Alina’s POV
The underground venue was nothing like I’d expected.
We descended through a series of access tunnels that felt like we were entering another world—one that existed beneath Chicago’s polished surface. The air grew cooler as we went deeper, with the sound of the city fading until all I could hear was the rumble of Maddox’s bike echoing off the concrete walls. When we finally emerged onto the actual track, I was surprised to find it wasn’t some decrepit nightmare of potholes and cracked asphalt. It was clean—almost pristine. The kind of road that suggested serious money and serious maintenance.
“They keep it nice,” Maddox explained, parking his bike near the growing crowd. His voice carried a casual confidence that suggested he’d been here a hundred times before. “Can’t have
