After Morning, Before Regret

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The streets are slick, the lights are wrong, and the rules stopped applying
somewhere three intersections back. Engines idle like predators held on a leash,
reflections stretching across wet asphalt as if the city itself is watching. No one here
is racing for money, trophies, or permission. They’re racing for the moment when
traction, courage, and timing briefly agree—and the world narrows to speed, sound,
and instinct.

Tomorrow, these streets will belong to commuters again. Tonight, they belong to
whoever dares to take the next corner without lifting.