Chapter One – The Queen of the Night

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Ashes & Obsession

The clock in the hall ticked softly, the rest of the house asleep.

Zyra Vey pushed open her bedroom window, breathing in the cool night air. The city lights shimmered far away like stars trapped on the ground. It was midnight — her favorite time of day.

She moved quietly, slipping into her leather jacket, the one with the scuffed sleeves and faded silver design on the back. Helmet in hand, she crept down the back stairs. The marble floors of the huge house were cold under her boots.

Her father’s office door was shut, as always. He wouldn’t notice her gone. He never did.

Outside, her bike waited — a black-and-silver beast she called Shadow Siren. Its polished surface caught the moonlight, making it look almost alive. She swung her leg over the seat, slid on her helmet, and turned the key.

The engine roared to life, the sound echoing down the empty street.

Zyra grinned.

Tonight, the city was hers.

She pulled away from the house, the wind hitting her face through the helmet’s vents. She didn’t stop at red lights. She didn’t slow at turns. The faster she went, the freer she felt.

Far behind her, a pair of headlights turned on.

A man in a sleek black car watched her as she flew past him at the corner. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t know her name, but something about her — the way she leaned into every turn without fear, the smooth control over the powerful machine — made it impossible to look away.

Without thinking, he followed.

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The race street was already alive when Zyra arrived.

Loud music thumped from parked cars. Groups of people stood in clusters, laughing, shouting, and placing bets. The air smelled of fuel and smoke, mixed with the spicy scent of street food from the vendors nearby.

Here, she wasn’t Zyra, the spoiled rich girl who skipped classes and failed tests. Here, she was Night Queen, the undefeated racer who made the streets her kingdom.

As she rolled her bike toward the starting line, heads turned.

And there he was — Rogue.

No one knew his real name. No one had seen his face. He wore a black helmet, just like always, and a dark jacket with his race tag stitched in white letters on the sleeve. He was the only racer who ever came close to beating her.

Some people whispered that he let her win. She wasn’t sure if that was true. But one thing she did know: when they were on the track, his attention was fixed on her and her alone.

She pulled up beside him, engine humming.

“Ready to lose again?” she teased through the noise.

His head turned slightly toward her. “Maybe tonight, I take your crown.”

“Dream on, Rogue,” she shot back with a smirk.

The flag girl stepped forward, her arm raised high. The crowd roared. Engines growled.

The flag dropped.

Zyra shot forward, the world around her turning into streaks of light. Rogue stayed close, his bike’s shadow riding alongside hers. She could hear his engine over the noise of the crowd, feel the push of his speed as he tried to overtake her.

But the finish line was close — too close for him to catch her.

She leaned forward, pushing Shadow Siren to its limit. In seconds, she crossed first.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Zyra slowed, pulling off her helmet so her dark hair spilled out over her shoulders. She turned toward Rogue, still sitting on his bike, visor down.

He lifted it just enough for her to see his mouth curve into a half-smile.

“One day, Night Queen,” he said, his voice low. “And when I win, you won’t forget it.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” she replied, her eyes glittering.

She didn’t see the black car parked in the shadows again, the same man still watching her with a look that was no longer just curiosity — but the start of something darker.

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It was 2:37 a.m. when she finally rolled her bike into the driveway.

The front light was on.

Her father was standing in the living room, arms crossed, eyes cold.

“Where were you?” he demanded.

“Out.” She tossed her helmet on the couch.

“At a race again?” His voice rose. “Zyra, you are destroying yourself! Your grades are—”

“Bad? Yeah, I know.” She gave a lazy shrug. “It’s not like you care, so why pretend now?”

“This isn’t a joke!”

“To me, it is,” she shot back, walking toward the stairs.

From the kitchen doorway, Mrs. Hale, the old house nanny, watched quietly. She was small, with kind eyes and a soft smile, the only person in the house who had ever really taken care of Zyra.

“Go to your room, Zyra,” her father snapped.

“Gladly,” she said, disappearing upstairs without looking back.

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The next morning, sunlight spilled into her room.

She got ready quickly, her hair still slightly messy, sunglasses hiding her tired eyes. At the college gates, her best — and only — friend Layla waved to her.

“Morning, menace,” Layla grinned, linking her arm with Zyra’s.

“Morning, moral compass,” Zyra replied with a smirk.

Only Layla knew the truth about Zyra’s midnight racing life. And Layla kept that secret like her own.

They walked into their first class together — Criminal Psychology. Zyra was planning to sit at the back, half-asleep, when the new professor walked in.

Tall. Sharp features. Dressed in black.

His eyes scanned the room, calm and steady — until they landed on her.

He didn’t look away.

And Zyra felt the smallest shiver run down her spine.

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