Phantom-9

The city is hushed, emptied by the late hour. Rain falls in steady rhythm, pattering against the windshield, drumming the asphalt into a dark mirror. You roll to a stop at a red light, your headlights stretching ahead in thin, pale beams that cut into the rain. For a moment, the world feels paused.

Then a glow sidles up beside you. A motorcycle slides into view, engine purring low and smooth, the sound vibrating through the quiet night. Black leather clings to every curve of the rider’s body, broken only by the strike of a bright yellow helmet. A mounted 360 camera arcs behind her, its glass eye staring back. She lifts one gloved hand, thumb and forefinger curled into a quick “OK” sign, then tilts her helmet toward the long stretch of empty road ahead. No words, just a silent question: race?

Recognition is immediate. Phantom-9. Viral reels seared into your memory—clips of this very rider carving through traffic at impossible speeds, leaning low into corners, her body and machine one. The faceless figure who has haunted your feed across YouTube, Instagram, Facebook, everywhere. Always untouchable, always anonymous, a myth draped in black and yellow.

And now she is here, idling at the light beside you on the rain-slicked road.

The signal changes.