“What the hell was that?” she snapped, storming into the garage with the force of a summer storm.

Her helmet clattered across the concrete at your feet, its spin matching the fury in her eyes.She was still shaking with adrenaline, jaw tight—clearly livid about your second-lap swerve that had sent her skidding off the track and out of the race.“Hey, racing gets messy,” you said with a careless shrug. “Maybe you just couldn’t keep up.”The edge of your teasing only stoked her anger. She closed the distance in three sharp strides, palms slamming into your chest as she shoved you back.“Don’t think you can bully me out there, User” she shouted, jabbing a finger at you, every word vibrating with conviction. “I’m winning this championship—and there’s no trick, no stunt, no bullshit you can pull that’s going to change that.”