time before shit hit the fan, and it looked like that time was now.

One of the Lucifer lovers headed straight for Drake, probably because he was the most visually striking guy there with his white hair and bright pink streak, perched on a car so red it could cut you. Drake, still clutching his champagne cup, waved his hands in the air.

"Nah, nah, nah, buddy, don't come within three feet of me. You smell like unwashed balls, sweaty leather, and toxic masculinity dash misogyny. I'm allergic to that shit. Makes me want to off myself or someone else, depends on the day."

The biker frowned, a muscle twitching in his tanned face. "What the fuck did you just yap, pup? Wanna say that again?"

Drake sighed, tapping his temple. "Look, I know you're used to solving everything with your Neanderthal fists, but I'm appealing to whatever's left of your civilized side – just don't come near me, okay? Fuck off in peace, hump your bike's exhaust pipe, or whatever you do for fun, and leave me the fuck alone."

The biker started towards him, murder in his eyes. Drake hopped off the hood and, in one swift move, splashed his champagne in the biker's face, aiming for the eyes. The champagne hit, and the dude froze, confused.

"Shit burns, you little fucker!" he hissed, clapping his hands to his eyes as tears streamed down his face, turning his vision into a blurry mess.

Drake laughed, circling him. "Yeah, yeah, we get it, you can't handle a glamorous drink." then stopped mid-sentence.

One of Sparks – a newbie, or maybe just a bystander – was cornered by some greasy biker. Drake charged over like a goddamn Tasmanian devil – he could put up with a lot, but watching some girl get treated like a piece of meat? That was some next-level bullshit.

"Hey, walking advertisement for mommy issues! Get the fuck off her and crawl back into whatever leather-panted cave you came from!" Drake didn't think, just grabbed the biker's shoulder and spun him around.

"Blondie, you got a death wish?" a tall biker with a beer gut snapped his fingers like some movie villain.

"You know what? Fuck you." Drake didn't wait for the shit to escalate, he just punched him.

They went at it like two feral cats – the biker was turning Drake's face into a Picasso painting with shades of blue, red, and purple, while Drake was kicking the shit out of him like Sonic on a goddamn gold ring run. The rest of the biker gang started moving in, but the Genesis crew cut them off – it was about to be a bloodbath, right the fuck now.

Zane, suddenly appearing like a jack-in-the-box, pressed his phone to his ear and yelled, "Back the fuck off! I'm calling the cops right now – we'll be gone faster than you can say 'I rawdog bitches and drink dollar whiskey,' while your turtle asses will be in the loving embrace of Azure Nest's finest. Pretty sure you got some white powder in those pockets, huh? Scatter, motherfuckers!"

Time seemed to freeze for a second. A woman's voice boomed from Zane's iPhone speaker, "Azure Nest Police Department, what's your emergency?" and that sound was like a starter pistol. The bikers scrambled for their bikes, barking at their terrified girls to hop on, and disappeared into the night as fast as they could (it wasn't fast at all), while Zane ended the call.

Drake got up from the asphalt, brushing off his ripped white t-shirt, and went over to Spark the biker had been harassing. "Hey, you okay? Want me to take you to a junkyard I know? Saw a couple of rusty Harleys there you could kick. We could even douse them in gasoline and set them on fire if you're feeling adventurous."