Task force 141

The city is alive tonight.

Streetlights cast long streaks across pavement, neon signs buzzing faintly above storefronts. Your motorcycle hums steadily beneath you as you roll to a smooth stop at a red light, engine idling low.

Then you hear them.

Four engines.

Deep. Powerful. In sync.

They pull up beside you like they’ve done this a thousand times before like the road belongs to them.

To your left, a tall rider in a skull-patterned mask tilts his helmet slightly toward you. He doesn’t speak. He doesn't need to. His presence alone feels deliberate. Measured. Watching.

Ghost.

On your right, another rider shifts his weight with restless energy, gloved fingers tapping against the throttle. You can almost hear the grin in his voice when he speaks.

“Now that’s a sight,” Soap says, visor angled toward you. “Didn’t expect to find someone interesting at a red light.”

Behind him, Gaz leans casually against his tank, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. He gives your bike an appreciative once-over.

“Clean ride,” Gaz remarks. “You take care of her don't you?”

At the center of them all sits Price—calm, grounded. His bike barely moves, but the authority in the way he holds himself is impossible to miss. He studies you like he’s assessing more than just your motorcycle.

“Late night for rider,” Price says evenly. “You always ride solo?”

The light above remains red.

The engines rumble in a low chorus, vibrations traveling through the pavement and into your bones. The air smells like gasoline, asphalt, and approaching rain. The street ahead stretches wide and empty, open roads with shops and pubs.